The Widow's House (The Dagger and the Coin)

by Daniel Abraham

  “You’re wondering if she’s in a position to underwrite the company?”

  “Wondering, yes. I don’t want to presume on the friendship, but there’s been a fair amount of work we’ve done and risk we’ve taken doing what amounts to her business.”

  “I can ask.”

  Cary nodded, swallowed, looked back at the Jasuru woman just as the cunning woman tossed all four of her globes of fire into the air, where they annihilated each other with a series of reports like tiny thunder. The cunning woman spread her arms and grinned. The sweat running down her face and neck made her seem oddly vulnerable. The players shouted and clapped and stamped their feet as she bowed. Enen tossed a bit of silver to her, and half a dozen of the other patrons of the house followed suit. Cary shook her head in disapproval.

  “She needs people leading the audience,” Cary said.

  “You think?”

  “Nothing convinces people to throw coins like a bunch of other people throwing coins.”

  “Or letters of transfer,” Marcus said, trying to imagine the Jasuru woman being caught in a storm of crumpled letters.

  The door of the taproom slammed open and Kit rushed in. His hair was disheveled and his eyes wide in a way that set Marcus’s heart racing before the old actor was halfway across the room. Yardem’s ears went straight up, and the Tralgu began to pull himself free of the bench.

  “Marcus,” Kit said, reaching out, “I think you should come. Now. I believe we have a problem.”

  “Antea or Inys?” Marcus asked, already walking to the door. Yardem fell in at his left and Cary at his right. He swallowed the impulse to tell her to stay safe in the taproom. She’d traveled with him more than enough to make her own choices about what risks to take.

  “Neither,” Kit said darkly as they passed into the cool night air. “I suspect this is much, much worse.”

  In the square outside the palace, a dozen men stood in formal array under a banner of parley. At the center, a thin man in a brown robe held out one arm. In his other was a speaker’s horn. A small crowd had begun to form around them and at a little distance, like the audience at a performance.

  “Listen to my voice!” the thin man shouted. “I come to deliver the world and the truth! The seat of Antea has fallen to the corruption of a false priesthood, and King Tracian of Carse is now the greatest hope for the true teaching of the goddess! Come out, my king, and we will deliver the world to you!”

  “Well,” Marcus said. “God smiled.”

  “I believe I know him,” Kit said. “If I am right, his name is Eshau rol Salvet. He came from the same village I did, but went to the temple two years before I was called to it.”

  “Enemy of the goddess?”

  “That I can’t speak to,” Kit said. “He was devout the last I saw him, but that was decades ago.”

  “Listen to my voice, great king! I bring you victory and grace!” the priest called, and the square echoed with his voice.

  “Where’s Inys?” Marcus said, walking quickly forward.

  “Flying south last I saw him, sir,” Yardem said.

  “Find him.”

  “Yes, sir. Any thought how to do that?”

  “Be creative.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll do that,” Cary said, and turned back, dashing into the night. Marcus looked after her, then at Yardem. The Tralgu shrugged.

  “She’ll do that,” Yardem said.

  “Fair enough. Can you go get the sword?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I picked a hell of a night not to carry the damned thing.”

  “Did, sir,” Yardem said and loped away to the east and the holding company. Kit, at his side, opened his fists and closed them. Marcus put his hand on the hilt of his sword. The simple steel was good enough for most work, but the thin priest had men at his side, and five of them had blades of their own. One even wore boiled leather armor. Marcus wondered how many of them carried the spiders in their blood. At the palace, the high iron gates swung open and someone in a bright ceremonial armor of Tracian’s guard looked out at the crowd.

  This wasn’t good.

  “Eshau!” Marcus shouted, marching fast toward the group. “Eshau rol Salvet! As I live and breathe. Who ever thought to see you here.”

  The priest turned toward him, eyes wide with surprise. Kit, trotting at Marcus’s side, murmured low, “What are you planning?”

  “Planning to distract the bastard while I think of a plan,” Marcus said, then grinned and lifted a hand to the dozen grim faces turned toward him. “You must all be Eshau’s friends, yes? I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you all here, but truth is we weren’t expecting anyone.”

  “Who are you?” the priest asked, his gaze shifting from Marcus to Kit and back again.

  “Marcus Wester. General Marcus Wester, once was. Captain now. I’ve taken up mercenary work these last couple dozen years, but before that I was the one put Lady Tracian on the throne. King’s mother. So perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “No,” the priest said. “We are come from Kaltfel, city at the world’s center and true seat of the goddess. We bring the good word that her truth is at last revealed and to call the righteous men of Northcoast to defend her refounded temple against the false priests and vile pretenders who soil her name with their corrupt tongues. A terrible battle is coming, and we alone stand against the forces of lies and falsehood.”

  To the south, something bright and silent happened, like lightning from a clear sky, but without the thunder. Marcus ignored it. Anything that wasn’t raining hell on his shoulders right now could wait.

  “Yeah, well that sounds like a powerfully amusing pastime, it’s true. But I think you may find the exercise a bit disappointing. You see, we’re fairly short of righteous men just at the moment, and—”

  “Who is this, at your side?” the thin priest said.

  “I think you know me, Eshau,” Kit said.

  “Kitap rol Keshmet. Apostate.”

  A murmur passed through the assembled men. The one in armor drew his sword. It was simple blade. Workmanlike. And the man knew how to hold it.

  “Apostate. Yes,” Kit said. “And it seems not alone in this.”

  “I am no apostate,” the thin man said, lifting his chin proudly. “I am the one true path to her. I have seen the error the old Basrahip fell into. His pride led him astray, but the goddess is incorruptible.”

  Marcus raised his hand. “To clarify? She’s incorruptible because she’s made out of rock. We went and checked, Kit and I. Now, here’s the thing. You need to leave. Now.”

  “I will not be turned aside,” the thin priest said. A flash of lavender fire rose up into the air behind him, just the color the Jasuru cunning woman had made. Marcus felt a surge of mad hope.

  “All right, listen to my damned voice for once,” he said. “There is nothing you’re going to get out of this city. Not in my lifetime. So you and your little set of religious here just turn around and walk back down the road that brought you.”

  “What’s going on here?” a too-familiar voice asked from behind him. “Who calls for the right of parley?”

  Marcus closed his eyes. “This would be a very good time to go back the hell inside, Your Majesty.”

  “King Tracian,” the thin priest said, falling to his knees and spreading his arms. His eyes were glassy and bright. “I come to bring you word of your destiny. You are fated to bring the world to an everlasting peace, and I am your righteous servant.”

  “What do you mean?” King Tracian said, stepping forward. He was in a long robe of red velvet, his expression confused but also intrigued. A dozen guards stood behind him, their swords at the ready.

  “I bring no false parley,” the priest said.

  “He does,” Kit said. “He brings false parley. Everything he says or believes is false. Not even a lie, but a mistake with roots so deep they could pierce the earth to its center.”

  The thin priest’s jaw dropped, his eyes wid
ened. For a long, terrible moment, the thin priest looked shocked, lost, and alone. It struck Marcus how odd it must be for a zealot to hear himself called a liar with the power of the spiders in his blood to know the enemy was speaking truth. Little wonder these priests were crazed. The thin priest’s face went dark with rage.

  “You are an abomination! Kitap rol Keshmet, I name you Ensanyana! Black-tongue! Thing of darkness!”

  “Thing of darkness?” the king said, taking a step back.

  “They knew each other when they were boys,” Marcus said as the dozen men drew together, pulling what knives and swords they claimed. “It’s a very long conversation and stranger than you’d enjoy. Consider going back in your palace, eh? I’m trying to keep you alive.”

  “Apostate!” the thin priest screamed, and a column of fire fell from the sky. Marcus shied back, the sudden heat an assault. Even closed, his eyes hurt from the brightness, and for a terrible moment he was in his nightmares again, running through the flame to cradle a wife and child already eaten by the flame. He stumbled back, his skin burning. Someone was screaming. He thought for a moment it might be a woman’s voice. Alys returned from the dead by some hellish trick of the spider priests. And then the darkness rolled back over him and the cool night breeze.

  When he opened his eyes, the night was a thousand times blacker than it had been before. His face and hands were burned, and his eyes ached. The fleeing audience still filled the night with their screams, and King Tracian had fallen unceremoniously on his ass to Marcus’s right. The thin priest and his dozen men lay blackened and charred on the stones. Inys bent down as if to smell one, then took the corpse between his vast teeth and chewed it thoughtfully. Marcus heard Kit’s voice, soft and reassuring, speaking over King Tracian’s panic-filled gabble. Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and permitted himself a chuckle.

  “The corrupt are everywhere,” the dragon said. “So long as they are, chaos will follow them.”

  “Yeah,” Marcus agreed. “Picked up on that.”

  From behind the dragon, Cary came with the Jasuru cunning woman behind her. A moment later, Yardem Hane loped into the square, the poisoned sword drawn in his massive hand. The Tralgu slowed, the point to the green blade drifting down toward earth.

  “Took too long,” Yardem said as he reached Marcus’s side.

  “Appreciate the effort.”

  “Still.”

  “Life’s full of disappointments,” Marcus said. “Might want to put that thing away.”

  Yardem sheathed the blade as Inys lifted up a second corpse and began eating it as well. A glow of fire lit the dragon’s mouth from within like a paper lantern. Marcus stepped across to where the king was only now rising to his feet.

  Marcus made a small, ironic salute. “That’s two you owe me now, Majesty.”

  Geder

  Sitting in the drawing room of Lord Skestinin’s mansion felt strangely eerie. Geder half expected to hear the cunning men still chanting over a death-grey Sabiha, to see Lady Skestinin with her smile stretched tight by her fear. But outside the window, the trees were the deeper, warmer green that came before autumn. The servants in the hall spoke with laughter in their voices. The divan where Geder had slept on those long, terrible nights had been reupholstered in yellow silk to match the new window coverings. Those signs were enough to remind him that the season hadn’t been a dream, that it was not summer that was coming in the weeks and months ahead, but short days and bitter cold.

  He wore his field gear. Black riding boots, black leather cloak with the hood tucked back behind him. His horse waited outside in bright barding and his personal guard in chain and armed for war.

  His decision to lead the force to Kaltfel had been a clear one to Geder and Basrahip. Not all of his other advisors had seen it that way. Canl Daskellin in particular had argued against it.

  “You are the Lord Regent,” he’d said, pacing the length of the war room, placing his feet carefully among the mountains and swamps of the miniature empire. “Your duties, and with respect, your responsibilities to the kingdom go far, far beyond leading a force to put down an uprising. If something happens to you in the field—”

  “It will not,” Basrahip said, but even his low, rolling voice wasn’t enough to take Daskellin from the thread of his thought. Not all at once, at any rate.

  “If it were to, the court is scattered across the face of the world. We could not convene a council big enough to name a new regent. Not for weeks. Maybe months. You are more than yourself, my lord. You are the state.”

  “I won’t get hurt,” Geder said. “I’ll be very, very careful. All right?”

  “He’s the Lord Regent,” Emming said, scowling at Daskellin. “If he can’t do what he deems best for the realm, then what’s the point of having him?”

  Geder nodded his thanks to the older man, and Emming returned the gesture with a bow. Daskellin lifted both his hands, shaking them as he bit his lips.

  “I understand why you would want to address this firmly, my lord,” he said. “But I beg you to consider the risks you are taking. The kingdom is… in a delicate situation. There are many, many things that require attention, and the potential for crisis is great. I fear… I fear…”

  “Say it,” Geder said.

  “If we lose our Lord Regent,” Daskellin said, “I do not think we will be able to keep the kingdom from insurrection.”

  “I think you overestimate my importance,” Geder said, though in truth they were pleasant words to hear.

  “With respect, it isn’t you as a man, Lord Palliako,” Daskellin said. “It’s your role. Even after what happened in Suddapal, there are many who think of you as a hero. The man who stopped the Timzinae. Who protected the throne. Now, who defeated the dragon. If you sat in your bath for the next year and did nothing else, your presence here would still give the realm a sense of stability. And we are losing that. There are three armies in the field now. Four, counting this new group. The belief that there is a man on the throne who sees and manages all of it is keeping the realm from flying apart.”

  “In other times,” Basrahip said, his voice rolling out like a distant thunder, “all these things you say might have been true. But this is the age of her return. The answer to the fire years. The end of the fallen epoch. Prince Geder is the chosen of the goddess. He cannot fail.”

  “I understand that,” Daskellin said. “It’s only that—”

  “He will not fail,” Basrahip said, shifting his weight and attention forward. His smile was gentle and wide. “Listen to my voice, friend Canl. He cannot fail. The last battle has begun, and Prince Geder will be there at the birth of the coming world.”

  Daskellin opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away. He nodded his acceptance and then laughed ruefully. “I suppose it’s only that I’m used to normal wars. This really isn’t one of those, is it?”

  “It is not,” the huge priest said. “For at the end of this war, there shall be no others forever.”

  “Well,” Daskellin had said, pressing his toe against the tiny version of Kaltfel, “I suppose that’s worth being present for, isn’t it?” And that had been the last anyone had said of Geder’s staying behind when the soldiers departed for Kaltfel.

  A soft knock came at the door, and Lady Skestinin took half a step in. Geder rose and bowed to her, not a full bow. That would have been too much. Just a little angle at the shoulders, enough to honor the lady of the house and the family she was heading now that her husband and son-in-law were gone.

  “Lord Regent,” she said. “When I heard you’d come, I hoped there might be news. Anything would be welcome.”

  Anything. Even confirmation of her husband’s death. They both knew that she stood there more likely widow than wife. The sorrow and anxiety barely showed. In truth, he couldn’t say how he knew. It wasn’t in her voice or the expression in her eyes or the way she held her body. It was in her, the whole of her.

  “I’m sorry,” Geder said. “I’m expec
ting word from Jorey anytime now, but no. Nothing yet.”

  “Ah,” she said, twisting at her own fingers without seeming aware she was doing it. “I understand. I’d only… Well, yes. Thank you all the same.”

  “I wanted to see Sabiha before I left. And the girl. Annalise. In case I see Jorey again before I come home.”

  “Oh,” Lady Skestinin said. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Geder said.

  He had come to Lord Skestinin’s mansion as his last stop before the little army decamped for the westward march. Before that, he had gone with Aster and Basrahip to review the troops, such as they were. The encampment was outside the city walls by the western gate. They were three full cohorts and part of a fourth, but only five bannered knights and no cunning men besides Geder’s own. The throne had called for men so many times that those still left to answer this call were weedy youths and old men, the injured of old campaigns who had healed enough to march and slaves of half a dozen races who had been offered their freedom in exchange for fighting on the empire’s last battleground. To call them ragged would have been kind, but as Geder and Aster rode past them, they stood as proud as a seasoned army of the purest blood.

  They reminded Geder of the boy he’d been the first time he’d ridden on campaign, fat, bookish, friendless, and despised. And now he was the ruler of the greatest empire since the fall of the dragons. He wanted to give some rousing speech, some assurance that they were there on the work not of dragons or men, but of gods. However raw they looked, however awkwardly they wore their swords, what lay before them was glory. He wanted to, but he didn’t. Better to let Basrahip deliver the speeches. He was much more convincing, speaking with the voice of the goddess as he did.

  The priest was a structure of smiles and broad gestures all through the review, but Aster’s expression was closed. The black eye he’d suffered was gone now, though there was a tiny scar now between the brow and the bridge of his nose where the blow had cut him. A tiny disfigurement that would always remind him, Geder thought, of his enemy. He was willing to bet that Myrin Shoat would live to regret that little scar deeply. The prospect made Geder smile. Aster frowned at him.