He’d even had faith in himself, back then.
Cithrin sighed and shook her head. “Porte Oliva’s never fallen in war. Never. The only times it’s been taken, someone inside the city betrayed it and opened the gates. No one’s going to do that now. We know to keep out of earshot of the priests or drown them out. They’re exhausted and in the middle of enemy land. We have freedom of the sea to resupply, we have well-rested soldiers protecting their own homes, and we have a dragon. We’re going to be fine.”
“That exhausted army’s got spider priests, and they’ve already conquered half the world,” Marcus said. “We shouldn’t underestimate them. You don’t know how bad this could get.”
Cithrin’s face went cold and she hoisted an eyebrow. “I think I do. I’ve lost two cities already and lived through the fighting in Camnipol. I’ve seen what war can do.”
“No disrespect, Cithrin. You’ve seen a handful of squabbling noblemen and a surrender. You haven’t lived through a battle. They’re worse, and once they start going bad, it’s usually too late to make fresh plans. However many high cards we’re holding, we should have been harassing their column, and we should have been hiring mercenaries to break the siege when it comes, and we should have burned every building north of the wall rather than leave it for the enemy to shelter in.”
“The governor would never agree to that,” she said.
“Shouldn’t ask permission, then.”
“We’re going to be fine,” Cithrin said, and the hardness in her voice ran on the edge of challenge. She wanted to believe it. He wished that he could too. “We’re going to be fine, Marcus. They can’t take the city.”
“All right,” he said, but when he stepped outside, he turned north. The air was thick with the smell of bodies and of the sea. The spring rains were late this year, but coming. He could feel the press of weather in the air, a stillness that made even the breeze feel sluggish. The dragon’s perch in the courtyard stood empty. Inys’s resting claws had stripped away the bark and carved deep gouges into the pale wood beneath. They’d have to replace that soon. Unless the siege went poorly. Then it’d be someone else’s problem. He looked at the sun. He’d agreed to relieve Yardem from the guardhouse. With the increase in coin and goods in the counting house strongbox and new people coming to the relatively defended city from the countryside, they’d both decided that tripling the guard was a good thought. But if he was an hour or two late, chances were Yardem would forgive him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Passing through the defense walls was like stepping into a dream. He remembered the first time he’d passed this way, besieged by beggars. The great stone wall with its arrow slits had seemed like the artifact of another time then. It marked the edge of a city that had long since outgrown it. There were no beggars there now. He assumed they’d all moved to the port. There wouldn’t be many travelers arriving with charity by land.
Beyond the fresh gates, the buildings of Porte Oliva stood almost empty. The breeze set a shutter clacking open and closed and open again. A sullen dog followed him for a few streets and then wandered away. There was no new wall, no second defense. Birancour had been at peace for generations, and even before that, their wars had been in the north, at the seat of power. It showed in the architecture and the shape of the streets and the buildings that slowly grew sparser and lower, wider yards between them and more trees and grass. And then without ever passing an archway or marker, he was outside the city. He found the dragon in a meadow that had become a favorite place for its torpid sleep. The grass all around its body was smashed and dead, the dark earth showing through. Its eyes were narrowed but not closed, and it shifted to consider him without rising.
“Marcus Stormcrow,” Inys said in a voice like distant thunder.
“Back with the Stormcrow thing? Thought we’d moved past that.”
“I call you that, or not. As I see fit. I think of you that way or not.”
“That’s very flexible of you,” Marcus said. “I wanted to talk about the war.”
“It was terrible. It was the triumph of rage over cowardice, and I was the coward. I should have let him kill me. I should have bared my neck to him and let him take the light from my eyes. It would have been better for both of us than this.”
“Yeah. Not the war I was thinking of,” Marcus said, sitting on the grass beside the great head. “There’s an army coming this way. We haven’t done anything to slow it down or break its supply lines. The forces that could have backed us got spanked and are off pouting outside Porte Silena and Sara-sur-Mar. Everyone and their uncle seems convinced that you’re going to save us all.”
The dragon didn’t speak, but shifted its weight, claws digging deep into the turf like a housecat kneading a pillow. Marcus waited.
“Do you know what it is to mourn, Marcus Stormcrow?”
“I do.”
“There are days I can almost forget, and then I see something and think how Erex will smile to hear of it, only she will not. Not now, and not ever. Because of me.”
“That’s why we call it mourning,” Marcus said. “And it goes on for a hell of a long time before it gets better. But between now and then, I need to know if you’re planning to follow through and protect this city. Because if you aren’t, I’m going to have to.”
The dragon went still. Marcus leaned forward and brushed a blade of grass from his boots.
“Even Drakkis I never permitted to speak to me in such tones.”
Marcus felt a sweeping urge to apologize and bit his lips against it. “We are acting like we’ve already won,” he said. “It makes me very uncomfortable.”
“I am acting as though I have lost, and I have,” the dragon said.
“When you were drunk, you had hope. Something about filling the skies with dragons again.”
“When I am drunk, I have hope. When I am sober, I am too much a coward to let myself die. Even if I remake them, they will be new. Different. No one will remember the things I remember. There is no one to continue those conversations. I could bring a thousand dragonets into the world and still be alone.”
A thousand dragonets, Marcus thought. That doesn’t sound like a good thing either. He pushed the thought aside for the moment. It was a problem for another time.
“All right,” he said. “So I’m hearing you say that today’s one of the bad days, and you’re feeling hopeless and down. Have I got that about right?”
“You do not understand.”
“Like hell I don’t. You went to sleep and you woke up with everyone gone. I watched my wife and daughter die in front of me because I’d gotten too cocksure and full of myself. I stood witness, and I couldn’t do anything about it.” Marcus stopped, growling at the thickness in his throat like it was an enemy. He was courting nightmares here, but he didn’t let it stop him. “I smelled their hair burn. When you set fire to someone, they keep moving a bit even after they’re dead. Something about the way the sinews shorten up when they cook. They were in the flame, moving. They were dead and moving. And I spent years like that. Dead and moving. Some days I still do. But your family trouble is about to kill some people I know. Dead or not, you need to stop it. That’s the job.”
Inys rolled away, curling its back toward Marcus. The folded wings looked like furled sails on a ship.
“Perhaps you do understand,” the dragon said.
Marcus sat for a time. Inys didn’t speak again. Didn’t move. A dove fluttered by and landed on the branch of a tree at the meadow’s edge, cooing loudly. Marcus coughed.
“We should be harassing their column,” he said.
Inys didn’t answer.
“Was I that bad?”
Yardem flicked his ears thoughtfully, the earrings jingling against each other. “You weighed less.”
“I’m amazed you put up with me.”
The sky above the harbor was hazy white, the bodies of hundreds of seagulls dark against it. The tall-rigged ships that had been the heart of the blockade stood o
ut in the deep water off the harbor, transformed from enemy to protector, and the sea shone bright and rich as mother-of-pearl. Marcus and Yardem stood on the seawall looking down into the waves.
“Do you think Inys made the Drowned too?” Marcus asked. “He said he had them undermine that island. He made the Timzinae. Maybe he made the Drowned too.”
“Might have,” Yardem said. “Might only have found a use for them.”
“I still don’t like thinking of a whole race of people as tools made for a purpose. Use them and clean them and put them in the box when you’re done.”
“Would they be better meaningless?”
“They should be able to make their own meaning.”
Yardem grunted, his ears turning back they way they did when he was being polite.
“What?” Marcus said.
“Don’t see what stops them from doing that, sir. Can stab a man to death with a cobbler’s awl. Can dig up weeds with a dagger. Seems to me what something’s made for matters less than what’s done with it.”
“But they made us what we are. Even the Firstbloods, to judge by the way we dance to whatever tune he calls. We’re all formed by a dragon’s will for a dragon’s plan. All of history is a gap in a war they fought using us for weapons.”
“Something had to make the dragons,” Yardem said. “I believe there’s a larger order, and Inys is part of it just as we are.”
“Any evidence for that?”
“None, sir.”
“So why think it?”
“Just seems plausible.”
A new voice called out from the walkway behind them. Marcus turned back. Porte Oliva stretched out. Tile roofs and white walls and narrow, cobbled streets. Kit, Cary, and Barriath Kalliam walked toward them. The two players wore new clothes of a carefully nondescript grey. Until they could amass a new supply of costumes and props, they’d fallen back on the style of Princip C’Annaldé where the performers created the illusions of their stories through only the use of their voices and bodies. Beside them, the pirate captain looked almost gaudy, though in truth his cloak and breeches were no more than anyone might wear. Barriath nodded to Marcus and then Yardem.
“Your friends here said you wanted to speak with me?”
“Do,” Marcus said. “No offense to the governor and the queensmen—or the dragon, for that matter—but I’m the sort of man who likes having five or six plans deep, and you’re the man at the city’s back door.”
“You think the fleet’s likely to attack when the army comes.”
“It’s what I’d do,” Marcus said.
“It could happen,” Barriath said. “There are a few ships in the Inner Sea, mostly at Suddapal, but they’re spoils of war, and the sailors for them were up in Nus until they started sailing for here. I don’t see how they get those ships crewed unless they hire on mercenaries, and frankly, I’ve already bought the best of those.”
“You’ll have to tell me more about how you managed that at some point,” Marcus said. “What about the blockades on Porte Silena and Sara-sur-Mar?”
“They will come south, block any supplies coming in or escape going out. But the water’s where we’re strongest now. We might not be able to stop them getting here, but I’m fairly sure we’ll see them coming, and the dragon wouldn’t have trouble burning them all to the waterline.”
If we can talk him into caring at all, Marcus thought but didn’t say.
“It seems to me,” Kit said, “that you are also in a rare position to advise the city defenders on the drier end. I understand that the army is commanded by your brothers. Is there any insight you can give into how you expect that conflict to play out?”
Barriath crossed his arms. His expression was equal parts pain, anger, and the cold consideration of a man accustomed to war. Marcus waited. However carefully it was put, the question was still how best go about killing Barriath’s brothers. The sailor’s eyes turned toward the sea, but what he was seeing, Marcus couldn’t guess. Cary put a hand on his arm, and Barriath started. Her smile was encouraging, and he nodded.
“Jorey. My youngest brother. He’s smart, but not experienced. I don’t know how he’ll do as a commander, but Father told us stories of great battles and strategies of the hunt. And this isn’t his first time in the field.”
Brothers and wars. If Barriath and Jorey and this third one whose name Marcus kept forgetting had all been dragons, they’d be at the mouth of the war instead of the ass end of it. “All right. With any luck it won’t come to this, but I think we need to discuss what happens if—”
“Breaking the siege isn’t the problem. Or it’s not the one I see,” Barriath went on, ignoring him. “Maybe I’m being dim, but this isn’t a normal war. If the army comes and shatters itself against the walls, then what happens? Does Palliako sue for peace? If he does, and the queen accepts it, then what? Send the army and the priests back to Antea and call it victory? Or do you few march on Camnipol with as many queensmen as Birancour’s willing to grudge you?”
“That’s a little farther on than I’m worried about just yet,” Marcus said.
“It shouldn’t be. This is precisely what you should be worrying about right now. Because everything I’ve heard so far are ways not to lose the war. I don’t see anyone thinking about what it would take to win it.”
Geder
Basrahip left Camnipol with a group of eight priests behind him. They rode the finest, fastest horses Geder could get them, and they carried strange green-black scabbards strung across their backs. Geder went with them as far as the city gate, and the black-cobbled streets emptied before them, the citizens of the empire scattering like mice before a fire. Geder felt a bright dread growing in his belly with every street they passed. In some corner of his heart, he’d hoped that something would keep this from happening. The apostate in Kaltfel might be found and killed without the need of Basrahip to oversee the hunt, and so the massive priest could stay. The danger would pass like a child’s dream at sunrise, and everything would be back to the way it should be. The city wall loomed high above them, and that little wisp of hope shriveled and died.
Basrahip was leaving. He was really leaving, and Geder was staying behind. There were other priests, of course. Basrahip’s duties would still be done, but by someone unfamiliar. New faces and voices would take his place, and it was that prospect that shifted in Geder’s belly, the fear growing. What if the new priests didn’t like him? What if they thought he was an impostor, a fake? That he didn’t deserve the regency? Basrahip had known him since the beginning, it seemed. They understood each other, trusted each other. Geder didn’t have many friends.
The gate rose up higher than three men. Geder pulled his own horse to a halt. He’d held this gate once, after his return from Vanai. Kept it open long enough to let his army get in and push back the showfighters and mercenaries that Asterilhold had snuck inside the city. It had been a warmer day than this, and the fighting, though fierce, had been joyous. He’d saved Jorey’s life that day when a thick-tusked Yemmu had been about to drive a spear through Jorey’s side. Or maybe it had been a sword. Those had been better days, Geder thought. Or if they weren’t, at least he remembered them that way.
“All will be well, Prince Geder,” Basrahip said.
“I want to come with you,” Geder said. “This apostate? I want him caught and burned and his ashes poured into the bottoms of the pisspots of every taproom in Kaltfel.”
“We will never stop hunting him,” Basrahip said. “His abomination will not spread.”
More reports had come from Kaltfel in the days of Basrahip’s preparation. The apostate priest was a man named Ovur, one of the first priests to arrive from the temple in the mountains beyond the Keshet. Geder remembered him as an older man with white threads in his hair and beard. When they had dedicated the temple in Asterilhold—the first of the new temples Geder had sworn to raise in every city he conquered—Ovur had gone to it. With the expansion of the empire to the east, no other priests
had gone to his temple for the long winter previous, and when they had, the changes they’d found were dire. Ovur had been preaching that the spider goddess was centered not just in Camnipol, but was present equally in every temple dedicated in her name. Basrahip was no more or less her voice than any of the other priests, himself included. The phrase Though there are a thousand mouths, there is only one truth figured into his teachings. A group of the newly initiated priests arrived to aid him in keeping the temple, and one tried to correct him. Ovur had flown into a rage and beaten the man. Since then, Kaltfel had been in an uproar. And so the nine priests and their blades set out to restore the peace and keep his lies from infecting any of the other cities and temples.
Geder wished the man had just died of the pox instead. Or the city had been hit by plague. If it were plague, Basrahip wouldn’t have to go. The goddess could do anything. Surely she could manage a little plague.
Basrahip held out his great hand, and Geder clasped it. He felt like a child shaking hands with a grown man. It was easy for him to forget how really large Basrahip was.
“When you’re done, come back,” Geder said, trying to make the words sound like the Lord Regent of Antea commanding his loyal servant and not Lehrer Palliako’s little boy whining for his nurse. “The empire needs you here.”
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