The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

by Daniel Abraham

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Mikel said around a mouthful of pins. “This is what we do, right?”

  “Apparently so,” Smit said pleasantly. “Try not to turn there, Kit. Changes the drape of the thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to.”

  The afternoon passed quickly, the low northern sun dashing for the western horizon. The keep brought torches and braziers out to the yard, and as the sunset stained the clouds rose and gold, Marcus stood out in the crowd to guide the laughter and applause or help to remove the hecklers that popped up, one or two at every show. Charlit Soon joined him. The play wasn’t one she’d done before, and since there hadn’t been time to memorize all the lines, Hornet would be taking the nursemaid’s role and playing it in a high comic falsetto. Marcus nodded to her and she smiled back.

  “Don’t believe I thanked you for bringing Master Kit back to us,” she said.

  “Didn’t know I was doing it at the time,” Marcus said. “But you’re welcome all the same. It’s good to see him back among family.”

  “What about your family?” she asked.

  He was on the edge of saying that they were dead. Alys and Merian, gone except in his nightmares. Only he didn’t.

  “Suddapal. They’re in Suddapal for the time being. If things grow too dangerous there, I expect I’ll meet them again in Porte Oliva.”

  “Cithrin, you mean?”

  “And Yardem. And the company,” Marcus said. “They’re what I have. I got to see them for a time on the way north, but I couldn’t stay. They had their job. I had mine. But when the jobs are over …”

  “When they’re over,” Charlit Soon agreed, and Sandr leaned out from behind the cart, his face painted red and white and his arms flowing with green ribbons.

  “Oh. It’s time,” Charlit Soon said, and trotted to the far side of the yard.

  Kit came out, stepping onto the stage, and the yellow silk of his costume seemed like cloth-of-gold in the firelight. He strode forward, the stage shifting a bit under his weight. At the edge, he paused. For a long breathless moment, Marcus saw not an actor, not King Lamas the Gold, but Kit. His friend Kit. And he saw the satisfaction in the old man’s face, the happiness and the belonging. The moment passed, and Kit began hectoring the crowd, declaiming, and bringing them close despite the darkness and the cold, with the promise of miracles and of joy.

  Clara

  When the season’s end came, Clara was not invited to any of the great parties, but Jorey and Sabiha were. Vicarian had not reappeared since the initiation at the top of the Kingspire, and there was no indication of when he would come back down. And so when the feasts and revels that marked the year’s end came and the streets and courtyards of the great houses filled with slave-drawn carriages and ornate palanquins fighting for positions and rank, Clara found herself outside of all of it. Last year, when Dawson had been newly dead, she’d stumbled through her days like a woman half asleep. Now she walked the edge of the Division or looked out over the southern plains, visited the Prisoner’s Span and the taprooms and the fresh markets. The increase in her allowance meant that even as the others around her struggled, she was able to keep herself near to the daily life to which she’d become accustomed. Things did change around her. The market for day-old bread had become competitive, and she gave up the practice of handing it out as charity. The price of tobacco dropped, though, so she could afford something that was actually worth smoking.

  They were small examples of something larger. Years of war had changed Camnipol, and the changes weren’t yet done. Small pleasures went away and new ones appeared, and Clara found that so long as she paid attention to the new, mourning the old wasn’t so bad. If anything, it had become the way she lived her life.

  After the last of the great parties, there were a handful of small occasions. Winter teas held in drawing rooms while the servants of the house packed the summer’s things away. A knitting group where several fallen women of the court, herself included, were taught a novel way of making shawls by an ancient Jasuru man with half his teeth missing, one blind eye, and an exquisite talent for lacework. There were farewells and promises that the next year would come and it would be different. As if any were ever the same.

  She gathered what gossip and information she could for her letters, though the exercise had taken on an almost formal feeling. She wrote her letters, she sent them out, and nothing ever came back. Not that she’d given anyone a way to reach her. Sometimes she thought that she should. She could give them a false name to send to at the boarding house or direct them to Cold Hammer stables much as she had Ternigan. She never did, though. Part of that was concern for not being caught, but part was also that she liked the way things were now. Sending letters into nowhere and with no response was strangely calming. Like prayer, now that she thought of it.

  As for her plan to undercut Lord Ternigan, she’d all but given up hope. Weeks passed, and though Kiaria hadn’t fallen, Ternigan didn’t reply.

  Until, one day shortly after the last of Clara’s old friends had left the city, he did.

  The morning had begun late, dawn creeping in later and later until it seemed that before long darkness would take the world entirely. Clara had extracted herself from the bed without waking Vincen, washed and dressed herself, and escaped into the grey streets. Frost crept along the bases of the buildings, and the horses in the streets walked slowly in order to keep their footing. At the bakery, she bought an apple tart and a cup of coffee, sitting by the doorway and watching the traffic in the street. It was her day to visit Sabi-ha’s unmentionable son and the family that was raising him, and had it been any other errand, she would have postponed it and gone back to the comfortable warmth of the boarding house. But children came with a different set of rules, and when she had drained the dregs of her cup and licked away the last of her tart, she bought a sugar bun for the boy and made her way to the house.

  When she left, near midday, she meant to walk directly back to Vincen. Nothing more was required of her, and an afternoon smoking by the fire and reading poems either to herself or aloud to him sounded more than perfect. But her path was going to take her only a few streets from the stables, and she hadn’t bothered checking in there in days. She turned toward the southern gate.

  She was still half a block from it when her former footman stepped out from the front gate and waved her to come closer. Clara’s heart beat a bit faster, and she walked more quickly without breaking into a run. When she drew up to him, he put a hand on her arm and leaned in close enough that his breath was warm against her ear.

  “It’s come,” was all that he said. “Lirin Petty’s got a letter.”

  The stables themselves were dark and hot in comparison to the street. While the sunlight didn’t warm them, the bodies of the horses in their stalls and the warmth radiating from the manure pile were as good as a brazier. Glancing furtively to be sure they were not being watched, he led her to the back and drew a folded and sealed page from beneath a bale of hay. Clara took it gently, as if it were spun glass.

  The thread was simple, the knot work undistinguished. If a letter had been made to seem unremarkable, it would have been like this. The hand, however, was one she had seen many times before. Ternigan, Lord Marshal of Antea, had formed those letters with his own hand. She had to restrain herself from ripping the thread then and there. Instead, she tucked the page away for when she got back to her rooms.

  “Thank you very much,” she said.

  “Anything, m’lady.”

  “Let’s just never mention this,” she said.

  “Not ever,” he said.

  All the way back to the house, the world seemed brighter and warmer, and her body felt buoyed up with the presentiment of victory.

  My dear friend—

  I have thought long about what you wrote, and though I am not present in court, do not believe that I am unaware of the sentiments you speak of. The siege of Kiaria is going as well as might be expected given that the m
en have fought through the swamps of Asterilhold, the streets of Camnipol, and all along the vast stretch of Timzinae-infested Sarakal and Elassae. The instructions I have received from Palliako have become increasingly frustrating. When I tell him the situation, he cites stories written in history books or the assurances of his pet cultists. My patience is wearing thin with his cheap buffoonery.

  You have known me many years, and you know that my admiration for and loyalty to King Simeon were unmatched. Like you, I have come to the conclusion that the empire is in grave danger, but everything will rest on how we proceed. Without the support of the full court, I am afraid we would risk another summer like the last, and to be honest I fear that prospect more than I fear Palliako.

  Your faith in me is flattering, and I appreciate your confidence more than I can say, especially in these dark hours. Would I accept the regency if it were presented to me? My loyalty to the Severed Throne and Prince Aster would require it. But to seek it out is another matter. Before I can commit to that, I would need to know much more. Who is it that you have recruited to your side? What are your plans to overthrow Palliako cleanly and neatly, for whatever action we take, it must be swift and unequivocal and, unlike Kalliam, it must strike true. The Timzinae threat is real, and I fear that without a steady hand at the wheel, the empire’s opportunity to take its rightful place in the world may be squandered.

  I understand that this is not the full-throated acceptance that you might have hoped to have from me, but do not doubt that my appreciation and sympathies are entirely with you. In the future, I suggest that you address your correspondence to a Ceric Adom of Nijestae Town. It is a hamlet not far from my encampment, and Ceric Adom is a creature entirely within my service. Through him I may discreetly retrieve your letters.

  I look forward to hearing what state your plans have evolved to and how I may aid them from here. Give my regards and my good faith to the like-minded patriots with whom you serve the interests of the throne. And be assured that I will do anything in my power to safeguard Prince Aster and the empire.

  And I agree. Time may be short.

  Your loyal friend

  “Ternigan hasn’t signed it,” Clara said, “as if the discussion of the state of the army were not identification enough.” She snorted her derision.

  Vincen had given the only chair in his little room to her, and sat instead on the edge of the bed. His hair was still unruly from the pillow. He scratched his cheek, fingernails against the roughness of his two-day beard.

  “He sounds like he’s agreed,” Vincen said.

  “Oh, he’s not so dim as that,” Clara said. “If he’s taken, he will claim that he was drawing the conspirators into the open so that Geder can destroy them before they act.”

  Vincen’s forehead furrowed.

  “He might actually be doing that. He might have sent word to the Lord Regent already. And the letter that we sent. If Ternigan is loyal to Palliako—”

  “Then no harm done,” Clara said. “Geder will have the conspiracy exposed from both sides, and while it may confuse him, he won’t know who we are, and he may very well distrust Mecilli and Ternigan just a bit because the question was raised and the players aren’t obvious. But, my dear, if you knew Ternigan, he’s loyal to whatever direction the wind is blowing. I have very high hopes for this.”

  “Still. It’s odd that he took so long to answer, isn’t it?”

  “I expect he was hoping things would progress without him. There’s nothing more charming than having all the heavy work done before you offer to lend a hand, don’t you think? Then you get all the goodwill of having offered without the bother of actually doing anything.”

  “I suppose that would be the most pleasant mix,” Vincen said with a chuckle. Clara dropped Ternigan’s letter onto the bed beside him and put her hand on his leg just above the knee. Vincen leaned close and kissed her.

  With practice, they had become better at it. At first, she had expected that all men would be identical to Dawson, and so discovering the ways that the little differences in the length of an arm or the angle of a jaw made the physical act of love different was actually something of a revelation. It seemed like every time she and Vincen lay down together, she would find that something else she had thought universal had in fact been an idiosyncrasy of her husband and herself. The way that Dawson’s feet would sometimes curl around her own, Vincen’s did not. The small shudder that had passed through Dawson when he reached his climax, Vincen didn’t show.

  She had thought that her mourning was done, and for the most part, it was. Exploring Vincen Coe, and more to the point, herself in the context of Vincen, didn’t leave her melancholy. Quite the opposite. But while she would never have said as much, she also felt she was coming better to know who Dawson had been by the contrast. And to learn more about him, to have that small new intimacy with her husband was a gift she hadn’t expected, and all the more precious for that.

  Sometime later, when she rose from the bed, she took a moment to retrieve Ternigan’s letter. The page had been bent at the corner, but was otherwise undamaged. Vincen pulled himself out of bed as well, stretching like a satisfied cat.

  “We’ll need to have this delivered to the Lord Regent in a way that can’t be followed back to us,” Clara said.

  “Mmm. Any thoughts on how you’d like that done?”

  “Well. Do you know any couriers that you particularly dislike?”

  “I can find something,” Vincen said, laughing low in his throat. “Just let me find my clothes.”

  “Don’t hurry,” she said, and then waved away his leer. “I only meant that I have some work still to do here. You may dress if you wish.”

  She turned up the lamp and took out her paper, ink, and pen. She held the pen in her left hand, which muddied her letters and made the script look unlike her own, yet still, she thought, passably legible.

  Lord Regent Palliako

  For reasons I cannot at present reveal, I am passing on to you now two letters which have come into my possession. First is the copy of a message covertly sent by Ernst Mecilli to Lord Marshal Ternigan. The second is his reply. I trust you will take the actions needed to protect yourself and Prince Aster.

  A friend

  She waited for a long moment to let the ink dry. It wasn’t until she went to fold the letters together that she realized she’d used the same paper for her own letter and the alleged message from Mecilli, but after consideration, she let the matter pass. She’d said that the message was a copy, so one might expect it to have been copied on the same paper.

  She sewed all three pages together with a blank sheet at the back on which she wrote, Exclusively for the Eyes of Lord Regent Geder Palliako with her left hand. By the time she was done, Vincen was dressed and his hair combed. Clara gave him the packet and three silver coins from her purse.

  “Well, then,” she said. “Shall we bring down a tyrant?”

  “Anything, my lady,” Vincen said, and his voice made the words only half a jest. “So long as it’s with you.”

  Will you be going on the King’s Hunt again this winter?” Clara asked as she and her son walked through the house toward the winter garden. All around them, the servants were bustling through the halls and corridors. It made her realize again how small Lord Skestinin’s manor really was. Sufficient for a man who spent most of his summers with the fleet, but if he were ever to retire from the position, he’d need to expand. Or else find other rooms for his daughter and son-in-law.

  “No, not this year,” Jorey said. “We talked about it, Sabiha and I. I think it would probably help my standing at court more to winter with her and her father.”

  “Ah,” Clara said nodding. “So how far along is she, and when were you going to tell me?”

  Jorey had the good sense to blush.

  “Almost two months, and I was just working up to it,” he said. “If you’d given me until we actually reached the garden, we were going to tell you together.”

 
“That’s sensible,” Clara said. “I’ll pretend not to know a thing.”

  “Mother, I love you, but you are the worst woman in the world at keeping a secret.”

  “I suppose I am,” Clara said as they reached the doorway. “I’ll do my best.”

  The winter garden made her miss her own solarium. The glass roof and walls had been designed to let in light and hold what little warmth the sun could offer. In the depths of winter, it was as unlivable as any room, but it gave a week or two in the winter and another in the early spring when she could have the illusion of sitting comfortably in the outdoors. It struck her for the first time how decadent it was to have an entire room made for such a small span of time. And still, she missed it.

  Sabiha sat under a bench beneath a willow. The wall crowded the tree, but the effect was still lovely. For all her tarnished reputation, Sabiha Skestinin really had been a fortunate match for Jorey. When she stood, there was no mistaking her condition. Second children always did show earlier. Clara looked at the girl’s belly, then at her eyes, and then they were both grinning and weeping. Clara folded the girl into her arms and they stood there for a long moment while Jorey shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “Well done, my dear,” Clara said. “Oh, well done.”

  “Thank you,” Sabiha said.

  Clara drew her back down to the bench, but kept her hand. Jorey used a wide block of granite as a stool. He looked proud and content. The darkness wasn’t gone from his eyes, but it was lessened. Clara couldn’t help recalling Dawson strutting through the house when she’d first been sure that she was pregnant with Barriath. The memory held no sting.

  “So Jorey tells me you’re going north for the winter,” Clara said. “I assume this is why.”