The Tyrant's Law tdatc-3

by Daniel Abraham

  “Explains some things,” Yardem said.

  Marcus turned to the Tralgu. “Explains what, for instance?”

  “Why the Anteans haven’t been sent back with their tails between their legs,” Yardem said. “They’re overreaching badly, except that they keep winning. They’ve found a way to use this on the field. Give false reports to the enemy or some such.”

  “Not to mention all the rumors about Geder’s strange powers,” Cithrin said. “All that about how he speaks with the dead and the fallen warriors rise up to fight alongside him. It’s not the man I met. Easier to think that’s one of those tales the priests convince everyone of than that it’s actually true.”

  “And right now,” Magistra Isadau said through her fingers, “at this moment, the only people in the world who understand what this war is and what it means are sitting in this garden.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said.

  “You,” Isadau said, turning to Master Kit. “How do we stop this?”

  “I don’t know,” Kit said.

  Isadau nodded. The nictiting membranes closed over her eyes.

  “Komme has to be told,” she said. “Oh, God. I have a very long letter to write, don’t I?”

  For the rest of the day, Cithrin tried to go about her usual routine, but it all seemed false as rehearsing a play. There were contracts to review, but the armies of Antea were on the roads already, carrying the false goddess’s banners. The histories of the bank hadn’t quite all been read through, but Marcus and Master Kit had come and neither were quite the men she’d thought they were. Though that was more the case with Kit than Captain Wester. She tried sleeping, but the late summer sun defied her. She tried working, but her mind escaped its leash. She wanted to be back in Porte Oliva or Carse, someplace where she understood the system of the world. Suddapal, with its echoes of Vanai and Camnipol, was too complicated. Or if it wasn’t the city, she had become too complicated for it.

  Master Kit and Captain Wester joined the family at dinner, and anything else would have seemed strange. Kit regaled the table with stories from his years on the road, and Cithrin watched as people fell under the benign and compassionate spell of his voice. It was that same magic that had brought Sarakal into ruins. And Vanai. Only no, Vanai had burned before Geder’s discovery of the temple. That atrocity, at least, hadn’t been driven by the things in Master Kit’s blood.

  She’d hoped to find Marcus alone after the meal, to sit with him. Breathe the same air. She felt that she had a thousand questions for him, only she didn’t know what any of them were. In any case, Marcus went to his room claiming exhaustion almost before the last plate of beef found its way to the table. Cithrin sat alone in the crowd as eating gave way to music and talk. The only one who seemed equally distracted was Isadau. When Master Kit withdrew from the hall, Isadau didn’t follow him. So Cithrin did.

  The old actor was sitting alone in one of the smaller rooms, a wool blanket draped over his shoulders, when Cithrin came in.

  “Kit,” she said.

  “Ah, Magistra Cithrin,” Kit said, shifting on his bench to make room for her. “Have I mentioned how pleased I am to find you doing so well? It’s a long way from the last caravan out of Vanai.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sitting. “Seems like the same place to me, almost.”

  “Yes, I suppose I see that,” he said.

  “Are you … are you really you?” she asked. “I mean … I don’t know what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” he said. “I carried a secret with me for many years, and now it’s uncovered. It must change how you see me, but I feel like the same man I always have been. My affection for you is what it was. My fears for the future haven’t changed. I feel more threatened, I suppose. But that may only be truth. When your friend Isadau said I was an abomination—”

  “She didn’t mean it,” Cithrin said.

  “She did, Cithrin. She very much did. And I think I understand why.”

  A cricket took up its song, and then another. The chirping was thinner than it had been at midsummer. Fewer insects and a slower song.

  “Marcus left when I was gone away to Camnipol.”

  “Yes,” Kit said. “That must have been hard for you, his disappearing that way.”

  “I was fine,” Cithrin said. Then, “God, you know that was a lie, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Kit said. “But it’s one that speaks well of you both.”

  “Having him back … just back. It’s like Magister Imaniel popping up out of the grave and coming to the dinner table. Magister Imaniel or else …”

  “Or else your father?”

  “I didn’t know my father,” Cithrin said.

  “Ah yes. I remember that,” Kit said. They were silent for a time.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” Kit said.

  “Basrahip. The priests. If they were looking for something, what would it be?”

  “What do you mean, looking for?”

  “Sending out hunting parties. Looking in the empty places in the world.”

  “Well,” Kit said, then took a long, deep breath, giving himself time to think. “I think we have established that I may not have perfect insight into the workings of the priesthood. But I would think they were looking for other remnants of the dragons’ power. Something like the Timzinae or the sword that Marcus and I recovered. Are they? Looking, I mean.”

  “I think so,” Cithrin said. “We’ve been getting reports from someone in Camnipol. We aren’t sure who. But one of the things he said was that there were expeditions going out. And one of them is being led by a Dartinae man I almost worked with in Porte Oliva. He gave me a dragon’s tooth.”

  “Did he really?” Master Kit asked.

  “I think he did,” Cithrin said. “I suppose it could be a fake.”

  “I wonder …” Kit said.

  “I could show it to you.”

  “What? Oh, thank you, but no. I was remembering something Marcus said about men like me being driven into hiding once. A very long time ago. If my former companions are searching for something, I imagine it’s because they want to possess it or destroy it. Either way … What do we know about this man in Camnipol?”

  “Almost nothing,” Cithrin said. “If Isadau doesn’t object, I can show you the reports.”

  “I would very much like that.”

  Cithrin felt a thickness in her throat, a sudden welling up of sorrow. Master Kit’s brows furrowed and he took her hand. Cithrin shook her head until she could find her voice. When she did speak, the words were thick.

  “Now that he’s started this, he’s not going to stay,” she said. “Is he?”

  Comprehension washed over Master Kit’s face. He looked down.

  “I expect Captain Wester will remain here to protect the compound as best he can until the city’s fallen. Beyond that, I don’t know,” he said, and then chuckled ruefully. “In truth, Cithrin, these days I feel I don’t know anything.”

  The armies of Antea arrived in the morning unopposed. It was understood that the fighting would be in Kiaria, where the soldiers had gone. Even a token resistance to the invaders in Suddapal would have meant a few dozen corpses and nothing more. They didn’t even try. The morning sun slanted down over the roofs and tent-thick commons. The Antean carts rolled through the streets, and soldiers marched behind them. Timzinae refugees who had left their homes behind to escape this same army sat quietly at the sides of the roads. Cithrin stood by the compound’s wall and watched. After so long, the mass of Firstblood faces seemed wrong. Out of place.

  “Don’t stare, ma’am,” Yardem said. “Someone might take offense.”

  “And what if they do?”

  Marcus answered. His voice was tired.

  “There’s still going to be a sack. If we’re lucky, it’ll be a short one, and centered someplace else.”

  “What?” Cithrin said. “The soldiers just loot the place? Go through like bandits and take what they wa
nt?”

  “If we’re lucky,” Marcus said again.

  “We’ll stand against them,” Cithrin said.

  “We’ll take everything of value in the compound,” Marcus said, “put it in the yard here, bar the doors, guard the windows, and hope for the best. This is going to be a bad night.”

  He was right. It was. Through all the long hours of the night, Cithrin sat with Isadau in the relative safety of her office, reading by a small brass lamp, and remembering none of the words. The guards—Yardem, Enen, Marcus, and even Master Kit included—kept watch. Once, near midnight, voices came from the streets, a mad whooping followed by screams and then the sounds of something large and possibly wooden being broken. Then near dawn, the unmistakable sound of blades. Cithrin felt fear and fatigue grinding in her belly. She wanted badly to be drunk. Even if the worst came, at least she’d be insensible.

  The morning air stank of smoke. Plumes of it rose from near the water, and Master Kit watched them with an expression so closed it frightened her. She remembered hearing that he had friends in the city. Their houses might be fueling those fires. Or their bodies.

  Isadau stepped into her compound to survey the damage. Half of what they’d left out had been taken, and the other half destroyed. She lifted the remains of a lacquered box, and then let the pieces fall from her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but otherwise her expression could have been carved from stone. This was more than her bank. It was her family’s home. It was her city. That she’d known this would come didn’t seem to pull the blow. She found Marcus and Yardem speaking with Jurin. Marcus nodded in salute. The gesture was familiar, and Cithrin felt herself clinging to it.

  “Could have been much worse,” he said. “It was a near thing, but we didn’t lose anyone. And the Anteans are all falling back. Worst may be over.” Cithrin coughed out a mirthless laugh and Marcus nodded as if agreeing with her. In the street, someone was wailing. “Likely, they’ll send an order. The bank’s powerful enough they’ll want someone at the naming of the new protector.”

  “Isadau?” Cithrin asked.

  “It’s who I’d chose,” Marcus said.

  “I’ll go with her.”

  Marcus frowned and Yardem’s ears went forward, but neither of them made an objection.

  “Come back when it’s done,” was all that Marcus said.

  Cithrin went back to her rooms and changed into a formal dress and put up her hair. The city might be conquered, but the Medean bank was more than a city; it was the world. She would not pretend to be humbled. When she was done, she touched her lips and cheeks with rouge, vomited into the chamberpot, and applied the rouge again. The cut of the collar didn’t call for a necklace, but she put one on anyway: the silver bird in flight that Salan had given her. No one else might know the defiance it signified, but she would. When the order came, carried by a sneering Firstblood in Antean uniform, she accepted it on Isadau’s behalf. It was, after all, addressed to the magistra of the branch, and technically she fit the description. They were to come to the central square of the third city at noon. Lord Marshal Ternigan would accept their formal surrender of the city and introduce the new protector of Suddapal. Also every household was to surrender any weaned children younger than five against the good conduct of the city. There would be no exceptions made. Any children not turned over to the protector’s men would be killed without question.

  Half an hour before the time came, Isadau let Cithrin guide her out to the street. The magistra wore ragged grey mourning robes and her eyes seemed empty. Shocked. When they passed the temple, a vast banner the red of blood hung from its roof. The eightfold sigil of the goddess looked out from its center like an unblinking eye, the symbol of nothingness. And below it, the body of the cunning man and priest that Cithrin and Yardem had snickered at from the pews. Terrible things had been done to him.

  “She doesn’t even exist,” Isadau said, her voice quiet and brittle.

  “She doesn’t need to,” Cithrin said.

  Clara

  When Clara’s only work had been the running of her household, it had still been enough to fill most days and even bring some occasional worries to bed. When things were well—and they were well more often than not—Dawson and the children were utterly unaware of the mechanisms and habits that kept the shoes cleaned and the food brought from the kitchen. If she asked Dawson to please keep his hunting dogs out of the servants’ quarters, he saw only her somewhat trivial focus. She didn’t tell him that one of the maids had been mauled as a girl and broke into sweats whenever the animals trotted through. Dawson would have told her to get a different maid, but this one had been the best at polishing the silver, and accommodations had to be made whether Dawson knew of them or not.

  Her plan of battle was simple enough. Find competent, trustworthy servants, treat them with respect, and let them do their work. Listen when spoken to. Remember everybody’s name and something about the peculiarities of their lives. Forgive any mistake once, and none twice.

  In the long, subterranean struggles between the women of the court, she held her own. Someone else might have a more fashionable tailor or hairdresser in any given season, lured away by promises and bribes, but Clara’s was always perfectly respectable, and they didn’t leave her in times of difficulty. As compared with some who thought training servants meant alternating between throwing fits and showering them with praise. She couldn’t count the number of ladies of the court who, one time and another, had managed to throw their own houses and lives into chaos by losing the service of their more competent staff.

  And running a household, she supposed, was not so unlike running an empire.

  As the long days of summer began to grow short again, she found herself invited to more informal gatherings. Women who had pretended not to know her began smiling or nodding to her when she walked through the more affluent streets of the city. Few went so far as to speak, but some did. The gossip around her shifted from the balls and feasts at the season’s opening, and turned toward the preparations for its end. Clara smiled and laughed and wished people the best in ways that made it clear she didn’t care for them. She fell into the patterns of the woman she’d been for most of her life, and it felt like wearing a mask at a street carnival.

  Behind it, she was cataloging everything she heard. Of Geder Palliako’s inner court, Daskellin was far and away the best political mind. His daughter, who had been putting herself in compromising situations with Palliako before he’d been named Lord Regent, had fallen back into propriety. So perhaps Daskellin had gained a better insight into the kind of man Palliako was. Emming was a blowhard who played the gadfly on trivial matters and followed anyone more powerful than he was when the issue had weight. Mecilli was an honest man with a reputation for caution and tradition that most reminded Clara of Dawson. The two would have been friends, except that Mecilli had spoken out against dueling and Dawson had decided the man was a coward. Noyel Flor wasn’t dim, but he was the third generation of his family to be Protector of Sevenpol, and in everything he considered what was best for his city first and the empire as a whole after. Lord Skestinin commanded the fleet, which made him valuable to Geder, but he was also family, now that Jorey and Sabiha were married.

  And, of course, there was Ternigan.

  The Lord Marshal was an excellent strategist and had more experience commanding in the field than anyone else at court, and perhaps because of his habit of strategic thought, he’d placed himself on the winning side of almost every conflict in a generation. By being the man of talent, he made himself someone to be won over. Someone to be wooed.

  And so he also made himself vulnerable.

  For Geder to fall from power, he had to be alienated from the best minds in the empire and surrounded instead with charming idiots and the pleasantly incompetent. Knowing what she did of Geder’s temper and distrust, she thought the exercise might not be that difficult. At least not with low-hanging fruit like Bassim Ternigan.

  The temptatio
n was to rush. To hurry. To create some crisis out of the whole cloth. The wiser choice was to wait and listen until the world in all its incomprehensible complexity presented her an opportunity, and then to be ready for it. She stayed at court as much as she could, maintained what friendships she had, and tried to keep her private role gathering information as loyal traitor separate from being her sons’ mother.

  It was not always possible.

  “Having a permanent port on the Inner Sea will change everything,” Vicarian said around a mouthful of roast pork. “There’s rumor that Palliako’s going to send Lord Skestinin there.”

  “Well, Father hasn’t mentioned anything to me,” Sabiha said. She was looking better, Clara thought. Brighter about the eyes, easier with her smile. She wasn’t a pretty girl exactly, and all the more interesting for that. “All he’s said is that wintering in Nus will be much more pleasant than Estinport.”

  “May just be a rumor,” Jorey said.

  “Likely that,” Vicarian agreed. “Honestly, I thought the court was the breeding ground for unfounded guesses spoken as fact, but it’s nothing compared to the seminary. I think it’s because we’re supposed to spend so much time praying that we all get bored.”

  “Don’t be impious, dear,” Clara said without any real heat in her voice. “And don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Vicarian said. With his mouth full.

  Though she had known that he might arrive at some point, her middle son’s arrival in Camnipol had been a pleasant surprise. It had occasioned dinners at Lord Skestinin’s manor three nights in a row with the family and a few close friends. Elisia had even come with her child, Corl, but without her husband. Seeing her daughter and grandson had been joyful in a way that Clara hadn’t expected, but even as she cooed over the boy, her other self was noting that dining with Jorey and Sabiha wasn’t too shameful for Elisia’s delicate social sensibilities any longer. It would be interesting to see if the effect outlasted Vicarian’s visit. If so, it would hardly have been a year before Dawson’s treason was being forgotten. Only, no. Not forgotten. Ascribed to someone else. The attempt on Geder’s life and the plot against Simeon and Aster were both hidden assaults by a vast and shadowed Timzinae conspiracy now, and in the process, the truth of the matter was forgotten. It was eerie to watch it happen, but it was also to Jorey’s benefit, so while she could see the rank injustice of it, she couldn’t think it entirely evil.