The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

by Daniel Abraham

  “Father will insist anyway,” Sabiha said. “This way he won’t have to come down and pry us away from the hunt.”

  “Would he really do that? How wonderful of him.”

  “So I’m afraid we’re going to come back next spring with considerably less court gossip,” Jorey said.

  “I’m sure there will be more than enough of that. It never does seem to be in short supply.”

  “I know,” Jorey said. “But I know you enjoy it. But we were wondering if you’d want to come with us? Estinport is, as I understand, a single block of ice and salt from now until sometime after the opening of the season, but I’m sure Lady Skestinin would find rooms for all of us. And you could …”

  She could. She could be nearer to the sources of power. She could hear what there was to hear concerning the navy and its plans for the coming year. All of it the kind of thing that might be usefully put in an anonymous letter to Carse. And all she would have to leave was everything.

  “That’s terribly kind of you, dear,” she said. “But it isn’t time.”

  Geder

  The mysterious letters found Geder halfway to the estate of Lord Annerin, four sheets, three of them written in different hands. The night after they’d come, Lord Regent Palliako had given the hunt to Prince Aster, taken his closest advisors—Flor, Emming, Daskellin, Mecilli, and Minister Basrahip—in the fastest carriages in the caravan, and sped for the south without word or explanation. It would be the scandal of the season. He’d shown no one what the letters said, he’d explained himself to no one, though for different reasons. He didn’t care. He didn’t care what they said about him.

  Except that wasn’t true. It wasn’t the hard beds that kept him awake at night. It wasn’t the loss of comforts or the soft music he’d been able to command in the Kingspire. What kept Geder in motion was embarrassment that he had ever trusted these high and mighty lords, and rage. Well, soon enough, the truth would be revealed. Soon enough.

  They left before dawn and rode until after nightfall. At each wayhouse and taproom, they traded their blown teams for fresh and began again as soon as the horses were in harness. Lord Emming complained, but Geder had pointed out that the sword-and-bows they’d brought were all his own personal guard, and if Lord Emming preferred not to travel, they could raise a cairn over him with relative ease. There hadn’t been any more complaints after that.

  They rode through the free city of Orsen like a plague wind and made their way through the pass into Elassae despite snow and ice. The locals all told them that the danger was too great, but Geder ordered them on. They lost three men and two pack mules, but after five days of painfully slow progress, they reached the southern slopes. The dragon’s road cleared, and they began the last leg of their journey.

  The fortress of Kiaria was cut deep into the living stone of the mountains. The brass gates to the first wall stood two hundred feet high and moved on gigantic mechanisms that had lain deep within the walls since the dragons. They stood broken now, the testament to almost a full season of Antean power. The only testament, because the second wall stood intact, and the third and fourth and fifth ones beyond that. At the base of the mountains on either side of the great gates was the Antean army. Geder’s army. The ground all around was a churn of ice, snow, mud, and shit. Hide tents fluttered in the wind that came down the mountain, and where there had been trees to break its power a year ago, there were only stumps now. Everything that would burn had been burned. Everything that could be eaten had been eaten. The army, according to the reports, needed three tons of food a day to stay alive, all of it coming overland from Suddapal and Inentai. Three tons of food every day for months turned to three tons of shit by the morning. The glory and power of Antea was living in its own latrine while the Timzinae sat in their caves and laughed.

  And the man responsible for the war, the man whom Geder had already had to correct once, squatted in his tent scratching his balls and plotting treachery. The night before they reached the Lord Marshal’s encampment, Geder could hardly sleep.

  When the sentries tried to stop them, Geder made them bow down until their noses touched their knees and stay in that position still as stones until he’d ridden past. Lord Ternigan’s tent looked much the worse for wear. Dark marks along the sides showed where the leather was starting to break down from the pressures of sun, rain, and wind. The Lord Marshal stood before the doorway in his dress armor, his own guards arrayed about him. The months had treated him no more gently than his tent. Ternigan’s beard was greyer than it had been in the summer, his cheeks thinner. He watched the carriages arrive one after the next until the open space before his tent was as cramped with the transportation of power as a revel at the height of the court season. Geder’s servants opened his carriage door and helped him down the steps and into the filth.

  “My Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, then coughed wetly. “Once again, I am honored that you have chosen—”

  “Shut up,” Geder said. “Get into the tent.”

  Ternigan blinked and grew a shade paler. His gaze darted around, settling at last on Lord Mecilli and, Geder thought, relaxing a degree. Sighting an ally in dangerous times. If you knew the names of the men who’ve agreed, it would astound you. Geder had the sudden image of being in the tent only to find himself surrounded by his enemies. The guards themselves drawing knives to strike him down. Fear cut through the rage.

  “Wait,” Geder said as Ternigan was about to enter the tent. “Stop. Minister Basrahip?”

  The priest trundled slowly forward, making a jagged path between the still carriages. His expression was calm and serene. Behind him, two of his new initiates followed. When he reached Geder, he leaned close.

  “Make sure my guards are still loyal to me. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, Prince Geder,” the priest said, then turned to his initiates and motioned them close. They stood outside while Basrahip went to each of the guards, and then came back. Geder felt more and more self-conscious as the pause grew longer. Daskellin, Flor, Emming, and Mecilli all stood in a clump looking cold and uneasy. At last, Basrahip finished his round and came back to Geder’s side.

  “They remain loyal to you,” Basrahip said.

  “Good. Thank you,” Geder said quietly. Then, in his full voice, “Captain, disarm these men.”

  Ternigan started, his mouth working quietly. Of the others, Daskellin and Flor seemed confused, but not alarmed. Emming appeared to hover on the margin between outrage and fear. And Mecilli … Geder couldn’t tell what was in Mecilli’s expression. Dispproval, perhaps. Or perhaps a kind of cold calculation. The great men of the empire had their swords and daggers taken from them. And then, Ternigan in the lead and the others behind him, they went into the tent. Then four of Geder’s guardsmen, and Geder, and Basrahip last.

  When picturing the confrontation, he hadn’t really taken into account the size of Ternigan’s tent and how it related to the number of people who would actually be present. The camp tent was large for a man alone, or even a small group of advisors. With Geder and all of his council and the priests and the guards the proceedings had a vaguely comedic aspect that left him feeling even more ridiculous now than he had outside. Geder felt the rage that had fueled him all the way from Antea begin to falter in these last moments, and he hated it.

  “Lord Ternigan? Lord Mecilli? Will you please stand here before me?”

  Mecilli stepped forward, and then a heartbeat later, Ternigan followed his lead. Geder nodded and drew the letters from his wallet. Mecilli looked at the pages with curiosity, but Ternigan blanched.

  “These little missives,” Geder said, “came into my possession. They purport to be correspondence between the two of you. Mecilli, take this.”

  Mecilli accepted the page and read it slowly. After a few moments, his eyebrows rose and his face grew pale and waxen. Behind him, near the farther wall of the tent, Basrahip made his way through the press of men to take a position where Geder could see him.

 
“Lord Mecilli?” Geder said, letting the syllables roll gently through his mouth, willing himself back to the feelings of anger and righteousness that he’d let slip. “Do you recognize this letter?”

  “No, Lord Regent. I have never seen this before.”

  The tent was silent for a long moment, and then, to Geder’s surprise and horror, Basrahip nodded. Mecilli was speaking the truth.

  “You didn’t write this?”

  “No.”

  Geder felt a lump growing in his throat. He’d pulled them halfway across the country for almost weeks for nothing. It had been a hoax. They would all go back to Antea with stories of how someone had made a joke of Geder Palliako.

  “Did you write something similar to it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you part of a conspiracy against me?”

  “I am not.”

  With every reply, Mecilli’s voice grew calmer, firmer, and more certain. And at the tent’s rear wall, Basrahip certified each of them true. The goddess held her hand over Mecilli’s head and exonerated him. The press of bodies and the thickness of twice-breathed air called forth sweat and a lightheadedness that felt like being sick. He’d been tricked. He’d been made fun of. All of the signs and signals between the men had been figments of his fevered imagination. Somewhere, the true author of the letters was laughing.

  With a sense of dread, he held out the letter that pretended to come from Ternigan.

  “Lord Ternigan, did you write this letter?”

  “No, Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, his voice calm and vaguely pitying.

  Basrahip shook his head. No. That was not true. Geder took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly. The anger felt like relief. Like being saved.

  “Say that again,” Geder said. “Tell me that you didn’t write that letter.”

  Ternigan’s eyes fluttered and he glanced at Mecilli.

  “I misspoke, Lord Regent. I did write that letter, but not for the reasons it might seem. My intention was to discover whether any such conspiracy actually existed.”

  Basrahip scowled, and Geder understood the problem.

  “One question at time, Lord Marshal. Did you write this letter?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you write it in hopes of taking the regency for yourself.”

  “No,” Ternigan said. “Never that.”

  The faintest ghost of a smile touched the corners of Basrahip’s mouth. He shook his head. No, that was not true. Geder’s anger came back in its full glory now. He smiled.

  “Lord Ternigan? Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you can lie to me?”

  “I would never lie to you,” Ternigan said, and tried to take a step back, but Daskellin and one of the guardsmen were already in the space. Ternigan turned, looking for a path through the men to the door. Or a wall that could be pushed through. Escape.

  “Have you called me a buffoon, my lord?”

  “No!” Ternigan cried, but it was beyond all doubt. Geder spat on Ternigan’s feet. Here was the great Lord Ternigan, war hero of Antea, cowering like a child before his angry father. Here was the man who’d thought Geder was laughable and small and stupid enough that he could wrest the throne from him. That the instigator had falsely claimed to be Mecilli didn’t signify. Geder knew the truth of the betrayal from Ternigan’s own living voice. That was more than enough.

  “Lord Ternigan,” Geder said. “I am removing you from your position as Lord Marshal of Antea.”

  “Y-yes, my lord. As you wish it.”

  “Yes,” Geder said. “As I wish it. Lord Daskellin? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

  “No, my lord.” It was true.

  “My lord Flor? Are you?”

  “No.” True.

  “Lord Emming? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

  “I am not.” True.

  Geder cracked his knuckles.

  “My lords, I hereby name Lord Ternigan traitor against the Severed Throne and against my person as Lord Regent.”

  “No!” Ternigan cried. “You have been misled, Lord Palliako! This is a conspiracy against me!”

  “Guards, please escort the traitor outside.”

  Ternigan struggled, but he had no weapons and no one to take his side. The guardsmen hauled him roughly out of the tent and sent him sprawling in the mud outside. Geder walked after him, the warmth of certainty and fury making him twice his height. His fists clenched and unclenched. The others came out behind him, one by one, until everyone from the tent stood in a rough circle. The guards hauled Ternigan to his knees.

  “I demand a trial,” Ternigan said through a mouthful of mud. “I demand trial by combat. God knows I am innocent.”

  “No,” Geder said. “He doesn’t. Captain. Your men should draw blades now.”

  The captain gave the order, and the sound of a dozen swords clearing their sheaths filled the air. The sunlight glimmered on bare metal.

  “This,” Ternigan said. “This is an injustice.”

  “No. It isn’t,” Geder said. And then, “So. Who’s the buffoon now?”

  Ternigan died quickly, the last of his blood spilling into the muck outside his tent. Geder watched him die with a sense of growing satisfaction. He wasn’t going to vomit this time. He was going to maintain his dignity. All around him, Lord Ternigan’s men stood slack-jawed and shocked. The wind made a soft whuffling sound like the noise of sails on a ship.

  Canl Daskellin was the first to speak.

  “There will need to be a new Lord Marshal. And quickly. The men are going to be disheartened by … by Lord Ternigan’s duplicity.”

  “He was corrupted,” Basrahip said. “Turned against you, Prince Geder.”

  “The Timzinae,” Geder said. “It’s their desperation.”

  “As you say, Prince Geder,” Basrahip said mournfully.

  “If you would like,” Daskellin said, “I can draw up a list of men who would make good generals for the kingdom, and we can—”

  “No,” Geder said, rounding on him. “No. I am done with giving power over to generals and counselors and great men. Do you see what’s happened when I’ve done that? They turn. They all turn. I don’t want any more generals.”

  His chest was working like a bellows, and his face felt hot even in the winter wind. Canl Daskellin nodded as if what he’d said made perfect sense, then paused and held out his open hand, the palm up like he was offering something.

  “What do you want?” he asked, and his voice was gentle, calm, and polite. To judge from it, they might have been sitting leather couches in the Fraternity of the Great Bear rather than standing over the corpse of the Lord Marshal in the mud of a half-conquered battlefield. “If not generals to lead the armies or counselors, then who do you want?”

  A friend, Geder thought. I want a friend.

  Are you certain you won’t come with us?” Daskellin asked. “There is still time to catch up with the hunt if we join them at Masonhalm.”

  “No,” Geder said. “You go on ahead. I’ll join you before the hunt’s over. Only not yet.”

  Night made the gates of Kiaria more foreboding. The few fires that guttered in the camps seemed small in the face of the mountain that loomed above them, and the sky that rose above that. A half moon spilled its milky light over the valley. Dragons had been here once. Had fought here. Had built a massive fortress against each other that now the last remnant of their race had fled to. It made sense if the Timzinae truly weren’t humans that they would fall back to the old defenses, the old strategies. It was the size of the thing that overwhelmed him. The war between the goddess and the dragons stretched back farther than history, and now he was supposed to end it. He was surrounded by false friends and duplicity, conspiracy and violence, and he was the one who was going to lead the world to peace? It seemed impossible.

  But still, he had to try. What would they say about him if he didn’t?

  “This is still hosti
le country,” Daskellin said.

  “I have guards.”

  “Guards can be overwhelmed,” Daskellin said. “If you must go south, take a real force of soldiers with you.”

  “They have to keep the siege.”

  “There’s enough,” Daskellin said. “Nothing of substance is going to happen here before the new Lord Marshal comes.”

  Geder leaned back in his chair. A falling star streaked through the sky, bloomed briefly, and was gone. A servant came and quietly spirited away the remnants of their dinner.

  “All right,” Geder said. “If it will make you happy.”

  “Thank you,” Daskellin said. “Who do you think sent those letters?”

  “I don’t know,” Geder said. “But whoever it was, they didn’t have to. It’s something to have an ally, even if I don’t know who they are as yet.”

  “Well. That’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” Daskellin said.

  Geder felt the urge to ask what he meant by that, but the effort seemed too much. The violence of the day was weighing on him, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Or not easily, at least.

  “I think it’s time I retire for the night,” Geder said, drawing himself up. His fingers were numb and his nose was running from the chill. And the army had been keeping its place out here for months. Geder knew it was uncharitable of him, but he couldn’t help being grateful that he got to leave while they stayed on. But at least the cold had frozen the mud. He took a few steps, then paused and looked back.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You are always welcome,” Daskellin said. “Would it be rude to ask what exactly you were thanking me for?”

  Geder shrugged.

  “Not betraying me, I suppose.”

  Inside the warmth and comfort of the tent that had recently been Ternigan’s, Geder called for paper and pen and sent for a courier. The servants brought him blankets and pillows and a butter lamp with a tall flame that filled the room with the scent of smoke. For a long time, he stared at the page, uncertain how to proceed.

  Cithrin—