Dragon's Path

Book 1: The Dagger and the Coin

by Daniel Abraham

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Popular author Daniel Abraham’s works have been nominated for the Hugo Award and the World Fantasy Award. In The Dragon’s Path, former soldier Marcus is now a mercenary—but he wants nothing to do with the coming war. So instead of fighting, he elects to guard a caravan carrying the wealth of a nation out of the war zone—with the assistance of an unusual orphan girl named Cithrin.

Release date: April 7, 2011

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 592

Sample

Marcus rubbed his chin with a callused palm.

“Yardem?”

“Sir?” rumbled the Tralgu looming at his side.

“The day you throw me in a ditch and take command of the company?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It wouldn’t be today, would it?”

The Tralgu crossed his thick arms and flicked a jingling ear.

“No, sir,” he said at last. “Not today.”

“Pity.”

The public gaol of Vanai had once been a menagerie. In ancient days, the dragons themselves had stalked the wide square and
bathed in the great fountain at its center. At the perimeter, a deep pit, and then great cages rising three stories high.
The dragon’s jade façades were carved with figures of the beasts that had once paced behind the iron bars: lions, gryphons,
great six-headed serpents, wolves, bears, great birds with breasts like women.


Between them, pillars in the shapes of the thirteen races of mankind: tall-eared Tralgu, chitinous Timzinae, tusked Yemmu,
and on and on. The Dartinae even had small braziers hidden in its eyeholes to mimic the glow of their gaze, though no one
lit them anymore. The figures were unworn by time and rain, marred only by the black, weeping streaks where the bars had rusted away—nothing eroded dragon’s jade and
nothing broke it. But the animals themselves were gone, and in their place, people.


Sullen or angry or bored, the guests of Vanai’s justice were displayed in their shame for ridicule and identification while
they waited for the sentence of the appointed magistrate. Good, upstanding citizens could parade through the square where
few bronze pennies would buy offal from a stand, usually wrapped in a sling of rags. Boys would make a show of showering loose
shit, dead rats, and rotting vegetables over the prisoners. A few tearful wives and husbands would bring cheese and butter
to throw across the void, but even if the gift reached the intended hand, there was no peace in prison. As they watched from
the low wall at the pit’s edge, Marcus saw one such lucky man—a Kurtadam with clicking beads in his close, otter-smooth pelt—being
beaten for his round of white bread while a pack of Firstblood boys laughed and pointed at him and called out, Clicker, clicker, ass-licker and other racial insults.


In the lowest row of cells, seven men sat. Most had the build and scars of soldiers, but one kept himself apart, thin legs
stuck between the bars, heels swinging over the pit. The six soldiers had been Marcus’s men. The other, the company cunning
man. They belonged to the prince now.


“We’re being watched,” the Tralgu said.

“I know.”

The cunning man raised an arm in a rueful wave. Marcus responded with a false smile and a less polite gesture. His former
cunning man looked away.


“Not him, sir. The other one.”

Marcus shifted his attention away from the cages. It only took a moment to see the man Yardem meant. Not far from the wide space where the street spilled into the square, a young man
in the gilt armor of the prince’s guard slouched at ease. A tug at his memory brought Marcus the man’s name.


“Well, God smiles,” Marcus said sourly.

The guard, seeing himself noticed, gave a rough salute and walked toward them. He was thick-faced and soft about the shoulders.
The smell of bathhouse cedar oil came off him like he’d been dipped in it. Marcus shrugged the way he did before a fight.


“Captain Wester,” the guard said with a nod. And then, “And Yardem Hane. Still following the captain, are you?”

“Sergeant Dossen, isn’t it?” Marcus said.

“Tertian Dossen now. The prince keeps to the old titles. Those your men?”

“Who, those?” Marcus asked with feigned innocence. “Worked with lots of men, one time and another. Shouldn’t be surprised
if I knew men in every gaol in the Free Cities.”


“That bunch there. We herded them up last night for being drunk and causing trouble.”

“Men will do that.”

“You don’t know anything about it?”

“I wouldn’t want to say anything that might get back to the magistrate,” Marcus said. “He might not take it the way I meant.”

Dossen spat into the wide air of the ditch.

“I can respect you wanting to keep them out of trouble, Captain. But it wouldn’t make a difference. War’s coming, and the
prince needs men. That lot has training. Experience. They’ll be impressed into the army. Might even get ranks.”


Marcus felt the anger growing, the warmth in his chest and belly, the sense he had grown an inch taller. Like all things that felt good, he distrusted it.


“You sound like there’s something you want to say.”

Dossen smiled like a river snake.

“You’ve still got a reputation. Captain Wester, hero of Gradis and Wodford. The prince would notice that. You could take a
fair commission.”


“Princes, barons, dukes. They’re all just little kings,” Marcus said, a degree more hotly than he’d intended. “I don’t work
for kings.”


“You will for this one,” Dossen said.

Yardem scratched his belly and yawned. It was a signal that reminded Marcus to keep his temper. Marcus took his hand off the
pommel of his blade.


“Dossen, old friend,” Marcus said, “a good half of this city’s defense is hired men. I’ve seen Karol Dannian and his boys.
Merrisan Koke. Your prince will lose all of them if the word gets out that he’s impressing professional soldiers who are under
contract—”


Dossen’s jaw actually dropped in astonishment.

“You aren’t under contract,” he said.

“I am,” Marcus said. “We’re guard on a caravan for Carse up in Northcoast. Already paid.”

The guard looked across the gap at the incarcerated men, the dejected cunning man, and the rust-streaked jade. A pigeon landed
on the carved foot of a gryphon, shook its pearl-grey tailfeathers, and shat on the cunning man’s knee. An old man behind
them brayed out a laugh.


“You don’t have any men,” Dossen said. “Those are your caravan guards right there. You and the dog-boy can’t guard a ’van
by yourselves. The papers call for eight sword-and-bows and a company cunning man.”


“Didn’t know you’d read our contract,” Yardem said. “And don’t call me dog-boy.”


Dossen pressed his lips together, eyes narrow and annoyed. His armor clinked when he shrugged, too thin a sound for the metal
to be much more than show.


“Yes, I saw it.”

“But I’m sure it had nothing to do with those particular men getting rounded up,” Marcus said.

“You’d best come along, Captain. The city of Vanai needs you.”

“The caravan leaves in three days,” Marcus said. “And I leave with it. Under contract.”

Dossen didn’t move, but his face flushed red. Marcus suspected that a member of the prince’s guard wasn’t used to being refused.

“You think you’re above men like me?” Dossen said. “You think you can dictate terms and the world’s going to listen? Wake
up, Wester. You’re a long way from the fields of Ellis.”


Yardem grunted like he’d taken a body blow and shook his massive head.

“I wouldn’t have mentioned Ellis,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Dossen looked up at the Tralgu with contempt, then at Marcus, and then, nervously, away.

“Didn’t mean disrespect to your family, Captain,” he said.

“Walk away,” Marcus said. “Do it now.”

Dossen stepped back. Just out of thrusting range, he paused.

“Three days until the ’van leaves,” he said.

The rest was clear. Fail to meet the terms of the contract, and answer to the prince. Like it or no. Marcus didn’t answer. Dossen turned and strode into the square.


“That’s a problem,” Yardem said.

“It is.”

“We need men, sir.”

“We do.”

“Any thoughts on where we find them?”

“No.”

Marcus took one more despairing look at the men who had once been his, shook his head, and left the menagerie behind.

The city of Vanai had once been a seaport at the mouth of the river Taneish, but centuries of silt had slowly pressed the
river mouth away until now it lay a full morning’s ride to the south. Canals and waterways laced the city, and flatboats still
came there on the way to and from the smaller, younger city of Newport carrying grain and wool, silver and timber from the
countries to the north.


Like all the Free Cities, Vanai had a history of conflict. It had been a republic led by a lottery-chosen council, the private
holding of a monarch, the ally or enemy of Birancour or the Severed Throne depending on which way the wind blew. It had been
a center of religion, and of revolt against religion. Every incarnation had left its mark upon the white wood buildings, the
greasy canals, the narrow streets and open squares.


Here, ancient gates still hung at rest, prepared to protect the halls of the Common Council though the last councilmen were
all generations dead. There, a noble bronze statue showed the wise and solemn countenance of a robed and mitred bishop streaked
with verdigris and pigeon shit. The streets had signs in wood and stone from a thousand years of history, so that a single
alley might be called by a dozen names. Iron gates marked the twenty tiny political districts, allowing the prince to remake the pathways through the
city at his whim, protection against riots and conspiracy.


But even more than the architecture, Vanai wore its past in the character of its people.

Timzinae and Firstblood were most common, but glow-eyed, hairless Dartinae, the reed-thin, snow-pale Cinnae, and bronze-scaled
Jasuru all had districts within the city’s wide white walls. Time and experience had given them all a sophisticated, cynical
edge. Walking through the narrow streets beside rich green canals, Marcus could see all the small signs of it. Firstblood
merchants, loyalists to the prince, offered the soldiers discounts on goods that had been marked higher for the purpose. The
beer houses and physicians, tanners and cobblers and professionals of every sort prepared fresh signs in Imperial Antean script
so that business could go on unabated after the war was lost. Old Timzinae men, their dark scales greying and cracked, sat
cross-legged at quayside tables talking about the last revolution when the prince’s father had taken power from the republic.
Their granddaughters walked in groups wearing thin white skirts of an almost imperial cut, black-scaled legs showing through
the cloth like shadows.


Yes, some soldiers would die. Yes, some buildings would burn. Some women would be raped. Some fortunes would be lost. It was
an evil that the city would weather, as it had before, and no one expected the disaster would come to them in particular.
The soul of the city could be summarized with a shrug.


In a green-grass common, a weathered theatrical cart had dropped its side, the shallow stage hanging with dirty yellow ribbons.
The small crowd standing before it looked curious and skeptical in equal measure. As Marcus walked past, an old man stepped out from behind the ribbons. His hair stood high
on his head, and his beard jutted.


“Stop!” the man cried in a deep and resonant voice. “Stop now, and come near! Hear the tale of Aleren Mankiller and the Sword
of the Dragons! Or if you are faint of heart, move on. For our tale is one of grand adventure. Love, war, betrayal, and vengeance
shall spill out now, upon these poor boards, and I warn you…”


The actor’s voice seemed to drop to a whisper, though it still carried as clearly as the shouting.

“… not all that are good end well. Not all that are evil are punished. Come close, my friends, and know that in our tale as
in the world, anything may happen.”


Marcus didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Yardem spoke.

“He’s good.”

“Is, isn’t he?”

“Watch for a bit, sir?”

Marcus didn’t answer, but like the rest of the small crowd stepped closer. The play was a standard enough tale. An ancient
prophecy, an evil rising from the depths of hell, and a relic of the Dragon Empire destined for the hand of the hero. The
woman who played the maiden fair was perhaps a bit too old, and the man who spoke the hero’s part a little too soft. But the
lines were well delivered, and the troupe was professionally rehearsed. Marcus picked out a long-haired woman and a stick-thin
youth in the crowd who laughed at all the right times and put down hecklers: spare players planted in the audience. But each
time the actor who had called the introduction came onstage, Marcus lost his train of thought.


The old man played Orcus the Demon King with such a sense of evil and pathos that it was easy to forget it was all for show.
When Aleren Mankiller swung the Dragon Sword and blood gouted down the Demon King’s chest, Marcus had to stop himself from
reaching for his blade.


In the end, and despite the actor’s warnings, the good triumphed, the evil were vanquished, and the players took their bows.
Marcus was startled by the applause; the crowd had doubled without his noticing. Even Yardem was thumping his plate-wide palms
together and grinning. Marcus dug a silver coin out of the pouch hung under his shirt and tossed it onto the boards. It landed
with a hard tap, and a moment later Orcus the Demon King was smiling and bowing in a small rain shower of money. He thanked
them for their generosity and their kindness with such warmth that even walking away, Marcus found himself thinking of people
as generous and kind.


The early autumn sun was lowering, the pale city glowing gold. The audience unwound itself from around the stage, breaking
off in groups of two and three to walk across the sward. Marcus sat on a stone bench under a yellow-leafed oak and watched
as the actors reassembled their cart. A pack of Firstblood children descended upon the players, laughing, and were chased
away with grins. Marcus leaned back and considered the darkening sky through the tree’s boughs.


“You have a plan,” Yardem said.

“Do I?”

“Yes, sir.”

It had been a fine little play. Not a huge cast. Alaren Mankiller and his companion. The maiden fair. Orcus the Demon King.
The one man who’d taken all the small business as villager or demon or nobleman, depending on his hat. Five people for a full play’s work. And the two leading the crowd…


Seven people.

“Ah,” Marcus said. “So I do.”

Seven people sat at the wide round table drinking beer and eating cheese and sausage paid from Marcus’s diminishing funds.
The two from the crowd were the thin boy Mikel and the long-haired woman Cary. The youth who’d played the hero was Sandr,
the elderly maiden fair was Opal, the hero’s companion was Hornet, and the jack-of-all-roles was Smit. Yardem sat with them,
a wide, gentle smile on his face, like a mother hound surrounded by puppies.


Marcus sat apart at a smaller table with Orcus the Demon King.

“And I,” Orcus said, “am called Kitap rol Keshmet, among other things. Most often, Master Kit.”

“I’m not going to remember all those names,” Marcus said.

“We’ll remind you. I don’t think anyone is likely to take offense,” Master Kit said, “especially if you keep buying the drinks.”

“Fair point.”

“Which brings us to the question, doesn’t it, Captain? I can’t think you’ve brought us all here out of your overflowing love
of the stage?”


“No.”

Master Kit raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Off the stage and out of makeup, he was an interesting-looking man.
He had a long face and steel-grey hair. The deep olive tone of his skin reminded Marcus of the Firstblood men who lived in
the deserts across the Inner Sea, and his eyes were so dark, Marcus suspected there might be Southling blood in his heritage somewhere not too far back.


“The prince wants to press me into his army,” Marcus said.

“I understand that,” Master Kit said. “We lost two of our company that way. Sandr’s our understudy. He’s been getting up before
the sun reciting lines.”


“I’d rather not work for the prince,” Marcus said. “And as long as I have a legitimate contract, the issue won’t arise.”

“The issue?”

“Refusing a press gang ends you up on the field or in a grave. And I’m not going in the field for Vanai.”

Master Kit frowned, great brows curving in like caterpillars.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Captain. Did you just tell me this is a matter of life and death for you?”

“Yes.”

“You seem very calm about that.”

“It’s not the first time.”

The actor leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his flat belly. He looked thoughtful and sober, but also interested.
Marcus took a swig of the beer. It tasted of yeast and molasses.


“I don’t think I can hide both of you,” Master Kit said. “You, perhaps. We have ways of making a man not seem himself, but
a Tralgu this far west? If the prince knows to look for you, I’m afraid keeping with your friend is like hanging a flag on
you. We’d be caught.”


“I don’t want to join your troupe,” Marcus said.

“No?” Master Kit said. “Then what are we talking about?”

At the other table, the long-haired woman stood on her chair, struck a noble pose, and began declaiming the Rite of St. Ancian in a comic lisp. The others all laughed, except Yardem, who smiled amusedly and flicked his ears. Cary. Her name
was Cary.


“I want your troupe to join me. There’s a caravan to Carse.”

“We call ourselves a traveling company,” Master Kit said. “I think Carse is a good venue, and we haven’t been there in years.
But I don’t see how putting us in your ’van helps you.”


“The prince took my men. I need you to replace them. I want you to act as guards.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

Master Kit laughed and shook his head.

“We aren’t fighters,” he said. “All that onstage is dance and show. Faced with a real soldier, I doubt we would acquit ourselves
very well.”


“I don’t need you to be guards,” Marcus said. “I need you to act as them. Raiders aren’t stupid. They calculate their chances just the way anyone would. Caravans fall because they don’t
have enough bodies in armor or they’re carrying something that makes it worth the risk. If we put your people in leather and
bows, no one is going to know whether they can use them. And the cargo we’re hauling isn’t worth a fight.”


“No?”

“Tin and iron. Undyed wool. Some leatherwork,” Marcus said. “A man in the Old Quarter called Master Will put together an association
of merchants to send out their goods as near the battle as they can and hope the fighting’s over before payment comes. It’s
small and low-risk. If I were a raider, I wouldn’t look at it twice.”


“And the pay is good?”


“Very good,” Marcus said.

Master Kit crossed his arms, frowning.

“Well, it’s decent,” Marcus said. “For what it is. And it will get your people out of harm’s way. Even soft little gentlemen’s
wars like this spill some blood, and you have women in your troupe.”


“I think Cary and Opal can look after themselves,” Master Kit said.

“Not if the city’s sacked. Princes and empires don’t care if a few actors get raped and killed. People like you are beneath
their notice, and the foot soldiers know that.”


The actor looked at the larger table. Several conversations seemed to be going on simultaneously, some of the actors taking
part in all of them. The older man’s gaze softened.


“I believe you, Captain.”

They sat in silence for a moment, only the roar of the fire in the grate, other voices raised in conversation, and the chill
evening wind rattling the doors and windows. The chimney draw was poor, and it belched occasional puffs of smoke into the
rooms. The actor shook his head.


“May I ask you something?” Master Kit said.

“Go ahead.”

“I know your reputation. And I have the sense that you are a man with experience. Well bruised by the world. Guarding small
caravans in the Free Cities seems to me an odd place to find you.”


“That’s not a question,” Marcus said.

“Why are you doing this?”

Marcus shrugged.

“Too stubborn to die,” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Master Kit’s smile would have been pitying if it hadn’t carried some hidden suffering of its own.


“I believe that too, Captain. Well. You need nine soldiers to protect the last caravan from free Vanai?”

“Eight,” Marcus said. “Eight soldiers and a cunning man.”

Master Kit looked up at the soot-darkened ceiling.

“I have always wanted to play a cunning man,” he said.

If Geder Palliako hadn’t been thinking about his translation, he would have saved himself. The book in question was a speculative
essay on the Drowned by a semi-discredited philosopher from Princip C’Annaldé. Geder had found it in a scriptorum in Camnipol,
and, preparing for the long march south to the Free Cities, he had left out a spare pair of boots to make room for it. The
dialect was ancient and obscure. The leather binding wasn’t original. Its pages were almost brown with age, and the ink was
faint.


He loved it.

The waxed cloth of his tent was cheaper than good field leathers, but it kept the worst of the cold at bay. His legs and back
ached from riding. His inner thighs were chafed, and he had untied his vest to give his belly some room. His father had the
same build. The family curse, he called it. Geder had an hour, perhaps, before he had to sleep, and he was spending it on
a folding stool, hunched close over his book, piecing out each word and phrase.


Unlike the animals of the field, humanity need not resort to an abstract, mythological God to discover its reason for being.
With the exception of the unmodified, bestial Firstblood, each race of humanity is the artifact of some purpose. The eastern
races—Yemmu, Tralgu, Jasuru—were clearly fashioned as beasts of war; the Raushadam as objects of amusement and entertainment, the Timzinae—youngest of the
races—as a race of beekeepers or some such light use, the Cinnae, myself included, as the conscious lens of wisdom and philosophy,
and so on.


But what of the Drowned? Alone of the races of humanity, the Drowned show design without purpose. Common opinion places these,
our lesser siblings, as akin to plants or the slow-moving beasts of the western continents. Their occasional gatherings in
tidepools indicate more about the ocean’s currents than anything of human will. Some romantics suggest that the Drowned are
themselves working on some deep, dragon-inspired plan that continues to unfold even after the death of its planners. A romantic
thought, and one which must be forgiven.


Instead, I think it is clear, the Drowned are the clearest example of humanity as artistic expression, and as such—

Or would aesthetic intention be more accurate than artistic expression? Geder rubbed his eyes. It was late. Too late. Tomorrow was another long ride to the south with another day of the same following
it. If God was kind, they’d reach the border in a week, spend a day or at worst two choosing the field of battle, a day to
crush the local forces, and he could be in a real bed, eating real food, and drinking wine that didn’t taste of the skin it
had been carried in. If he could only make it that far.


Geder put the book aside. He combed his hair, pleased by the absence of lice. He washed his face and hands, then laced up
his vest for the short trek to the latrines as a last stop before bed. Outside his tent, his squire—another gift from his
father—slept curled in a ball after the Dartinae fashion, eyes glowing a dull red behind their lids. Beyond him, the army lay on the countryside like a moving city.


Cookfires dotted the nearby hills and filled the air with the smell of lentils. The carts were gathered in the center of the
camp, and the mules, horses, and slaves were all in separate corrals beside them. A cold wind blew from the north. It was
a good sign. No rain. The moon had crawled halfway up the sky, its crescent offering the idea of light more than actual illumination,
so Geder made his way to the latrine carefully.


The essay kept turning itself in his mind. He wished there was someone on the march with whom he could discuss the matter,
but speculative essay wasn’t considered a manly art. Poetry. Riding. Archery. Swordplay. Even history, if it was done with
sufficiently apt turns of phrase. But speculative essay was a guilty pleasure, best hidden from his companions. They laughed
at him enough for the size of his belly. No need to give them more stones for their slings. But if not aesthetic intention… was the Cinnae author really saying that the Drowned were only brought into existence because they made the shoreline pretty?


The latrine was empty, a small cloth tent with two rough planks spanning a pit. Geder took down his hose, his mind still turning
on the fine points of the book. He noticed the sweet smell under the reek of shit, but didn’t put importance on it. He sat
his bare ass on the planks, sighed, and wondered a moment too late why the latrine smelled of sawdust.


The planks gave way, and Geder shrieked as he tipped backwards and down into the foul-smelling swamp of turds and piss. One
of the planks bounced against the side of the pit and gouged his arm. The force of his landing blew the breath out of him. He lay stunned in the stinking darkness, his jacket and hose soaking up the sewer wetness and the cold.


Laughter came from above him. And then light.

Four lanterns shed their hoods, glowing in the sky above him. The light hid the faces of the men who held them, but the voices
were clear enough. His so-called friends and companions of the sword. Jorey Kalliam, son of the Baron of Osterling Fells.
Sir Gospey Allintot. Sodai Carvenallin, secretary to the High Marshal. And, worst of all, Sir Alan Klin, captain of the company,
Geder’s immediate superior, and the man to whom he would have reported the poor behavior of his fellows. Geder stood up, his
head and shoulders peeking above the pit while the other men howled their mirth.


“Very funny,” Geder said, holding shit-stained hands up to them. “Now help me out of this.”

Jorey took him by the arm and hauled him up. He had to give the man some credit for not shying away from the mess they’d tipped
him into. Geder’s hose hung at his knees, soaked and filthy. He stood in the lantern light considering whether to put them
back on or go naked from the waist down. With a sigh, he pulled up the hose.


“You were our last hope,” Klin said, pounding Geder’s shoulder. There were tears of hilarity running down his cheeks. “Everyone
else noticed something wrong. Well, except Sodai, but he was too skinny to break the boards.”


“Well, it was an excellent joke,” Geder said sourly. “Now I’m going to go find something clean to—”

“Ah, no,” Sodai said in his nasal, high-town accent. “Please, my friend. Don’t spoil the night. It was a jest! Take it as
it was meant.”


“It’s truth,” Klin said, putting an arm around Geder’s shoulder. “You must let us apologize. Come, my friends! To the tents!”


The four men stumbled off through the darkness, hauling Geder along with them. Of the four, only Jorey seemed genuinely sympathetic,
and then only in his silence.


All through his childhood, Geder had imagined what it would be to serve the king, to ride on campaign, to prove his cleverness
and his strength in arms. He read stories of the great warriors of old, heard his father’s wine-soaked anecdotes about the
friendship and camaraderie of the sword.


Reality disappointed.

The captain’s tent was heavy leather strung on iron frames. Inside, it was more luxurious than Geder’s home. Silk hung from
the ceiling, and a great fire roared in the pit, smoke channeled up and out by a hanging chimney of finely wrought chain