The Widow's House

Cithrin

The ships that remained of the Antean Navy came as Barriath and Marcus had warned that they might, great and small, their sails catching the wind and riding into toward the port, but not so near as to be endangered by the complexities of the harbor. The guide boats remained at the docks along with the trade ships and the captured roundships now under the command of Barriath Kalliam. Three times before, Cithrin had found herself in cities under threat of violence. In Vanai, she had escaped before the battle. In Camnipol, she had hidden until the fighting had passed. In Suddapal, she had put her tribute in the streets and prayed that the sacking army would take the wealth and spare the people.

It had never occurred to her to treat the battles as theater.

“More wine, Magistra Cithrin?”

“Thank you, Governor,” she said. “I think I will.”

The viewing platform had been erected by the seawall, letting them look down over the port itself and then out over the wide blue water to where the enemy waited. The sandbars and reefs stood as the first protection of the city, the ancient ballistas and greenwood catapults along the seawall were the second, and Barriath Kalliam was the third. Three circles of defense, and only one of attack.

But the one was devastating.

The first of the enemy roundships was already burning, a plume of smoke rising up from it, black and greasy. The heat from the flames lifted it higher and higher until it seemed more like a storm cloud than the ruin of any human thing. At its top, the smoke plume flattened and began to drift. The servant poured Cithrin a fresh cup of wine as Governor Siden stared through his spyglasses and chortled. He seemed to take great pleasure in watching the enemy soldiers burn or drown or both. Cithrin preferred to see the destruction at a distance. It let her celebrate the victory with fewer pangs of conscience.

Inys, flying low along the coast, angled out again. The tip of one wing dragged along the surface of the water, leaving a spreading line of white where he turned. His back was to the city and Cithrin when he loosed his fires again, and the flame was bright as a rising sun. When Inys pulled up, working his wide wings up into the sky, a second ship was afire. The governor clapped his hands. Cithrin drank her wine and made the smile that was expected of her. It might only have been that she’d had so much trouble sleeping of late, but the victory at sea didn’t fill her with joy. If anything, it seemed like a waste. All those lives. The labor that had gone to making the ships. And everything that they could have done, all of the work they might have accomplished, had they not instead been doing this.

To no one’s surprise, the remaining ships began to scatter, leaving the burning hulks of their comrades behind to char and sink. A second column of smoke began to rise alongside the first. The governor stood and held his hand out to her.

“Shall we repair to the defensive wall?” he asked with a grin.

“I think we should,” Cithrin replied.

The streets of the city were thick with people, but the queensmen cleared the path for them. Porte Oliva had always been a mixed city. Firstblood and Kurtadam and Cinnae. As she passed through the streets, she couldn’t help picking out the dark-scaled faces of Timzinae. Refugees from Suddapal, many of them. Even with the Antean forces broken, they would shoulder much of the burden for the war. Many, many people in Porte Oliva had lost their homes and businesses already in the fire outside the wall. The Timzinae were and would be the faces that had brought the conflict to Birancour. Theirs and Cithrin’s. But in the mind of the city, she had also brought the dragon, and so she would be honored, carried with the governor, plied with wine and honeybread, invited to the best viewing points to watch the slaughter. It wasn’t fair, but so little was. This at least was injustice in her favor.

The viewing tower was in the highest spire of the cathedral. Walking up the tight-spiraling staircase made her legs ache and left her dizzy. The high, open air at the top did little to steady her. Yardem Hane and Pyk were there already, as was the captain of the city guard. Far below, the square that had once housed the condemned seemed terribly far away. The wall of the city stood to the north, and from her vantage, Cithrin could just see over it to the blackened ruins beyond. One siege tower stood alone and forlorn in the ashes. The others, against the defensive wall, were hidden from her sight, though a column of smoke marked where one had been set alight.

The violence was so near to her, and also separate, as if the clear air between her and the fighting were like the edge of a stage. What happened there happened there. She could imagine the press of bodies, the weight of sword and armor, the fear. She could imagine the sudden pain of an arrow in her throat, the way sound might grow distant as death came close. She could watch it all safely, from here.

“All is progressing as we’d hoped,” the captain of the city guard said.

“Excellent, excellent,” the governor said, rubbing his hands together.

“Yardem,” Cithrin said. “Where’s Captain Wester?”

“Had some things to see to, ma’am,” Yardem said, his ears canted forward politely. She wished that the tiny stone deck were large enough to take the Tralgu aside and speak to him in something like privacy. Nothing could be said here that wouldn’t be heard by everyone present, and Yardem’s reply had been so diplomatic it could only mean he didn’t want to say it in front of the governor. Her curiosity itched, but she turned her eyes toward the northern wall.

“What have we seen, then?” she asked.

“A little light assault by their siege engines,” Yardem said. “A few small scars in the stone, I’d guess, and a few that managed to get over. One hit a stable and seems to have taken down a wall. That’s the worst of it. They keep trying to scale the walls.”

“Are we worried about that?”

“No,” Yardem rumbled. “They’re heartfelt, but the road’s worn them down. Our side’s rested, fresh, and guarding their own city. If it weren’t for the priests, I’d call the day ours now.”

“But they don’t have our dragon!” Governor Siden said. “The enemy ships are already put to fire or flight.”

“Yes, sir. Saw the smoke.”

“And now…”

Inys flew in low over the city, wings spread wide. He passed through the square below Cithrin, the sun shining on his scales, and glided north toward the wall. Even so far above the city, she could hear the voices rise like a surge in the waves. In the square and on the wall, the citizens of Porte Oliva raised their fists and called out. It might only have been her imagination that Inys flew where the adulation was loudest. The dragon screamed once, then again, and then cleared the wall, his shadow falling over the battlefield. This third shriek was the loudest, and the violence of it set Cithrin’s heart turning a little faster in her chest. She couldn’t imagine the fear it would inspire in the soldier who had to face it. Inys wheeled, wings scooping the air, and set another of the siege towers alight. The enemy’s horns blared.

Something happened at the lone siege tower. It opened, and groups of men spilled out of it. From so high up, Cithrin couldn’t make out the devices they were carrying. They appeared to be oversized crossbows or perhaps very small ballistas. The bolts they threw seemed no larger than needles from this distance. She could hardly believe they could do a dragon harm.

The needles caught the thin membranes of Inys’s left wing, and the dragon’s head turned, biting at the air below the new wounds. She glanced at Yardem, but his ears were forward in concern and confusion. Her heart began beating faster, driven by an unexpected sense of threat. Threads seemed to be rising from the ground up toward the dragon, though she couldn’t imagine that was true. Inys fought to keep aloft, blasting fire toward the ground, but more needles rose to touch him. Leg, wing, neck. More threads rose. Cithrin leaned forward, her hands on the railing, clutching so hard that her knuckles ached. The dragon turned, laboring in the air that moments before he had owned. He disappeared behind the wall. A great shout rose up. The dragon had fallen. Cithrin heard herself gasp, and the sound was almost a sob. Antean horns sounded a charge.

Governor Siden’s face was bloodless. “No. No no no. Our dragon,” he murmured, then turned on the queensman. “Don’t just stand there! We have to help! Sound the attack! We’ll free him from this trickery and end this once and for all.”

“Shouldn’t do that,” Yardem said.

“Yes, sir,” the guard captain said and bolted past the servants and down the stairs. There was little need. On the ground and at the wall’s top, the soldiers of Porte Oliva were already surging forward. Cithrin willed them to go faster. To save Inys before it was too late. The dragon’s voice rose in rage and agony and the governor sank to his knees. Yardem made a low grunt like he’d been punched. Cithrin turned to him. The coldness in his eyes surprised her.

“What?” she said.

“I’d thought Captain Wester was being overcautious,” he said. “Owe him an apology. You need to come with me now.”

“But—” She gestured at the wall that hid the battle from her.

“Ma’am,” Yardem said, “they’re going out after him. That means they’re opening the gates. Not something that’s wise to do with an experienced army on the other side.”

“No, I have to see that—”

Yardem put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were dark and hard. “Ma’am, the governor’s just ordered the attack. He’s opening the gates. The city’s about to fall.”

Cithrin blinked, shook her head. It was like waking up from a dream. “Oh,” she said.

The stairs had been interminable when she’d gone up them. Going down was faster, easier, and seemed to take lifetimes. She expected to have nightmares running down an endless stairway, the curve of the stone walls keeping her from seeing what was only just ahead, for the rest of her life. If she lived out the day.

When they reached the square, the fighting had already spilled into the city. The streets, tightly packed before, were in chaos. Bodies surged one direction and then another, pressing together until Cithrin couldn’t move her arms, couldn’t breathe. Yardem raised his voice and then his bare sword. There were no Anteans near him. He was fighting their own. Refugees and workers and bakers and children. They were transformed to the enemy by the accident of being between them and where they wanted to be.

Ten horses in full barding appeared at the far side of the square, men in armor sitting astride them and hewing at the crowd. Cithrin managed to reach the far corner and thread her way through the press, following Yardem’s shouts and threats. She was weeping, but she ignored it. An old Kurtadam woman with a grey-brown pelt and rheumy, confused eyes stepped into Cithrin’s path, and Yardem disappeared. Cithrin shouted for him. Called his name. Screamed. She could barely hear her own voice. The crowd moved like a riptide, carrying her with it. She fought to breathe. She stumbled over something soft, and was pushed along before she could see what it was. She hoped it wasn’t a body. If it was a body, she hoped it was already dead.

At the corner of the Grand Market, the churn of humanity grew thicker. Worse. Maestro Asanpur’s café was shattered and overrun. The tents of the Grand Market had fallen, the space they had contained overflowing with panic and the desperate need for escape when there was no escape to be had. Cithrin screamed Yardem’s name and Marcus’s. She couldn’t hear her own voice over the roar of the crowd.

First the roar, and then the screams.

Antean soldiers poured into the market square from two of the larger streets. People shrieked, and the pressure of flesh pushed the breath out of her. She couldn’t shout. Couldn’t call for help. She thought for a moment she saw Besel a few ranks in front of her, and she tried to reach out to him until she remembered he was dead, had died before even the fall of Vanai. Words carried over the roar, inhumanly loud. You have lost. Everything you love is already gone. There is no hope. Listen to my voice. All is lost. The air was hot and the sounds of slaughter made it hotter. She closed her eyes. Nausea overwhelmed her. Somewhere very, very nearby, people were being cut to death with swords, and she was powerless to stop it or to avoid it.

This is war, she thought. What she’d fled in Vanai and Camnipol and Suddapal had caught her here. Her head swam, bright colors dancing before her that had nothing to do with light. The distance to her feet seemed like a day’s journey. Her mind slid away, and she didn’t try to hold it close.

Time changed, became meaningless. A series of moments passed with no more connection between them than images in a dream. A Timzinae man, blood pouring from his mouth. A Firstblood child huddled in a corner, her hands over her head. The cobbled street, Cithrin’s cheek pressed against it as someone ground their boot against her ear.

“Are you Cithrin bel Sarcour?”

Her lip was swollen. Something had happened to her knee. Someone shook her shoulder. The words came again, in their strange accent.

“Are you Cithrin bel Sarcour?”

“No,” she said.

A man’s laughter. She opened her eyes. She didn’t know him, but she saw the resemblance. He had the same shape of face as Master Kit. The same wiry hair. His robes were the brown of the spider priests, and he held a speaking trumpet in his hand. Soldiers stood at either side. She knew the place. She was at the seawall, not far from where Opal had died. She hadn’t thought of Opal in years. Why was her mind calling up the dead? The screams of the crowd still deafened. The air smelled like a slaughterhouse. Flies were buzzing everywhere. The slaughter was still going on. The death of her city.

“This is she,” the priest said. “This is the one.”

She shook her head. She was on her knees. She didn’t remember being on her knees. She must have fallen in the crowd. “No,” she said. “I’m not. You’ve made a mistake.”

“Sergeant!” the man at her right called. “We’ve got the bitch!”

A Firstblood voice howled in triumph behind her. She shook her head, but her heart was in her belly. Better she’d died in the press. Not this. Please, anything but this.

A man stooped down beside her. He had thinning pale hair, pockmarks on his cheeks. She thought he looked sad. “All right,” he said. “No one hurts her. She goes back to Camnipol, not so much as a bruise on her. Not until she gets there. Understood? You! Kippar. You’re her personal guard now. Anything happens to her, you’re the first to die for it.”

Cithrin’s gaze swam up to the new man. He stood beside the priest, fists the size of hams, shoulders as broad as a table. Yemmu blood in him, she was sure of it. When he spoke, his voice was sharp.

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

The priest’s head snapped forward, blood splashing on Kippar’s face. The massive guard stumbled back, shouting and clawing at his eyes. The two men at her shoulders dropped her and turned. The priest lay on the pale stone pavement, a crossbow bolt protruding an inch from the back of his head. Rich red blood pooled around his skull. And in the pool…

Cithrin screamed and tried to crawl away. To run. Tiny black bodies scattered from the dead priest, leaving pinprick footsteps of crimson. Someone shouted, and the Anteans, blades already drawn, closed ranks around her. The sad-faced sergeant looked around, confusion in his expression. He glanced down, dropped his blade, started screaming. Something tickled Cithrin’s ankle and she slapped it hard enough to sting her fingertips. Small black legs thinner than hairs stuck to her palm, the spider’s body ripped apart.

“Please, I’ll go with you,” she shouted. “Let me get up!”

She tried to stand, but someone pushed her down. Another Antean knelt beside the priest and started screaming.

“They’ve got a cunning man!” someone shouted. “They’re using some kind of magic on us.”

“Get away from the body,” Cithrin shouted. “They’re in his blood. Get away from his body!”

They ignored her. Boots tramped on stone. Voices rose in battle cries. The soldiers around her drew their blades, forgetting even her for the moment. She staggered back against the seawall itself, and her bank’s guardsmen fell on the Anteans. Halvill, his dark scales marked with white lines where enemy blows had already struck him. Corisen Mout, his teeth bared. Enen, her pelt matted with and dark with blood. Yardem Hane and Marcus Wester standing side by side, their blades moving with the simple economy of men so long accustomed to violence it had become a reflex.

“There’s spiders!” Cithrin screamed, and saw Marcus’s head turn to her. She pointed at the fallen priest, and watched understanding bloom in the guard captain’s eyes. The green sword in his hand flickered like a tongue of flame as he pushed in toward her. The Anteans, caught between the invisible threat spilling out from their dead priest and the advance of her guardsmen, retreated. Five of them were left writhing on the pavement, clawing at their own eyes and mouths and crotches. Marcus went to each in turn, sinking the poisoned sword into them, and then into the corpse of the priest. The others stood back at a respectful distance as he waved the blade slowly over the paving. A shudder of movement, almost too small to see, caught Cithrin’s eye. A spider shriveled by the stinging fumes of the blade.

He reached her, sheathing the sword. He was breathing hard, laboring. His cheeks looked sunken, his eyes fever bright. When he spoke, though, it was the understated, calm tone she’d known since she’d been a lost girl with a banker’s heartlessness, fleeing from a violence she barely understood. Little had changed.

“This?” he said, nodding at the city, the violence, the death that still spilled in the gutters. “It could have gone better.”