The King's Blood

Cithrin

Following the Lord Regent when the knives came out had been more a matter of instinct than judgment. She certainly hadn’t meant to save him or the boy prince. She’d only wanted to see what happened. But when at last she’d caught up with him, the man standing in the corridor outside the hall with the boy on one hand and eyes as round as coins, he’d said he didn’t know where would be safe.

Her first thought was It’s your damned city. Think of something.

Her second thought was Yellow House by Autumn Bridge.

Escaping the Kingspire itself was easy. She had the prince, and the prince had all the knowledge that young boys acquire of shorter routes and secret ways. The Kingspire had always been his home, and once she had tasked him with finding the way out to darkness and night, the hardest part was keeping pace.

Outside, men were shouting and torches flared all through the gardens and along the gates. They made their way, careful but swift. Around a long hedge and then over a wall and into the street beyond. As she helped the Lord Regent crawl over the rough stone, Cithrin wondered how many times Prince Aster had used this route to escape his tutors.

In the gloom of the night street, Cithrin paused. The shouting was both louder and more distant, the riot of swords and voices still rising. The prince wore a robe of white sewn with threads of gold and a ceremonial crown. His sleeves were sewn with pearls, and gems studded his cuffs. He’d stand out in the darkness like a candleflame. The Lord Regent was somewhat better. His garnet-colored tunic wouldn’t grab the torchlight. He was a round-faced man, not much older than her true age. His build said he’d been strong not long ago, but was well on his way back to soft.

“We’ll get to the Division,” Cithrin said. “And then move south to the Autumn Bridge. I think the house we’re looking for is on the far side, but I’m not sure of that.”

“What if they’re holding the bridge?” the Lord Regent asked in a high, tight voice.

“We have enough trouble right now,” Cithrin said. “Let’s not borrow more.”

They set out, trotting through the dim streets. Once, when a half dozen horsemen pelted down the road, Cithrin had to haul them all into the shadows of a great marble statue of a Firstblood man putting the sword to a particularly bestial-looking Yemmu woman. Another time, the square she’d hoped to cross was filled with men shouting at each other and brandishing swords. They hadn’t come to blows yet, but she heard the violence in the timbre of their voices. Cithrin pulled the prince by the hand, and the Lord Regent followed them both down into the darkness, searching for another path.

Cithrin felt the fear, breathed it, but it seemed almost to be happening to some other woman. Her footsteps didn’t falter, her decisions were swift and unhesitating. The men and women who saw them only looked confused, not alarmed. They were running ahead of the violence like a seabird out-pacing a wave. Even if they were seen now, the citizens of Camnipol didn’t know what it meant, a man, a woman, and a child all dressed in the clothing of wealth and running through the night. They tacked through the dark and treacherous sea of alleyways and courtyards, aiming—she hoped—for the bridge she’d been pointed to once, and in daylight.

It stood at the edge of the cliff face, arching slightly upward as it leaped the wide air. Ancient trees had given their bodies to the making of the bridge. It was wide enough that two carts could pass each other and a man still walk between them. The upward curve meant she couldn’t see the other side, hiding it like the arch of a hill. There could have been a dozen men charging at them, swords bared, and she wouldn’t have known it until they met in the center.

Beside her, Lord Geder Palliako was panting. She turned slowly, looking for something that might have been a tap-room or a wayhouse. All she saw was a thick flicker of smoke to the north.

“All right,” she said. “We have to cross.”

“We can’t do that,” Palliako said. “We’ll be seen. We’ll be recognized.”

“We can stay here and see who finds us,” she said. As if to punctuate her words, the sound of shouting floated across the broad, empty air and echoed against the Division’s walls.

“It’ll be all right,” the prince said.

“Wait,” Cithrin said. She plucked the thin crown off the boy’s head. From the weight, it was silver throughout. She heaved it over the edge, sailing it out through the wide air. “Lie down. Help me rub muck over this. Do it quickly.”

It was a long, breathless minute, but the white formal robes of the Prince of Antea was reduced to rags. The pearls and gems were sewn on too tightly to pull free, but their glitter was at least dimmed. It would have to do.

Cithrin led the way, and at the top of the bridge she paused. In the north, the Kingspire was alive with hundreds of torches, and also larger flames. A building was burning, the column of rising smoke lit by the fire at its foot. Cithrin didn’t know the city well enough to guess what it might be. There were lights along the Silver Bridge too—the torches and lanterns of riders spreading fast from the battle. The news would be all through the city soon. She didn’t know what that would mean except that the time left to find shelter was fading. Lights were also spreading along the edge of the Division, flowing along the top of its eastern face. Coming closer to her. On the west, visible now, was the steady glow of glass lanterns and even, in a courtyard with its back to the precipice, something that might be a theatrical troupe’s cart silhouetted by the lights of the stage.

Palliako’s voice was unsteady.

“I don’t… um…”

She turned to look at him only to find him staring at her. Without thinking about it, she’d hoisted herself on top of the curved body of the trees that made the bridge. She was suddenly aware of the abyss beneath her, and only a few feet of sloping, oiled wood between her and the air. A wave of light-headedness swept over her, and she stepped back, heart racing.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

Yellow House was unmistakable once she saw it. Three floors high, each one narrower than the one below, so that every level had its own small courtyard looking out over the Division. The walls were the improbable color at the heart of a daisy, and the yard was half filled with men, women, and children looking up at the lowered stage and the people standing on it. The yard wasn’t more than a hundred feet from the massive stone sockets where the Autumn Bridge ended. But with so many eyes needing no more than a flicker to see them make the crossing to the back of the cart, it could as well have been a mile. On the other side of the Division, torches were drawing closer to the Autumn Bridge. She drew her two charges into the shadows beside the bridge.

“Stay here,” she said. “When you see the people in that yard turn away, run to the back of the cart and tell whoever’s there that Cithrin sent you and that you need to be hidden. You understand?”

The prince nodded.

“But,” Palliako said. “But what if…”

“Listen to my voice,” Cithrin said. “You can do this.”

She made her way to Yellow House’s yard, her eyes flickering over the crowd. Familiar voices came to her. Hornet and Sandr, declaiming to one another the way she’d heard them do a thousand times before. There would be someone in the crowd to lead it. There, in the rear, Cary sat in the middle of a group of five. As she watched, Sandr delivered one of the punch lines, leaning on the words too hard. Master Kit would have chided him for it. Cary was the first to laugh, and the crowd followed with her. Almost trotting, she made her way around the edge of the crowd. Cithrin saw Cary’s recognition by the change in the angle of her shoulders and the faintest nod known to humanity.

When she came to her side, Cary’s eyes narrowed. Cithrin leaned close, whispering in her ear.

“I need you to make the whole crowd look away from the stage for a few seconds. I know Sandr will kill us, but it needs to be done and done now. Can you?”

Cary’s smile was wicked.

“You should know by now, sweet sister, I can do anything. Good to see you again, by the way. You’ve been missed.”

Before Cithrin could say, I’ve missed you too, Cary lifted the hem of her dress up over her head and pulled it back. The woman’s breasts were larger than Cithrin remembered, with dark nipples made hard by the cool night air.

“My God!” Cary said, her voice carrying even over the players on the stage. “Is that mule on fire?”

Cithrin felt her eyes go wide and a violent blush rose up her neck through her cheeks and out to the tips of her ears. There was a flicker of movement from the bridge, and then Palliako and Prince Aster running as if dogs were at their heels. Cary pointed toward the street at the far side of the yard. On the stage, Sandr and Hornet were rooted as trees.

“Right over there,” Cary said, gesturing in a way that made her breasts bounce. “Honestly. On fire.”

Man and boy reached the rear of the cart. The stage shifted as they climbed in the back door. Cithrin imagined she heard whispering voices, but it might only have been her mind playing tricks.

“Oh, no,” Cary said and pulled her dress back on. “Sorry. My mistake. Please go on.”

There was a moment of utter quiet.

“And I… ah… I say no, Lord Ternigan,” Hornet managed. “There will be no wedding this day.”

“There shall!” Sandr shouted, stamping his foot. Voice and action commanded the attention of the yard with mixed result. “I’ll not be refused by the likes of you. So draw your sword and blades be true!”

The men pulled out wooden blades and began the fight sequence that ended the second act as Cary put her arm around Cithrin and angled her back toward the street away from the play.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cithrin said.

“It’s only a body,” Cary said. “And there are just a few reliable ways to command attention with no preparation. So will you tell me now why I’ve just destroyed everyone’s concentration and halved my night’s take?”

“Look north,” Cithrin said. “What do you see?”

Cary frowned and peered into the darkness.

“They’ve got God’s own bonfire at the Lord Marshal’s revel,” Cary said. “And there’s more traffic than I’d have thought on the bridges.” She smoothed back her hair. There were a few strands of white at her temples that hadn’t been there last year. “That’s not what it is, though, is it?”

“Dawson Kalliam tried to kill Palliako. Armed men came into the revel. I don’t know whose they were, but what’s going on there isn’t a celebration. It’s a civil war.”

Cary’s face went cool. In a conversational voice, she said something profoundly obscene.

“And the two men hiding in my cart?” she said.

“The Lord Regent and the prince,” Cithrin said.

“Well of course they are.”

The clatter of hooves came from the great span of the Autumn Bridge, growing louder and louder until they threatened to drown out the voices of the players. Torches appeared at the crest, and moments later a dozen men in the colors of House Kalliam and House Bannien pelted into the street.

“Treachery!” one of the men shouted. “Fire and treachery!”

The audience was on its feet. Cithrin could almost see the fear moving through them, a ripple on a pond. The riders went on, driving their horses deeper into the city. Someone shouted, catching sight of the billowing smoke to the north. The crowd scattered like startled birds, leaving Hornet and Sandr standing forgotten on the stage.

“Pack it in, boys,” Cary shouted, striding back into the yard. “We’ve storm weather coming, and we’re staying small until it passes.”

A round-faced girl peeked out from the back of the stage. Charlit Soon. She was pretty in a full-cheeked way, and her eyes were wide with the first echoes of panic. Sandr and Hornet looked at each other, and Sandr shrugged.

“Some nights it’s a good show, some nights it’s a good story,” he said.

“What’s the plan, Cary?” Smit called from the back.

“Pull up the stage, get the cart into the stable, and let’s not have any political opinions for a while,” Cary said.

“And our guests?” Charlit Soon asked, her voice fluting up to a bird’s chirp at the end.

“We haven’t got any,” Cary said. “Now move.”

Sandr hopped off the stage and started hauling the chain. Hornet disappeared in the back. Mikel appeared in an over-sized black cloak and a false stomach that left him looking pregnant.

“Cithrin,” Mikel said. “Welcome back.”

In the back of the stable, by the light of a hooded lantern, Geder Palliako and Price Aster became different men. They tried Palliako in four different costumes before settling on Father Hope from The Midwinter Princess, the brown robes and crooked stick making him look older than he was. Aster only took a pair of old breeches tied tight around his waist, a stained shirt, and dirt ground into his hair and skin. Cithrin changed into a peasant dress made for a Firstblood woman and too wide for her hips and bust, but Charlit Soon threw stitches on to bring it closer.

“Can’t do anything with the hands,” Cary said, surveying the work. “Anyone looks at their palms and you’re caught.”

More fires were dotting the city, towers of smoke rising higher even than the Kingspire and windblown so that they seemed always falling.

“I have to thank you,” Palliako said. “All of you. The danger you’re putting yourselves in for me…”

“Feh,” Mikel said with a grin. “Sometime we’ll tell you about the first time we worked with Cithrin. Made a play about it.”

“Let’s get our heads out of this noose first, shall we?” Cary said smartly.

“If we stay here, they’ll find us,” Cithrin said. “One side or else the other.”

“If there’s only two sides,” Smit said. “Lot of times these things wind up more complex than when they start.”

Sandr rolled his eyes.

“Oh, worked a lot of insurrections, have you?”

The city was in the grip of riot, the two most powerful and important men in Imperial Antea huddling in fear of their lives before him, and Sandr was peevish at having been upstaged by Cary.

“Didn’t I tell you about being in Borja when the plague winds came?” Smit asked. “That was when I’d only just met Master Kit. I must have been twenty, twenty-two. Right in there, and—”

“Gentlemen?” Cary said.

“Sorry,” Smit said and lapsed into silence.

The stable reeked of piss and horse shit, and beneath that a growing scent of smoke. Camnipol, burning. Cithrin’s gut was a solid knot. She knew that if she ate now—or even if she drank—she’d vomit it all back up. And also, she was exhilarated. She wondered where Paerin Clark was right now. She had faith he’d survived the initial attack and that, barring the mischance that came with the violence, he would be able to find a place of relative safety. But she wouldn’t go looking for him, and she was certain he wouldn’t come looking for her. He’d be too busy making his soundings of the tactics and politics.

But he didn’t have regent and prince to talk with. And she did.

“We can go under the city,” the prince said. “It’s all ruins. If we can find someplace where it won’t collapse, we could stay there.”

“Food,” Palliako said. “Water. And how do we know when it’s safe to come back out?”

“We’ll take care of that,” Cary said. “Cithrin can come up for supplies. And we can be your eyes and ears. Otherwise, we’re just what we are. A half dozen actors trying to keep out of trouble, no?”

“Not much food for an actor no one’s watching,” Sandr said.

“If we take the stones off that rag the prince was wearing, we could sit in this yard playing to rats and dogs for a year and still have enough for food and beer,” Cary said, shrugging. “As far as I see, we’ve just been hired.”

Palliako sat forward, hugging his legs. For the regent of a great empire, he looked a bit lost. It was more than the desperate situation. More than the violence. Dawson Kalliam had been this man’s Lord Marshal, leader of his armies. Palliako had called the man’s revel, and in return he’d nearly taken a knife. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to have the person you trust most revealed as an enemy.

Easy enough. It had happened to her.

Cithrin walked the two steps to him and sat at Palliako’s side. There were no tears in his eyes, but something worse. Something lost and emptied. Cithrin took his hand in her own. He had wide palms and short fingers, the angry welt of an insect sting on his arm.

“Listen to me,” she said. “We’ve only just met and you have no reason to trust me, but do it anyway. These people are my friends, and they’re no part of your court or anybody else’s. If they say they’ll keep us safe, then they will.”

“How do you know that?” Palliako said, his voice tight. “You can’t be sure they won’t turn on you. I need to find Basrahip. I need to see if he’s all right.”

“We’ll find out for you,” Smit said. “I mean, not tonight. But when the dust’s settled a bit, we can find that out for you. Unless they really burn the full city down.”

Palliako’s gaze focused on her for what seemed like the first time.

“I don’t know you,” he said.

“I’m Cithrin bel Sarcour,” she said, nodding as she said it. Encouraging him to do the same. And by doing it, begin to mean it. “There. Now you know me.”