The Tyrant's Law tdatc-3

by Daniel Abraham

  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 o
ne 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 hostile 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—

  I know you have not written back to me, and I understand. You’re busy, and I am too. But I am weary, my love. I am tired to my bones, and I find I need the company of someone who cares for me. Someone I can trust. I am writing you now from the siege camp at Kiaria, but in the morning I will begin on my way south to Suddapal and, my dear, to you.

  Cithrin

  Neither Komme Medean nor Pyk Usterhall made any mention of Isadau or of the steady stream of refugees that Cithrin helped flee from Suddapal. The only overt sign that anything about the operations of the bank had changed was the name to which the bank reports were addressed. Without any formal acknowledgment, they simply began to act as if Cithrin were the voice
of the Medean bank in Suddapal, and so it became true. It was like a cunning man turning water to wine or a stone to an orange. She was transformed by the act of their collective will.

  Still, there were some details in the ciphered reports that carried more implications than others. Pyk Usterhall’s report listed a significant capital outlay for commiserative gifts, which technically meant additional payments from insurance policies that covered deaths but was also the common euphemism for bribes. Komme also recommended that all branches call in loans made to the Free Cities, Borja, and Northcoast, and that they avoid making any loans into those territories without extraordinary returns. Cithrin didn’t know whether the lives of people displaced by war fell under the heading of extraordinary returns, but thought they might.

  From a financial perspective, her own reports back were the collapse of an incompetent. The branch was losing money like a slaughterhouse pig bled. Ships hired for unspecified cargo. Caravan masters employed for half a dozen off-season trips into the Keshet. Cithrin gave out loans on almost any pretext with expectation of repayment to other branches and no way to track the borrower.

  Which is to say that the bank’s mechanism had reversed. What had been an engine designed for the accumulation of wealth had become a system for wealth’s application. She could imagine herself as some sort of half-divine fairy changing the world where she wished to by the careful dispensation of gold and silver, contracts and letters of credit. The difference she made was measured not in weights of precious metal, but in some number of lives and in children living outside of prisons. And she could go on with this until the coffers ran dry, and even past that, working on deficit until even the reputation of the Medean bank wasn’t enough to keep her boards from being broken.

  Some nights, she would stay up late and try to calculate her efficiency. How many hundred refugees had fled danger under her watch, and how much she had spent to do it. It occurred to her more than once that the Antean Empire had placed a low price on Timzinae lives, and that she had been the one in position to buy. Those were the best nights. The worst, she thought of other things.