Simeon had loved Kaltfel. The court manners there had just a hint of the exotic about them. Familiar and unfamiliar both. The men and women there spoke with a slight accent, stressing their long vowels in a way that made even the Firstblood among them seem more foreign than the Jasuru or Timzinae back in Camnipol. The King’s Palace stood before a wide, open square where a thousand girls had danced for them. More stones arrived from a quarry his soldiers had taken to the north, and the attack against the walls began again. One night, a desperate handful of soldiers slipped out of the city and came under cover of darkness to set fire to the catapults. They managed to destroy two before they were caught, and Dawson returned them using a third. He did not kill them first.
And every morning, the three priests came to him.
Dawson sat in his leather camp chair, his legs bared, while his squire plucked ticks out of his skin. The bright, damp summer morning reminded him of swimming in a lake. The priests, creatures of the desert, seemed to hate it.
“My lord, we will win this battle for you if you will allow it.”
“But I won’t,” Dawson said, as he did every morning. “Antea is strong enough to break Kaltfel without your help, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“Listen to me, my lord—”
“We’re done. Go now,” Dawson said, as he did every day. They were silver-tongued. If he let them make their arguments, he might weaken again here as he had at the Seref and the paired keeps. He watched them walk away, and he smiled to himself as they went.
The camps ate through their supplies, and then turned to the landscape. No tree stood, and the smoke of green wood left the air hazy and white. Carts came in from Antea, and raiding parties pushed farther and farther south toward the marshlands, killing cattle and razing farms. It was a war of endurance, the slow, grudging end to a war that had gone too quickly at the beginning. Dawson’s best estimate was that the landscape would bear the scars for a generation.
Twenty days into the siege, one of his own men died of a fever he’d caught in the southern marshes. Dawson stood rites over him in lieu of a real priest, then he’d ordered the fallen soldier dismembered and his body flung into the city.
On the twenty-first day, a banner of parley rose over the southern gate, and three unarmed men on horseback rode out. Dawson took Fallon Broot and Dacid Bannien for his. The three priests he left pointedly behind. They sat at a table in the empty space between tiring army and eroding city. The men of Asterilhold held themselves proudly, but they rode thin horses and their cheeks were sharp. Dawson’s squire had brought a ham and a basket of summer apples, a wheel of cheese and a tun of beer. Dawson saw his enemies looking at it, but he made them no offers.
“Lord Kalliam, I take it,” the eldest of the three riders said as he took his seat. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“I am sorry not to say the same,” Dawson said, sitting.
“Mysin Hawl, Count of Evenford.”
Dawson nodded. The ground was uneven, and the table rocked slightly as Count Hawl leaned against it.
“You know,” the Count of Evenford said, “that we have the resources to withstand your siege.”
“No, you don’t,” Dawson said. “We came faster than you anticipated and with more men. You were caught napping. And even if you had the food and water to squat behind your walls for a year, it wouldn’t change the end.”
The man sucked his teeth and shrugged.
“I have come to ask what terms you would require to end this.”
“Are you empowered to offer surrender?”
“I am not,” the count said. “Only the king has that authority.”
“Then perhaps I should speak to the king.”
Behind him, Fallon Broot chuckled, and Dawson felt a pang of annoyance. Perhaps he should have brought someone else.
“I am authorized to bring whatever message you care directly to his majesty.”
Dawson nodded.
“He will open the gates of Kaltfel and surrender himself and every man involved in the plot against Prince Aster to me. We will sack for twelve hours. Not more. After that, all the holdings and territories of Asterilhold are under my protection until such time as your king and Lord Regent Palliako come to a final agreement.”
“Then perhaps I should speak to the Lord Regent,” the count said.
“You wouldn’t enjoy the experience,” Dawson said.
“I will carry this to King Lechan,” the count said. “May we meet again in the morning?”
“If we remain under parley, then yes.”
“We will make no attempt to attack or escape,” the count said.
“Then I will wait for your king’s reply,” Dawson said, and nodded to Broot and Bannien. The pair brought the food-stuffs and placed them on the table. “A token of our esteem. They’re not poisoned.”
He rode back to the camp smiling. It was almost over.
My lord.”
Dawson shifted in his cot, fighting toward consciousness. The tent was dark except for the squire’s candle. Dawson sat up on his cot and shook his head.
“ ’S happened?” he asked. “Is it a fire? Are the bastards coming? What?”
“A courier, my lord. From the Lord Regent.”
Dawson was on his feet. The night was cool but not cold. He shrugged on his cloak and stepped out. The cookfires had for the most part burned out, and the night around him was dark. The thin sliver of moon and the scattering of stars couldn’t outshine his candle. The courier stood beside his horse, satchel in hand. Dawson took the letter, checked the seal and the knotting to be sure it was authentic, and then ripped out the threads. The contents were ciphered.
“Wait here,” Dawson said to the courier, and then to his squire. “Bring more light. Do it now.”
It took an hour to decipher the text, and Dawson’s belly grew thicker and heavier with every word he uncovered. The matter was clear. It was the considered decision of the Lord Regent that the crimes against Antea were too grave and threatened the safety and sovereignty of Imperial Antea as a whole. For this reason, Lord Regent Geder Palliako, in the name of Aster, King of Antea, claimed rights to Asteril-hold and all the lands and holdings owing fealty to it. The Lord Marshal was instructed to gather together every man, woman, and child of noble birth in Asterilhold, seize and confiscate all lands and holdings, and put them all to death in as painless and humane a manner as was convenient.
Dawson sat in the darkness, bloodless. He read the words over again. Every man, woman, and child of noble blood in Asterilhold. Palliako’s bloody thumb smeared the bottom of the page. His seal was on the wax. It was an order, given by the regent to whom he had sworn loyalty. True, the regent was Geder Palliako. True, the order was bloody-minded and cruel. But honor that was conditional was not honor; loyalty offered when he agreed and rescinded when he did not was not loyalty. Dawson sat by himself in the darkened tent, the flames of his candles the only light. He ran his hand across the pages, his throat thick. His hands were trembling.
Honor demanded. It required.
And then, as if coming before him in a dream, he saw Palliako look to his pet cultist, and the cultist nod.
My Lord Regent,
I am pleased to bring you happy news. This after-noon, I have accepted the surrender of Asterilhold and all holdings owing fealty to it. King Lechan is under my immediate control, and through his body, all those who swear loyalty to him.
As part of the terms of surrender and in accordance with tradition, I have accepted King Lechan, and through him all the noble persons and houses of Asterilhold, into my protection. I am devastated that your most recent instructions as to the terms of surrender reached me when the agreement had already been made. I feel certain that the respect and reverence we both have for the honor of the empire will compel you as it does me to respect the word as I have given it in your name, and Prince Aster’s.
Dawson took a small silver blade, pressing it to his thumb until a drop of blood appeared,
and then pressed it into the thirsty paper. He sewed the letter closed himself, melted the wax, and pressed his seal into it. He felt the hours of the night slipping by him, and he trotted out to the sounds of the first birds. There was no light in the east, no sign of the dawn apart from the bright and cheerful birdsong. He pressed the letter into the courier’s hand.
“Take this back. Give it to no one but the Lord Regent. No one else, you understand? Even if his priest swears he will deliver it at once, you put this in the regent’s hands, yes?”
“Yes, Lord Marshal,” the boy said, and was gone.
Dawson stood for a moment, listening to the hoofbeats, soft against the mud and patchy grass, grow softer. And then the distant tapping when they reached the eternally solid jade. There was still time. He could send a fresh rider after the boy on a fast horse. Dawson had set this thing in motion, but he could still take it back. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the cool air filling him and then seeping away. He waited for his heart to feel some misgiving.
He found his squire dozing and shook him awake.
“Listen to me,” Dawson said. “Wake up and listen to me, you little bastard. You go and find the flag of parley. Take it out to the city. And take someone with you to carry it if someone gets excited and puts an arrow through you by mistake. Tell the count that I need to speak with him immediately. The situation has changed, he and I have very little time. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes, Lord Marshal.”
“Then stop looking at me and go!”
When the sun came up, Dawson and Mysin Hawl, Count of Evenford, were at their little table in the no-man’s-land. At midmorning, the count rode back to the city, shaken and weeping, the deciphered letter tucked in his belt. All day, Dawson sat at the parley table. His chair was as uncomfortable as a saddle, but in a different way. His back ached afresh, and he was hungry and thirsty, and desperately tired, but he remained at the table, the parley still not officially concluded.
The sun had started its long, weary arc toward the horizon when a sound came. A great, dry mourning drum. Far away before him, the gates of Kaltfel cracked and slowly swung open. The soldiers who came out carried the banner of Lechan, hung in reverse, and the yellow pennant of surrender. From behind him, Dawson heard the swelling, roaring shouts of victory. The sound washed over him like surf against the shore. All he felt himself was relief. King Lechan was a small man with poor teeth, but he held himself with dignity as Dawson accepted his surrender and took him into protection. In exchange, Dawson swore to do all he could to maintain that protection. All of the things he’d written to Palliako became true, except for a small matter of timing.
A small matter of timing that was the difference between loyalty to the man sitting on the throne and loyalty to the honor of the throne itself.
He gave command of the sack to Fallon Broot. For twelve hours, Kaltfel would feel the price of its loss as the soldiers of Antea ran riot over it, stripping its gold and gems and silver, its spices and silks. All the soldiers of Antea except two. If Dawson had looked for a better way to be assured privacy, he couldn’t have invented one.
Alan Klin was paler than Dawson remembered him. A fever had taken him during the southern campaign, and he had not entirely recovered. The cunning men said he might never. He sat on the ground, his expression closed and sullen. Dawson considered his onetime enemy with a bitter amusement. The world made for strange partners.
“Curtin Issandrian met with my wife,” Dawson said. “He was jealous of you. He hoped to have his own chance in the field. A way to regain his honor and good name.”
“He’s always been a bit of an idiot,” Klin said. “Sincere, but…”
“You do have a chance to regain your honor,” Dawson said quietly.
“I’m not here to get back my good name. I’m not here because of what Maas did. Back before Vanai, I pulled a prank on Geder Palliako. And now he’s killing me without even the favor of doing it quickly.”
“I think that’s true,” Dawson said and handed Klin a cup of honeyed water.
“I mean less than a book to him. My life is worth less than a book.”
“How many of your friends do you still have in the court?” Dawson asked.
“A few, but none that’ll speak to me anyway. Everyone knows that Palliako bronzes a grudge. I’m going to be trapped under his idea of revenge for the rest of my life.” He sipped the water.
“Sir Klin,” Dawson said. “I need your help. Your kingdom needs your help.”
Klin chuckled and shook his head.
“What is it this time? Does the greater glory of the empire require me to climb a mountain naked with bear bait strapped to my neck?”
Dawson leaned forward. He had a sudden and powerful apprehension that the three priests would be nearby, that they would hear him.
“There’s a difference between being loyal to a man and loyal to a nation,” Dawson said. “I thought once that Palliako was nothing more than an apt tool.”
“I think you called that poorly, Lord Marshal,” Klin said, but his eyes were more focused than they had been. He scented smoke in what Dawson was saying. He wasn’t a stupid man.
“No, I was right. My mistake was that I thought he was my tool. He isn’t. He belongs to those priests he pulled back out of the world’s asshole. They are uncanny, and I suspect they are more powerful than we understand. He’s dancing to whatever song they call. He is letting them choose our way, and he will do so until Aster’s of age. He is a monstrosity and we, in our folly, have given him the throne. As long as he has it, Antea will suffer. And you, my dear old friend, will be marked for an unpleasant death.”
Klin drank his water again, but his gaze was solidly on Dawson now. He handed the cup back and licked his lips.
“I think you’re telling me something,” Klin said. “But I’m very tired and I’ve been very ill, so I think you should say exactly what you mean in very simple terms, yes?”
“Fair enough. I am offering you freedom from Palliako’s wrath and the return of your good name and reputation. And more than that, I am calling you to the defense of Antea and the Severed Throne. We have been betrayed from within, and we allowed it to happen. Now we have to make it right. Antea needs a different regent. Anyone other than Geder Palliako.”
“And how am I to manage that?” Klin asked, but Dawson could see that he already knew the answer.
“You help me kill him.”
Marcus
The trade ships from Narinisle arrived in Porte Oliva, and the city was a madness of activity. Merchants flooded the inns and pubs near the port, digging for information, pouring beer into the sailors and coin into the purses of keeps and brewers. Which ships had left first, which last, which traders had met with each other on the distant island kingdom. No detail was too small to be wrung of all significance. It was the high season of Porte Oliva, and even in the exhausting heat of the day, trade and barter and negotiations filled every corner. The Medean bank had placed no direct stake the previous year, and so the absence of Cithrin bel Sarcour could be excused. It could not, however, go unnoticed.
A light rain fell from a low, white sky, leaving the air steamy and thick. The interior of the taproom was punishingly hot. Given the choice between the damp and the heat, rain won out, and the courtyard that overlooked the sea was thick with benches and chairs. The keep had taken away the tables to make more room. Marcus sat with Yardem, Ahariel Akkabrian, and the Jasuru named Hart. Four men of four different races all sitting together. They were, Marcus noted, the only such group in the yard.
“You need a cunning man who can turn the beer cold,” Ahariel said.
“You need a desert,” Hart said.
“How’d a desert help?” the Kurtadam asked. He’d had his pelt shaved almost to the skin for the summer. Seeing his pink skin dotted with thick black stubble and improbably pink nipples exposed to the air felt slightly obscene. Without his beads, he looked more like a Firstblood, but also eerily less like a
human—neither one race nor another. Some other of his race left a decorative V of fur to keep the beads in place, but Ahariel had opted for the extreme.
“You take a great pot,” Hart said, making his arms round. “Put a small one within, and sand between them. Damp the sand, and it will keep meat or beer cool. Only it won’t work here. Too wet.” His teeth clicked on the last word like it was threatening it. “What about you, Yardem? What do the Tralgu do?”
“Drink warm beer,” Yardem said with a wide, canine grin.
The others laughed, but not Marcus. He’d come drinking because he didn’t want to stay another day in the barracks or at the counting house, and a taproom by the port seemed to offer the chance of something interesting. Once he’d gotten there, the press of bodies and the roar of the voices left him anxious. There were too many people in not enough space. There was no way to see a threat coming. The tension was building across his shoulders and in the pit of his stomach.
He scanned the crowd, looking for something without quite knowing what it was. A familiar face, perhaps. Cithrin or Pyk. Or Master Kit. Yes, that was it. He was looking for Kit. Not—he told himself—because of the mad scheme the man had talked of. Only to pass an evening in conversation with someone who’d seen the world outside Porte Oliva recently. Someone whom the world hadn’t yet nailed in place.
He wondered where Kit had gone. What he was doing just then. It was hard to imagine him away from the other players. Kit had built a life and a family and then had walked away from it because he felt he had to. It didn’t matter that the reason was nonsense, it was still the mark of a brave man in a world of cowards. Marcus wasn’t going to leave his work here to run off on some mad and doomed adventure. Unless, perhaps…
Someone put a hand on his shoulder and he looked up into the face of Qahuar Em. The half-breed had the coloring and features of a Firstblood, but with a rough skin where the Jasuru scales hadn’t quite formed. Once, he had been Cithrin’s rival and lover, and that he couldn’t father children had been the only thing Marcus liked about him.
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