Leviathan Wakes: Book One of The Expanse

by James S. A. Corey

  “They’ve gone mad,” Dawson said. “If they think they can bring in Asterilhold against King Simeon—”

  “That isn’t the story,” the banker said. His voice was cool and dry as fresh paper, and Dawson was instinctively repulsed by it. “Maas has been telling of a conservative conspiracy of hidebound old men within the court pressuring King Simeon. He describes men who are willing to ally themselves with enemies of Antea for their own political gain.”

  “Idiocy.”

  “He suggests,” the banker said, “that Maccia may have been invited to defend Vanai by someone who opposed Alan Klin, and he makes a plausible case. And so, in the face of others seeking foreign help to influence the throne, Maas has no option but to appeal for the aid of Asterilhold in defending the honor and legitimate rule of King Simeon and safeguarding the person and health of Prince Aster.”

  “We’re the ones defending Simeon!” Dawson shouted.

  “As you say,” the banker said.

  Canl Daskellin leaned forward. His eyes were bright.

  “Things are starting, Dawson. If Issandrian’s cabal has gotten the backing of Asterilhold to put an armed force in Camnipol—and, by God, I think they have—they aren’t coming for Simeon. They’re aiming at us.”

  “They’ve already tried to kill you once,” Odderd said. “These men have no sense of bounds or honor. We can’t afford to treat them as if they were gentlemen. We have to beat them to the blow.”

  Dawson lifted his hands, commanding silence. Anger and mistrust filled his head like bees. He pointed to the banker.

  “What’s Northcoast’s interest in this?” he asked. Meaning, Why are you here? Daskellin frowned at his tone of voice, but the banker seemed to take no offense.

  “I couldn’t say. Lord Daskellin is Special Ambassador to Northcoast. I’m sure he would be in a better position to sound out the more influential opinions.”

  “But your bank’s in Carse,” Dawson said. It was almost an accusation.

  “The holding company is, and we have a branch there,” the banker said. “But all our branches account independently.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dawson said.

  “We aren’t a company exclusively married to the interests of Northcoast,” the banker said. “We have a close relationship with people in many courts—even Antea now that Vanai is under your protection—and a strong interest in peace throughout the northern kingdoms. Unfortunately, we have some very strict policies about lending in situations like this—”

  “I wouldn’t take your money if you left it in a sock on my doorstep.”

  “Kalliam!” Canl Daskellin said, but the banker continued on as if nothing had been said.

  “—but in the cause of peace and stability, we would be pleased to act as intermediary if we were of use. As disinterested third parties, we might be able to approach people that you noble gentlemen found awkward.”

  “We don’t need help.”

  “I understand,” the banker said.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Daskellin said. “The Medean bank has branches in Narinisle and Herez. Elassae. If this comes to blades in the street, we’ll need—”

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Dawson said. “We have guests.”

  The banker smiled and gave a brief nod. Dawson wished that etiquette allowed him to challenge a man of no status to a duel. The banker was nothing more than a trumped-up merchant. He should have been beneath Dawson’s notice, but something about the man’s studied placidity invited the drawing of blood. Canl Daskellin’s brows were nearly a single knot, and Odderd was shifting his gaze between the others like a mouse at a catfight.

  “I have known Paerin Clark and his family for years,” Daskellin said, his voice tight and controlled. “I have absolute faith in his discretion.”

  “How sweet for you,” Dawson said. “I met him today.”

  “Please, my lords,” the banker said. “I came to make my position clear. I have done so. If Lord Kalliam should have a change of heart, the Medean bank’s offer stands. If not, then surely no harm’s done.”

  “We’ll continue this another time,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.

  “Oh yes. We will,” Daskellin said. Odderd said nothing, but the banker rose and bowed to Dawson as he left. Vincen Coe fell in behind him without a word. Dawson stalked up, following the winding paths that led through the roots of Camnipol.

  When at length they reached the street, his legs ached and his rage had faded. Coe doused the torch in a snowbank, the pitch leaving a filthy smear on the white. Dawson had chosen to walk rather than take his carriage in part to show any of Issandrian’s hired thugs that he didn’t fear them, but also in the name of discretion. Leaving his own team sitting on the Division’s edge waiting his reemergence from the underworld was as good as hanging a banner. Not that discretion seemed the first response from his cohorts. What had Daskellin been thinking?

  And still, when he reached his mansion, his face numbed by the chill wind, he was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice that a carriage not his own waited by the stables. The old Tralgu door slave flicked his ears nervously as Dawson approached.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” the slave said, his silver chain clinking as he made a bow. “A visitor arrived an hour ago, my lord.”

  “Who?” Dawson said.

  “Curtin Issandrian, my lord.”

  Dawson’s heart went tight, his blood suddenly singing through his veins. The cold of the day and the frustration of the meeting fell away. He glanced at Vincen Coe, and the huntsman’s expression mirrored his own shock.

  “You let him in?”

  The Tralgu slave bowed his head, an icon of fear and distress.

  “The lady insisted, my lord.”

  Dawson drew his sword and took the front steps three at a time. If Issandrian had laid hands on Clara, this would be the shortest and bloodiest revolution in the history of the world. Dawson would burn Issandrian’s bones in the square and piss on the fire. As he reached the atrium of the house, Coe was at his side.

  “Find Clara,” Dawson said. “Take her to her rooms, and kill anyone who comes in if they aren’t of the household.”

  Coe nodded once and vanished into the hallways, swift and silent as a breeze. Dawson strode quietly through his own house, sword in hand. He rounded one corner to the gasp of a maid, her eyes wide at sight of the weapon and her master. His dogs found him when he entered the solarium and followed behind him, whining and growling.

  He found Issandrian in the western sitting room, gazing into the fire grate. The man’s unfashionably long hair spilled out over his shoulders like a lion’s mane, the red-gold of it taking color from the flames. Issandrian noticed the sword and lifted his eyebrows, but made no other move.

  “Where is my wife?” Dawson asked, and behind him his dogs growled.

  “I couldn’t say,” Issandrian said. “I haven’t seen her since she brought me here to await your return.”

  Dawson narrowed his eyes, his senses straining for some sign of duplicity. Issandrian glanced at the dogs baring their teeth, then up at Dawson. There was no fear in his expression.

  “I can wait here a bit longer if you’d like to speak with her first.”

  “What do you want here?”

  “The good of the kingdom,” Issandrian said. “We’re men of the world, Lord Kalliam. We both know where the path we’re on leads.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Everyone says it. It’s Issandrian’s cabal against Kalliam’s, with King Simeon flapping in between depending on which way the wind blows.”

  “No one talks about his majesty that way to me.”

  “May I stand, Lord Kalliam? Or does your honor call for you to set your dogs on an unarmed man?”

  The weariness in Issandrian’s voice gave Dawson pause. He sheathed his sword and gestured once to the dogs. They cringed back, quieting. Issandrian stood. He was a taller man than Dawson had re
membered. Confident, at ease, and more regal than King Simeon. God help them all.

  “May we at least talk of truce?” he asked.

  “If you have something to say, say it,” Dawson said.

  “Very well. The world is changing, Lord Kalliam. Not just here. Hallskar is on the edge of calling their king down from his throne and electing a new one. Sarakal and Elassae have both given concessions to merchants and farmers. The power of nobility for its own sake is passing, and for Antea to be a part of the coming age, we must change as well.”

  “I’ve heard that song. I didn’t like the tune.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether we like it or not. It’s happening. And we can act on it or else try to fence out the tide.”

  “So your farmer’s council has all been a selfless action for the benefit of the crown, has it? Your own aggrandizement has nothing to do with it? Pull the other one, boy. It has bells on it.”

  “I can make it yours,” Issandrian said. “If I gave sponsorship over the farmer’s council to you, would you take it?”

  Dawson shook his head.

  “Why not?” Issandrian asked.

  Dawson turned and pointed to the dogs sitting nervously behind him.

  “Look at them, Issandrian. They’re good animals, yes? Excellent in their ways. I’ve cared for each of them since they were pups. I see them fed. I give them shelter. Sometimes I let them rest on my couch and keep my feet warm. Should I dress them in my clothes and give them seats at my table?”

  “Men aren’t dogs,” Issandrian said, crossing his arms.

  “Of course they are. Three years ago a man working my land stole into his neighbor’s house in the night, killed his neighbor, raped the wife, and beat the children. Now, would you have had me give the bastard a place on the judge’s bench? A voice in his own punishment? Or should I nail his hands and cock to a log and throw him in the river?”

  “That isn’t the same thing.”

  “It is. Men, women, dogs, and kings. We all have our places. My place is in court, following the voice and law of the throne. A farmer’s place is on a farm. If you tell a pig keeper he deserves a chair in court, you put the order of society itself in question, including my right to pass judgment on his actions. And once we’ve lost that, Lord Issandrian, we’ve lost everything.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Issandrian said.

  “You tried to have me killed in the street,” Dawson said. “I don’t have any concern to spare for what you think.”

  Issandrian pressed a palm to his eyes and nodded. He looked pained.

  “That was Maas. It may not matter to you, but I didn’t hear of it until it happened.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The two men went quiet. In the grate, the fire murmured. The dogs shifted, uneasy but unsure what they were expected to do.

  “Is there no way to bridge this?” Issandrian asked, but the hardness of his voice meant he knew the answer.

  “Surrender your plans and intentions. Scatter your cabal. Give me Feldin Maas’s head on a pike and his lands to my sons.”

  “No, then,” Issandrian said with a smile.

  “No.”

  “Will your honor permit me safe passage out of your house?”

  “My honor requires it,” Dawson said. “Unless you touched my wife.”

  “I came to talk,” Issandrian said. “I never meant her harm.”

  Dawson stepped to the far side of the room and snapped his fingers, calling the dogs out of his enemy’s path. Issandrian paused in the doorway.

  “Believe what you will, I am loyal to the crown.”

  “And yet you’re making friends in Asterilhold.”

  “And you’re talking with Northcoast,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Dawson sat down. The leader of his pack came whining and pressing her head into his hand. He scratched her ears absently. When he was certain he’d given the man time enough to leave the house, he rose and walked to Clara’s private rooms. She sat on the edge of her daybed, her hands knotted on her lap. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. Everything about her spoke of fear and tension.

  “Where’s Coe?” he said. “I sent him to—”

  Clara raised an arm, gesturing behind him. Coe stood in the shadow behind the open door. The huntsman had a bared sword in one hand, a vicious curved dagger in the other. If Dawson had been an attacker, he’d never have known what killed him.

  “Well done,” he said. In the dimness, it was hard to tell whether Coe blushed. Dawson nodded to the doorway, and closed it behind the huntsman when he was gone.

  “I am so sorry, dear,” Clara said. “The footman brought word that Lord Issandrian was here, and I didn’t even think. I just had them make him comfortable. I couldn’t imagine leaving him to sit on the step like a delivery boy, and I thought if he needed to speak to you, then perhaps it would be best if he did. I never thought that he might have designs…”

  “He didn’t,” Dawson said. “Not this time. If he comes back, though, don’t let him in. Or any of Maas’s people.”

  “I have to see Phelia if she comes. I can’t simply pretend she doesn’t exist.”

  “Not even her, love. After it’s over. Not now.”

  Clara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The gesture was unladylike, unplanned, and broke Dawson’s heart a little. He squeezed her knee, trying to impart some comfort.

  “Has it gotten worse, then?” she asked.

  “Issandrian’s gathering soldiers. Cunning men. It may come to blood.”

  Clara took a long breath, the air curling slowly out her nostrils.

  “Very well, then.”

  “Everyone claims to have Simeon’s best interests, but God help us if someone should arrive who has the boldness to actually lead. Asterilhold and Northcoast are lining up to buy both sides, and either one would be as happy to see their puppet on the Severed Throne,” Dawson said. He coughed. “We have to win this while it’s still our war.”

  Geder

  Ariot?” Geder said, his heart sinking. “Why’s there a riot?”

  “People are going hungry, Lord Protector,” Sir Gospey Allintot said. “The farmers have been taking all their grain to Newport.”

  Geder pressed a hand to his chin, determined to keep Sir Allintot from seeing that he was trembling. He’d been told, of course, something about farmers and grain shipments, but in the thousand different things that administering the city required, it hadn’t stood out. Now angry voices roared one against the other until it sounded like a bonfire in the square beyond his windows. Someone was plotting against Vanai, an enemy out of the shadows weakening the fabric of the city. Maccia, perhaps, preparing to retake the city before Antea could solidify its claims. Or the exiled prince gathering allies throughout the countryside. Geder’s thoughts whirled and skittered ahead of themselves, dry leaves driven by wind.

  “Who’s behind it?” he asked, forcing himself to sound calm.

  Sir Allintot cleared his throat.

  “I believe it’s in reaction to your increasing the grain import tax, my lord,” Allintot said. “The farmers make more coin for their grain, even though it means traveling farther, because the Newport tax rates are lower.”

  “So in order to make more money, they’ll let Vanai starve?” Geder said. “That won’t stand. We can send men out. Intercept the grain and bring it here.”

  Sir Allintot cleared his throat again. Either the man was getting sick, or he was struggling to hide laughter.

  “All respect, my lord,” Allintot said. “Even if we put all other things equal, riots are rarely solved by taking troops away from the city. Perhaps my lord might consider reducing the taxes to their previous level. Or, given the gravity of the city’s supplies, slightly lower.”

  “And reduce the amount we have for the crown?” Geder said.

  “Again, all respect, my lord. As long as no grain comes to Vanai, no grain taxes do either. The payments are already short of your stated marks.” />
  The shouts from the square swelled. Geder jumped up from his seat and stalked to the window.

  “God damn it. Why can’t they be quiet?”

  They swarmed at the steps leading up to the palace. Two or three hundred people, waving fists and stones and sticks. Two dozen men in Antean armor held firm, blades at the front, bows at the rear. Geder saw Jorey Kalliam pacing among the soldiers. The mob surged forward a few steps, then fell back.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Geder said.

  “My lord?”

  “Tell them I’m coming out,” Geder said. “I’ll explain the problem, and tell them that I’ll fix it.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Sir Allintot said, and bowed before he left the room.

  Geder had the servants bring the black cloak he’d taken in lieu of taxes. The creak and smell of the leather left him feeling more confident, and the cut really was quite good. It occurred to him, as he descended the wide, polished wood stairs and walked across the wide hall, that he wore the cloak much the way he’d have worn a mask. Because it was well made and impressive, he hid in it, hoping people would see it and not him.

  At his nod, two nervous Timzinae servant girls pulled the doors open, and Geder walked out. The soldiers guarding the palace doors seemed more exposed, now that he was standing behind them instead of looking down from above. The mob seemed larger. The crowd saw him, caught its breath, and screamed. Sticks and fists pumped in the air. Hundreds of faces looked up at him, mouths square and teeth showing. Geder swallowed and walked forward.

  “What are you doing?” Jorey Kalliam said.

  “It’s all right,” Geder said, and raised his hands, commanding silence. “Listen! Listen to me!”

  The first stone seemed like a cunning man’s trick. A dark spot against the sky, smaller than a bird, it rose from the back of the mob and seemed to hang in the air, motionless. It was only in the last few feet that the illusion broke and it sped toward Geder’s face. The impact knocked him back, the world going quiet and distant for a moment, the daylight growing dusky at the edges of his vision. Then the air itself was roaring, the crowd surging forward. The voice that rose over the chaos was Jorey Kalliam’s.