one by one, they turned, leaned elbows against the tables, and fell under Kit’s spell. The story was one Marcus had heard before about how Haris Clubhand had tamed the Haaverkin tribes and become the first Hallskari king. Kit’s retelling had more humor than most, and Marcus found himself enjoying the story for its own sake and joining in with the laughter more than leading it. There were no hecklers, and the keep dropped a plate of chicken legs and a mug of beer in front of him with a wink.
Marcus wondered, though, how much of Kit’s skill came from the taint in the man’s blood. When the actor lifted his hands, describing how Haris Clubhand walked up the mountain at Zanisstun with a mug full of Astin Look’s blood in his good hand and an axe strapped to his bad wrist, Marcus half believed it had happened. He knew he would shrug the feeling away once the tale was told, but in the moment it was hard to remember that it was only a story, and that sounded too much like the power the spiders held. Even after the performance ended, his rumination was so deep that he didn’t notice, when the door to the street swung open and four men in light armor stepped in, that he knew one.
“Well, Marcus Wester. As I live and breathe.”
The Jasuru man’s face had the lines of a map too detailed for its own legibility, the bronze scales falling into the folds of underlying skin. A white scruff of hair clung to the back of the man’s skull like frost hidden from the sun, and a black tongue lolled behind vicious pointed teeth. Scars from a life of violence seared the man’s thick arms and neck.
Marcus grinned.
“Merrisen Koke,” he said, standing and embracing the old mercenary captain. “God, but you’re looking old.”
“What I get for being the best,” Koke said. “No matter what contracts I take, I keep not dying, yeah? These are my boys. Terrin, Saut. That one’s Davian. You’ll have met him before at Orsen.”
“I remember,” Marcus said, taking the lieutenant’s hand in his own. “Good to see you again.”
“An honor, sir,” the young man said.
Kit stepped over from across the room, curiosity in his gaze. Marcus waved an open hand toward him.
“This is Kitap rol Keshmet. We’re traveling together.”
“A job?” Koke asked.
“Small size, high stakes,” Marcus said.
“Pay?”
“Miserable.”
“And that,” Koke said, slapping Marcus on the shoulder, “is the man I knew. You’re eating. You mind if we come join?”
“As long as I’m not paying for you.”
Between them, they took up the better part of one table. The keep’s initial surprise at his two actors falling in with fighting men washed away quickly as Koke and his men paid for sea bass in black sauce and good ale. For the better part of an hour, Koke retold the things that had happened since he and Marcus had last seen each other. Marcus traded stories of his own, many of them changed to omit details. The food was all eaten and the dishes cleared away when Koke leaned forward, his scaled fingers laced together.
“So Marcus, old friend,” he said, the softness of his tone meaning that the business discussions had now begun. Marcus felt a chill run down his back.
“Was too much to hope this was only a social call.”
“I’ve got a fair number of hired eyes in this town and one of them told me Marcus Wester had come ashore.”
“You were watching for me?”
“I was. Seems there’s people looking for you. Offering a bit of coin for information about where you are and what you’ve been up to.”
Kit’s gaze sharpened, his attention sudden and focused. The two Timzinae at the far table broke out into peals of laughter that no one at the table took up.
“Admirers or enemies?” Marcus said.
“You tell me,” Koke said. “It’s Yardem Hane.”
“Really? Imagine that,” Marcus said. He idly cracked a knuckle. “And what’s old Yardem doing these days that he wants to know about me?”
Koke’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze jumped across Marcus like he was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.
“Don’t know what he wants with you. We’d all assumed he was still padding around in your footsteps trying to get square with you saving his life. Now the story is he’s hooked up with a bank in Suddapal,” Koke said.
“Porte Oliva,” Marcus said. “The bank’s in Porte Oliva.”
“Not this one. Karol Dannien’s set up a gymnasium in Suddapal. Yardem found him there and