The Dragon's Path

by Daniel Abraham

  Marcus chewed his last bite of sausage slowly. The dozen carts filled half the clearing, horses and mules with feedbags over their heads or else being led to and from the brook to drink. The carters knew their business for the most part. The old man driving the tin ore was a little deaf and the boy with the high cart of wool cloth was either new to the trade or an idiot or both, but they were the worst. And his acting troupe had worked out magnificently. If he looked at the trees, not considering the people at all, he could still pick out the guards in the sides of his vision, just by their swagger.

  By the side of the road, the long-haired woman, Cary, stood with her arms crossed and a huge horn-and-sinew bow slung across her back. Likely she couldn’t have drawn the damn thing, but she wore it like the companion of years. Sandr, the young lead, walked among the carts, head high and brow furrowed. He’d been telling stories to the carters about how he’d broken a foot jousting in an Antean tourney, and had become so familiar with the tale he’d adopted a barely noticable limp to go with it. And then there, sitting with the ’van master’s fat wife, was his cunning man, Master Kit, without whom Yardem would even now be failing to keep Vanai from falling. Without whom Marcus would have been jailed or killed.

  The ’van master’s whistle brought Marcus back to himself, and he squinted up into the thin patch of high, white cloud that showed through the canopy above them. Time was harder to judge in the shadows of a forest, but he guessed the meal had run long. Well, his contract was to get them all into Carse safely. On schedule wasn’t his problem. Marcus cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and pulled himself up to standing.

  “Rear or fore?” Yardem asked.

  “I’ll take fore,” Marcus said.

  The Tralgu nodded and lumbered toward the iron merchant’s wagon that brought up the rear of the ’van. It would be the last to leave. Marcus checked his blade and his armor with the same care he did before going into battle—an old habit—and went to the ’van master’s tall, broad feed wagon. He climbed up beside the master’s wife and settled in for the afternoon’s trek. The Timzinae woman nodded to him and blinked her clear inner eyelids.

  “That was a fine meal, ma’am,” Marcus said.

  “You’re kind to say so, Captain.”

  Their conversation complete, she shouted at her horses, flicking her whip lightly at shoulder and haunch to direct them. The wagon lurched forward up onto the road, and then to the west. As they passed into the deep shadows again, Marcus wondered whether Vanai had fallen yet, and if not, how many more days the free city had left. Not many. Another problem not his own.

  The rotation was a simple one. Rear and fore were Yardem or Marcus. Master Kit drove his own cart in the center of the ’van with the gaudy colors of the theater draped in cloth. The others rode three on either side of the carts, keeping their eyes on the trees. If anyone saw something suspicious, they’d call out, and Yardem or Marcus would go and look. In a week, the only call they’d had was when Smit, the jack-of-all-roles, had spooked himself with stories about bands of feral Dartinae assassins. Marcus let his eyes narrow, his back rest against the hard wood of the driver’s rig. The world smelled of rotting leaves and coming weather, but he couldn’t decide yet if it would be rain or snow.

  The road made a tight turn at the base of a densely wooded hill. A tree had fallen across the road, its base still white where the axe had cut it. Marcus felt his body tense almost before he knew why.

  “Call the stop,” he said.

  Even before the Timzinae woman could ask why, Smit, Sandr, and Opal all shouted. Marcus turned, scrambling to the top of the wagon. There shouldn’t have been bandits. They didn’t have anything worth taking. The ’van master’s white mare was racing up the side of the carts toward the front. He saw four figures in leather and light chain step out from the trees, bows at the ready. They had hoods covering them, but from the width of their build, Marcus guessed Jasuru or Kurtadam. Four in plain sight could mean the bandits were bluffing. Or that there were a dozen more still in the trees.

  At least they hadn’t announced themselves with an arrow.

  “Hai!” a raspy voice called from the road ahead. “Who speaks for you?”

  Four men on horses had appeared in front of the fallen oak. Three were either poorly groomed Cinnae or badly underfed Firstbloods riding nags, but the one in front rode a grey stallion with good lines and real strength in his legs. He also had a steel breastplate and chainmail. His bow was horn, his sword was curved in the southern style, and his face had the broad, thick-boned jaw and bronze scales of a Jasuru.

  The Timzinae caravan master pulled his mare up in front of the supply wagon’s team.

  “I speak for this ’van,” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Marcus shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. Eight men they could see. Half of those mounted. He had eight men, and six of them on horse. It was a damn small advantage, and if it came to blows, they wouldn’t last five long breaths together. He hoped the Timzinae wasn’t going to press the bandits too hard.

  “I am Lord Knightly Tierentois,” the bandit captain said loud enough to carry. “You are traveling in my road, and I have come to collect my due tribute.”

  Marcus slipped back down to the driver’s rig, the impulse to roll his eyes warring with the tightness in his belly. The horseman might be a fake and a blowhard, but he had blades and bows.

  “These are dragon’s roads,” the ’van master shouted. “And you’re a half-wit, jumped-up thief in stolen armor. Birancour doesn’t have any Jasuru knights.”

  Well, that wasn’t as politic as Marcus had hoped. The bandit captain’s laughter was hearty and false. Marcus put his hand on the pommel of his sword and tried to think of a way out of this that left the fewest people dead. If the actors charged the bowmen at the sides of the ’van, they might spook them into running. Leaving only four men on horse for him. Yardem appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. The Tralgu’s bow was in his hand. So two horesmen each. Unless there were more in the trees.

  “The day you mutiny and take the company?” Marcus murmured.

  “Not today, sir.”

  The caravan master was shouting now, and the false knight’s face was taking the green-bronze cast that spoke of rage among the Jasuru. Marcus slipped off the wagon and walked forward. The men on horse didn’t seem to notice him until he was almost even with the ’van master’s mare.

  “How much do you want?” Marcus said.

  Timzinae and Jasuru both shifted to stare down at him with equal anger.

  “Pardon my interrupting your fine and spirited debate, but how much do you want?”

  “You should show me some respect, boy,” the Jasuru said.

  “How much do you want, my lord,” Marcus said. “Because if you’ll look at the ’van here, we don’t have much. Unless his lordship and his lordship’s noble compatriots are willing to accept tribute in tin ore and iron, there may not be a great deal we can offer.”

  “Don’t speak for me,” the Timzinae hissed.

  “Don’t get us killed,” Marcus said, equally softly.

  “And who are you, Firstblood?” the Jasuru said.

  “Marcus Wester. I’m guard captain of this ’van.”

  The laughter this time was less forced, and the men on the other horses joined in. The Jasuru shook his broad head and grinned. His tongue was black, and his teeth needle sharp.

  “You’re Marcus Wester?”

  “I am.”

  “Ah. And I suppose that one back there is Lord Harton returned from the dead. Tell you what, I’ll be Drakis Stormcrow.”

  “No less likely than Lord Knightly Whatever-it-was,” the ’van master said.

  Marcus ignored him. “You’ve heard of me, then.”

  “I was at Wodford, and I am about done being insulted,” the Jasuru said. “All your coin. All your food. Half your women. The rest of you can crawl back to Vanai.”

  “Eat shit,” the ’van master said.

/>   The Jasuru reached for his sword, and a new voice boomed out behind them.

  “We. Shall. Pass.”

  Master Kit stood on the top of the feed wagon. The black and purple robes of Orcus the Demon King draped from him like shadows made solid, and he held a staff with a skull on its end. When the actor spoke again, his voice carried to them all as if it came from the dim air.

  “My protection is on these men. You cannot harm them.”

  “What the sweet hell is this?” the Jasuru said, but his voice had taken a worried tone.

  “You cannot harm us,” Master Kit said. “Your arrows will stray from us. Your swords will not break our skins. You have no power here.”

  Marcus turned back to the Jasuru. Confusion and anxiety twisted the bandit’s face.

  “This is shit,” one of the three behind him said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  “Who is that?” the Jasuru said.

  “My cunning man,” Marcus said.

  “Hear me,” Master Kit shouted, and the forest itself seemed to go quiet. “The trees are our allies and the shadow of oak protects us. You cannot harm us, boy. And we shall pass.”

  A chill ran up Marcus’s spine. He could see that Orcus the Demon King was having much the same effect on the bandits. He felt a small, tentative hope. The Jasuru pulled his bow from its sling and nocked a vicious-looking arrow.

  “Say that again, you bastard!” the bandit captain shouted.

  Even in the dimness, Marcus saw Master Kit smile. The actor raised his arms, the dark folds of the costume seeming to twist on their own accord, just as they’d done during the play in Vanai. It was something to do with uneven stitching, but with Master Kit’s sepulchral voice and defiant posture, the effect was unsettling. Master Kit spoke again, slow and clear and utterly confident.

  “You cannot harm me. Your arrow will miss its mark.”

  The Jasuru scowled and drew back the string. The horn bow creaked.

  Well, Marcus thought, it was worth the try. And then, a second later: God damn. He is going to miss.

  The arrow sped through the gloom. Master Kit didn’t flinch as the shaft flew past his ear. The Jasuru licked his lips with a wide, black tongue. His gaze shifted from Marcus to Master Kit and back. There was real fear in his eyes now.

  “And for what it carries, I really am Marcus Wester.”

  The silence lasted four long breaths together, before the Jasuru turned his horse to the side and raised his arm. “There’s nothing here, boys,” the bandit shouted. “These little turds aren’t worth the effort.”

  The horsemen sprang away into the forest. Marcus stood in the road, listening to their hoofbeats fade and realizing that he wasn’t going to die today after all. He clasped his hands behind him to keep them from trembling and looked up at the ’van master. The Timzinae was shaking too. At least Marcus wasn’t the only one. He stepped to the side of the road, leaning to see that the bowmen at the treeline had also vanished.

  Yardem walked to him. “That was odd,” the Tralgu said.

  “Was,” Marcus said. “Don’t suppose we have a winch? We’re going to have to move that tree.”

  That night, the ’van master’s wife cooked meat. Not sausage, not salt pork, but a fresh-killed lamb the ’van master bought from a farm at the forest’s edge. The meat was dark and rich, seasoned with raisins and a sharp-tasting yellow sauce. The carters and drivers and most of Marcus’s guard sat around a roaring bonfire at the side of the road. All except the wool-hauler, Tag, who never seemed to eat with anybody. And sitting at a separate fire away from all the others, Marcus ate with Master Kit.

  “It’s how I’ve made my living since… well, not since before you were born, I suppose,” the actor said. “I stand before people, usually on a wagon, and I convince them of things. I tell them that I am a fallen king or a shipwrecked sailor on an unknown shore. I presume they know it isn’t truth, but I see my work as making them believe even when they know better.”

  “What you did back there, then?” Marcus said. “Talking the bastard with the bow out of his confidence? It wasn’t magic?”

  “I think talking a man into believing in his own failure is close enough to magic. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t really, no.”

  “Well, then perhaps we disagree on the point. More wine?”

  Marcus took the proffered skin and squirted the bright-tasting wine into his mouth. In the light of the two fires—the small one at their knees, the large one fifteen yards away—shadows clung to the old actor’s cheeks and in the hollows of his eyes.

  “Captain. If it’s any comfort to you, I’ll swear this. I can be very convincing, and I can tell when someone is trying to convince me. That is all the magic I possess.”

  “Cut thumbs on it?” Marcus said, and Master Kit laughed.

  “I’d rather not. If I get blood on the costumes, it’s hard to get out. But what about you? What exactly did you intend, facing the man down like that?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “I didn’t intend anything. Not in particular,” he said. “Only I thought the ’van master was going about it badly.”

  “Would you have fought?” Master Kit asked. “If it had come to swords and arrows?”

  “Of course,” Marcus said. “Probably not for very long, given the odds, but I’d have fought. Yardem too, and I hope your people along with us. It’s what they pay us for.”

  “Even though you knew we couldn’t win?”

  “Yes.”

  Master Kit nodded. Marcus thought a smile was lurking at the corners of the actor’s lips, but in the flickering light he couldn’t be sure. It might have been something else.

  “I want to start drilling your people,” Marcus said. “An hour before we ride in the morning, and an hour after we stop. We can’t do much, but they ought to know more about a sword than which end to hold it by.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Master Kit said.

  Marcus looked up at the sky. The stars glowed like snowfall, and the moon, newly risen, sent long, pale shadows across black ground. The forest was behind them, but the air still smelled like weather. Rain, Marcus decided. Most likely it would be rain. Master Kit was chewing his lamb, his eyes on the little fire and his expression distant.

  “Don’t worry. Today was the worst of it,” Marcus said. “We’ve got our excitement behind us.”

  Master Kit didn’t look at him, making his polite smile to the flames instead. For a moment, Marcus thought the old man wasn’t going to speak. When he did, his voice was low and abstracted.

  “Probably,” Master Kit said.

  Geder

  Geder had imagined Vanai would be more like Camnipol or Estinport: a great city of stone and jade. The close-built wooden structures and wide canals felt both smaller than he’d expected and larger. Even the Grand Square of the conquered city was small compared to the wide commons of Camnipol, and the richest sections of Vanai were as thick with humanity as the better slums at home. Camnipol was a city. Vanai was a child’s scrapwood playhouse that had spread. It was beautiful in its way, strange and foreign and improbable. He wasn’t sure yet whether he liked it.

  He limped down the rain-darkened streets of occupied Vanai, leaning on the blackwood-and-silver walking stick with every step. Lord Ternigan’s address was to begin soon, and while his wound would forgive his absence, Geder had missed too much already. The prospect of going home to regale his father with stories of how he’d collapsed in the battle and spent the two-day sack with a cunning man tending his leg was bad enough.

  The canal on the eastern edge of the modest Grand Square was choked with fallen leaves, gold and red and yellow remaking the surface of the dark water. As Geder watched, a turtle rose from below, its black head sticking out of the water. A single bright red leaf adhered to its shell. The turtle made its stately way past what looked at first like a log, but was in fact a corpse wearing the drenched colors of the former prince: a soldier of Vanai hauled in a cart from the b
attlefield and dropped in the canal as a message to the locals. Other bodies hung from the trees in the parks and along the colonnades. They lay on the stairs of the palaces and the markets and the square of the public gaol where the former prince now ate and shat and shivered before his subjects. The smell of rotting flesh was only kept in check by the cool weather.

  Once the prince entered exile, the dead would be gathered up and burned. They had been men once. Now they were political sculpture.

  “Palliako!”

  Geder looked up. From halfway across the Grand Square, Jorey Kalliam scowled and waved him on. Geder turned away from turtle and corpse, limping manfully across the pavement. The nobles of Antea stood in martial array, waiting only for the few stragglers like himself. Before them, on the bare ground, sat what high officials of the city had been spared. Timzinae merchants and guildsmen, Firstblood artisans and pragmatic noblemen. They wore their own clothing—much of it with a notably imperial cut—and held themselves more like the polite attendees of a religious function than the debased and the conquered. Sodai Carvenallin, the secretary to Lord Ternigan, stood alone on the stone platform they all faced and looked forward with folded arms. Geder hadn’t seen the man to speak to since the night they’d gotten drunk together. The night Klin had burned his book. Geder shook the memory away and took his place.

  He tried not to notice the new finery around him, but it was impossible. Sir Gospey Allintot’s cloak was closed with a broach of worked silver and brilliant ruby. Sozlu Veren had his sword sheathed in a scabbard of dragon’s jade and yellowed ivory that could have been made a thousand years before. A chain of gold looped around Jorey Kalliam’s neck that looked to be more than a month’s rent from all the holdings of Rivenhalm. Their clothes were freshly laundered, their boots shone even in the grey overcast light. The warrior aristocrats of Antea wore their conquest proudly. Geder looked down at his little walking stick. It was the nearest thing he had to spoils of war, and he tried to be proud of it.