The Dragon's Path by Daniel Abraham Page A

Good. You’re the last to come, so you missed theintroductions before. I’ll keep it brief. I’m Captain Wester. This is Yardem. He’s my second. And that’s our cunning man, Master Kit. We’re guard on this ’van, and I’d be obliged if you did whatever we said, whenever we said it. We’ll get you through safe to Carse.”
    Cithrin nodded again. The captain mirrored her, clearly not yet convinced she wasn’t dim.
    “Right,” he said, turning away. “Let’s get going.”
    “Anything you say, sir,” the Tralgu said in a deep, gravelly voice.
    The captain and the Tralgu turned and walked back toward the caravan master, their voices quickly lost in the cacophony of the street. The cunning man, Master Kit, stepped closer. He was older, his hair more grey than black. His face was long and olive-complected. His smile was surprisingly warm.
    “Are you all right, son?” he asked.
    “Nervous,” Cithrin said.
    “First time driving on a ’van?”
    Cithrin nodded. She felt like an idiot, nodding all the time like a mute in the streets. The cunning man’s smile was reassuring and gentle as a priest’s.
    “I suspect you’ll find the boredom’s the worst thing. After the third day seeing just the cart in front of you, the view may get a bit dull.”
    Cithrin smiled and almost meant it.
    “What’s your name?” the cunning man asked.
    “Tag,” she said.
    He blinked, and she thought his smile lost a degree of warmth. She bent her head forward, her hair almost covering her eyes, and her heart began to race. Master Kit only sneezed and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was still comforting as soft flannel.
    “Welcome to the ’van, Tag.”
    She nodded again, and the cunning man walked away. Her heart slowed to a more human pace. She swallowed, shut her eyes, and willed her shoulders and neck to relax. She hadn’t been found out. It would be fine.
    The wagons started out within the hour, a great wide feed wagon lumbering along at the head, then a covered wagon that clanked loud enough Cithrin could hear it from her perch three back. The Timzinae caravan master rode back and forth on a huge white mare, tapping wagons and drivers and beasts with a long, flexible rod, half stick and half whip. When he came to her, she shook the reins and called out to the mules the way Besel had taught her back when he’d been alive and smiling and flirting with the poor ward of the bank. The mules started forward, and the caravan master shouted at her angrily.
    “Not so fast, boy! You’re not in a damned race here!”
    “Sorry,” Cithrin said, pulling back. One of the mules snorted and looked back at her. She had a hard time not imagining annoyance in the slant of its ears. She moved them forward again more slowly. The caravan master shook his head and cantered back to the next wagon. Cithrin held the reins in a fierce grip, but there was nothing she had to do. The mules knew their work, following the cart before them. Slowly, with many shouts and imprecations, the caravan took form. They moved from the wide streets of the Old Quarter, past the canals that led down to the river, across the Patron’s Bridge, the prince’s palace high above them.
    Vanai, the city of her childhood, slipped past her. There was the road that led to the market where Cam had bought her honey bread for her birthday. Here, the stall where an apprentice cobbler had stolen a kiss from her and beenwhipped by Magister Imaniel for his trouble. She’d forgotten that until now. They passed the tutor’s house where she’d gone to study numbers and letters when she was just a girl. Somewhere in the city were the graves of her mother and father. She had never visited the corpses, and she regretted it now.
    When she came back, she told herself. When the war was over and the world safe, she’d come back and see where her family was buried.
    Too soon, the city wall loomed up before them, pale stone as high as two men standing. The gate was open, but the