The Tyrant's Law tdatc-3

by Daniel Abraham

  Marcus struggled forward and slammed a numb fist against the door, hoping that someone would answer him and planning how to break it down when they didn’t. The door swung open on a Haaverkin woman. Her vast body was covered in light wool and fur. Her face was complicated by swirling tattoos in red and blue, and her expression was like a mother whose child has just hauled home a basket of puppies.

  “Who in hell are you people?” she asked.

  “Marcus,” Marcus said. “Kit over there. Some others. Make plays. Wondering if we could come in.”

  The woman sighed, shook her head, and turned to call over her shoulder.

  “Kirot! We’ve got more idiots.” She turned back to Marcus. “I’m Ama of Order Murro. This is our lodge house. You there. Just leave the horses. We’ll get them. You’ll only cock it up.”

  Marcus nodded, then stumbled past her into the warmth.

  The lodge house was a single massive room with a fire burning in a stone grate at the far end. The air was sooty and thick. Great tables ran along the walls with benches made from split trees. The Haaverkin at the tables—twenty, perhaps thirty of them—turned to watch him with amusement and curiosity. Marcus raised a hand in greeting, but kept stumbling forward toward the light and the promise of warmth. As he drew near the flames, he saw thinner figures at the hearth. A half dozen Firstblood men, and a leather-skinned Dartinae man with eyes so bright it seemed like his head was hollow with firelight blazing through empty sockets.

  Oh, Marcus thought, then collapsed on the furs and blankets before the fire, his body trembling from the cold and burning from the mild heat that radiated out from the flames. Sandr crawled up beside him, and then Kit and Cary and Hornet. Charlit Soon and Smit and Mikel. They curled together like animals in some deep winter den. Marcus heard someone weeping, but was fairly certain it wasn’t him.

  A massive old Haaverkin loomed above him. The ink of his tattoos and the lines of his face swam together in a complexity that Marcus couldn’t follow. His teeth were the grey of stone, and the rolls of fat that enveloped his body made him seem larger than he was. And strong. A bone pipe appeared in his hand.

  “What’s your name, then?”

  Marcus didn’t have the wits left to lie. “Marcus Wester.”

  “And these others? They’re yours?”

  “They’re mine,” Marcus agreed.

  “Well, then, Marcus Wester and his brood. Kirot of Order Murro is my name, and this is the lodge house of Order Murro. We extend you our hospitality because if we didn’t, you’d die out in the weather like a bunch of fucking half-wits.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the old Haaverkin said sourly and marched off into the gloom shaking his head at the fragility and dim wits of southern races.

  “You know there’s a mercenary captain with that same name,” a pleasantly raspy voice said. Marcus levered himself up to sitting. The Dartinae man had come to sit near to him, legs more tied together than crossed. If Marcus had taken the same pose, he’d have popped his knees loose, but Dartinae were usually a bit more supple than the other races.

  “Did, actually,” Marcus said.

  “You get mistaken for him?”

  The man wore a leather vest with a dragon on it in faded and cracking paint.

  “Almost constantly,” Marcus said. His senses were almost back, but not quite. He felt drunk from the cold and his toes were still numb. Soon he’d have to pull his boots off and check for frostbite, but his fingers hadn’t blackened, so maybe he’d avoided the worst of it. “And you, cousin? What’s your story?”

  “Dar Cinlama,” the man said, dispelling the last remnant of doubt. “Citizen of the world, but lately from the court of the Lord Regent in Camnipol.”

  “You must have pissed him off badly for him to send you out here.”

  Dar laughed. “No, this is where I picked to be. Searching for hidden things in the lost corners of the world.”

  “Seems you’ve come to the right place.” Marcus looked over at the Firstblood men sitting apart at the near table. There was no mistaking them for anything but Firstblood, but though their skins were the full range from pale to dark, none had the wiry hair or brown robes of a spider priest. “Those yours?” he asked, nodding to them.

  “I have the loan of them. Not a bad bunch. More than I’ve usually had for company.”

  Cary groaned and curled away from their voices. Sandr appeared to be asleep, snoring lightly, his face as slack as a child’s. Marcus’s awareness was still broadening slowly. Along the walls, he saw the Haaverkin shields and spears interspersed with images of dragons and the skeleton of a monstrous fish, its head twice as wide as a man’s shoulders, with three rows of viciously curved teeth. The Haaverkin in the room were ignoring them, talking among themselves, laughing or scowling. Even though Marcus couldn’t feel the wind, and the fire in the grate drew steady and calm, the rage of the storm outside was oppressive as a hand on his shoulder.

  Kit stirred, rising from the rugs. His expression was mild and amazed, as if he thought perhaps he’d died and this was where souls went to wait for judgment.

  “Kit,” Marcus said. “This is our new friend. His name’s Dar Cinlama.”

  Kit’s eyes took a moment to focus, but then comprehension slipped into them.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Dar,” Kit said.

  “And what brings you to the warm hearth and happy home of our northern brothers?”

  “We are a theater company,” Kit said. “Seeking new audiences.”

  “Well,” Dar Cinlama said, “this is a place to find them. This is likely the most Firstblood any of these orders have seen in years.”

  “And perhaps the last,” Kit said. “I can’t say we’ve found quite as many audiences as we’d hoped.”

  “Should have come in summer,” Dar Cinlama said. “Bugs the size of your fist trying to drink you dry, but at least the sky isn’t trying to kill you.”

  “Been here since then, have you?” Marcus asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

  “Yes, I have,” Dar Cinlama said, “and likely I’ll be coming back next summer. But once the weather clears, we’re going down to Borja. Winter in Tauendak or Lôdi.”

  At the far end of the lodge house, the door opened, and the woman who’d saved them from the cold came back in. From a distance, her cloak looked no heavier than something Marcus might have worn on a cool day in spring. She brushed the snow and ice out of her hair and walked over to Kirot. As they bent their heads together in conversation, the draft of cold air finally reached them, and Marcus shuddered.

  “I think we may follow your lead,” Kit said. “We were thinking of following the King’s Hunt in Antea, but the company has been there a little too long, and we chose to come here.”

  “Bad, bad decision,” Sandr said weakly, so maybe he wasn’t asleep after all.

  “Is your work in the north finished as well?” Kit asked, and Marcus could feel the edge in the question. He couldn’t help feeling a small thrill of excitement.

  “Work’s never finished,” Dar Cinlama said expansively. “The world’s too big and too old for that. I was following the story that a giant was buried in the north with a sword of flame that could slaughter armies.”

  “Really?” Marcus said.

  “There’s really a story,” Dar Cinlama said. “And maybe there’s a giant and a sword to go with it, but we haven’t found it yet. I’ve found other hints. Part of it mentions a lake where the stars come to die, and I’ve found an inlet about three days from here where the fish take on a glow. Get a whole school of them, and it could be what the story meant.”

  At the far end of the lodge, Kirot nodded his head once sharply, then started coming down toward them. Marcus watched him without seeming to. Better for now if Kit could pull information from the Dartinae without interruption, but that was looking unlikely.

  “That’s what you do, then?” Kit asked. “Find old stories and match them to
bits of landscape?”

  “It’s part,” the Dartinae said. “I’ll chase rumors and old tales, or I’ll just head off to places where no one looks and look there. Can’t know what you’ll find.”

  “That’s truth,” Marcus said. Kirot was almost upon them. “No luck this time, though?”

  “There were a few times I thought we were close. Old stories that made it seem like we were close to something, but nothing came of it. Next time, I’m going further inland. Takynpal. maybe.”

  Kirot loomed up behind.

  “We put your cart and your horses in the deep stables,” he said to Marcus. “Tradition is you give the host a gift for our kindness. We were thinking one of the horses would be good.”

  “Seems fair,” Marcus said.

  “Do you truly think there is something to be found?” Kit said, his attention still on the adventurer.

  “There’s not,” Kirot said. “No such thing as giants, much less magical fire swords.”

  Kit’s eyebrows rose and his head shifted up to Kirot.

  “No?” the old actor said, his voice all innocence.

  “Not a goddam thing,” Kirot said. “Only thing that comes of your kind coming up to Hallskar is a fat load of bones when the drifts melt.”

  “There are always secrets waiting to be found,” Dar Cinlama said, sounding wounded.

  “Not here there aren’t,” Kirot said. “But you go on killing yourself trying to chase whatever it is down. We’ll keep your things safe once you’re dead.”

  The old Haaverkin turned and trundled away, puffing at his pipe.

  “Kirot’s bad-tempered,” Dar Cinlama said, “but harmless if you don’t cross him. Seems like that’s the way for all the Orders. Sour. Your people should come with me. When the storm breaks we can all go down to Borja together. Lôdi’s a real city. You’ll draw real crowds there.”

  “I think we’ll stay a bit,” Kit said. “We’ve only just come here after all. You should go on without us.”

  The Dartinae shrugged. “Your choice. If you’re warm enough now, you should ask old Kirot for some soup and beer. You’re paying a horse for it.”

  “Cheap at the price,” Marcus said.

  The evening was spent talking with the Antean men and bringing the players back to themselves. Once they were recovered, Sandr and Kit put on a mock poetry competition that drew a bit of a crowd. Marcus sat by the fire drinking his beer and watching. The Haaverkin laughed at different times than Marcus expected them to, and watching Sandr and Kit respond to that, shaping their performance as they went, had a kind of beauty to it. Dar Cinlama, apart from being a little more impressed with himself than Marcus was with him, seemed a decent man. Eventually the fire burned low and the Haaverkin started bedding down on the floor of the lodge house. Dar Cinlama and the Anteans did the same, and before long the players were also in a little group, curled up under blankets together for warmth and comfort in strange surroundings. With the voices all gone quiet, Marcus could hear the storm still shrieking and ripping at the walls of the place. The glow of the embers and low flames in the great hearth threw ruddy shadows across the ceiling and along the walls.

  He waited until he was almost certain that the others were asleep, then took himself through a short passage to a latrine that had been hacked out of the frozen ground. When he came back, rather than pulling the blankets over himself, he went to find Kit. As he’d expected, Kit’s eyes were open and bright.

  “Well,” Marcus said. “Seems our friend may not have found the thing he was looking for.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Kit said. “And more, I think he’s close to giving up the chase. At least so far as this part of the world goes.”

  “Think he’s wise in that?”

  “No,” Kit said, his voice so low it was hardly audible even inches from his lips. “No, I think he’s being kept from it. Kirot was lying when he said there was nothing to be found here.”

  “Seems we’ve sung that song before,” Marcus said. “Are you up for another verse?”

  “Give us a week in Kirot’s company, and I think I can manage something.”

  “Good that we have the powers of chaos and madness on our side sometimes. Still, I don’t know what we’re going to do with another damned magic sword.”

  Cary muttered something, turned and stretched out one leg toward the dying fire.

  “It isn’t a sword,” Kit said. “And it isn’t a giant.”

  “What, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Kit said, his eyes bright and merry. “But I believe I can find out.”

  Cithrin

  Cithrin lay in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Focused on nothing. The pale ceiling looked blankly back down. The cracks in its plaster made shapes and faces. The pillow was too warm or else too cold. Another night without sleep. What did she need it for, anyway?

  At last she pulled herself up and went through a rough parody of her morning ablutions. When she came out into the corridor, she was as nearly herself as she was likely to become. And in truth, very few people if anyone would notice how poorly she felt. It was the advantage of living a life of professional deceit that she could choose how much to show and how much to keep to herself. It was one of her primary skills. No one would see how she felt. Or that, at least, was the thought.

  “You all right, Magistra?” Enen asked as soon as Cithrin stepped into the dining room. The smell of eggs and fish and peppers assaulted Cithrin’s nose, but she didn’t gag.

  “Fine,” she said, sitting across from the Kurtadam woman. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

  “Anticipating the Lord Regent’s arrival.”

  Cithrin’s smile felt painted on and chipped at the edges.

  “I suppose I am,” she said amiably.

  The runners said that Palliako was still a day and a half away, and on the march. He was being accompanied by three hundred sword-and-bows detached from the siege at Kiaria for the sole purpose of seeing that he arrived safely on her doorstep. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered. Every day since she’d had Geder’s letter from Kiaria had been a little harder than the one before, but she told herself that once he had arrived and she could fall into the role she’d prepared for herself, it would be better.

  “Where’s Yardem?” Cithrin asked, more as a way to postpone getting food than from any genuine curiosity.

  “Off doing a little last-minute work,” Enen said. “Making the rounds of all the people we’ve worked with to let them know not to expect anything from us for a time at least. We figured that with the extra soldiery and Palliako himself and his priests lurking in the doorway, it’d be better to wrap up any outstanding business.”

  “Probably true,” Cithrin said. It was the kind of thing that she should have thought. There were enough times in her past for her to know when she was drinking too much, and she was drinking too much. The knowledge made her feel slightly more in control of things, though it wasn’t going to have any particular effect on her actions. She would go right on drinking too much.

  When her body finally felt it could stand the idea of food, she ate a sliced apple in cream and drank a cup of coffee, and afterward, she kept it down. She felt an unwarranted pride. She was the voice of the Medean bank in two cities. She was responsible for saving hundreds if not thousands of Timzinae from the occupation. And as her crowning glory, she didn’t puke up her food like a newborn babe.

  There were fewer guests in the compound now. The courtyards were empty. The quarters where refugees had slept and eaten and talked and led their lives were abandoned, with only their old straw mattresses and rag-worn clothes left behind. The day before had been taken up with that.

  She’d dreaded going to all the refugees who had accreted around the compound and asking them to leave. She knew as well as they did that there was no place to go, and so she’d expected grief and recrimination. Not her best prediction, since for the most part she got as far as explaining that the Lord Regent of Antea and a force of sold
iers protecting him were very likely to come to the compound. Almost before she’d finished the last syllable, they were packing up their meager belongings and their confused children and heading out into the winter. They might die of cold in the streets. They might try walking to the Keshet or Orsen without food or water enough to make it two days. Cithrin wished she could go with them.

  The only solace she had was the books. Reviewing her ledgers and logs distracted her a bit from what was going to happen next. Something about the flow of income and expenditure soothed her in any case, but now it was also her justification. Leaning heavily on her desk, she could trace her fingers down all the work she’d done in Suddapal. Here were the payments she’d made to the ship captains who’d stolen away with a hold filled with humanity instead of cargo. Here were the reimbursements for drink and food that she’d granted to the men and women who’d agreed to seek out the taprooms and public spaces, moving from group to group and telling about the bounties available in Herez. Here were the loans she might as well have listed as gifts that were to be repaid at other branches. It was an account of all her sins against commerce and profit, and she took as much pride in it as she could.

  She wished that Komme Medean were there. Or Paerin Clark. Someone she could talk with about her time commanding the branch. She thought it had all been the right thing, but what if there had been some better way to do the things she’d done, and some way to build on it moving ahead? Geder wouldn’t be able to stay in Suddapal forever. Perhaps he’d only come for a few days, and then go back to Antea and his court. Certainly it wouldn’t be longer than the winter. When he left, she would go back to her work. Unless he wanted her go with him. Would he insist? She imagined herself living in Camnipol, sleeping and eating in the Kingspire, and wondered what it would be like to leave the books and the bank behind. It seemed that it would leave very little room for her.