phrase, picking out the words he and his son had chosen to represent certain key players and strategems. There aren’t any windfall plums this year. Meaning Sir Klin was not the client of Lord Ternigan. Klin took his orders because Lord Ternigan was marshal of the army and not through any particular political alliance. That was useful information to know. My own horse is in real danger of developing a limp on his right side. Horse, not mount. Limp, not lameness. Right side, not left. So Klin’s company was favored to remain in conquered Vanai, and Klin himself the likely temporary governor. Ternigan wasn’t planning to take rule of the city on himself. All the more important, then, that the army stall.
Only stall, of course. Not fail. Never fail. Everything would be in place, if Ternigan’s forces could just withhold victory for a season. That difference between postponement and failure kept his private negotiations with Maccia from crossing the line into treason. As long as the conquest of Vanai was delayed until the spring season, there would be time to get Klin recalled to the court and Jorey put in his place. Governing Vanai would be Jorey’s first step up within the court, and it would take some prestige away from Maas and Klin and their type.
Dawson had worked through the most obscure channels he could, had sent letters to agents in Stollbourne who sent letters to merchants in Birancour who had business in Maccia. Discretion was critical, but he had managed it. Six hundred soldiers would reinforce the free city of Vanai until such time as it was convenient that they not. In spring, they would retreat, Vanai would fall, and by summer Dawson would be drinking with King Simeon and laughing together at his cleverness.
“My lord?”
The servant stood in the solarium’s doorway, bowing his apology. Dawson folded the letter and handed it back to Clara.
“What is it?”
“A visitor, sir. Baron Maas and his wife.”
Dawson snorted, but Clara stood and adjusted her sleeves. Her face took on an almost serene calm, and she smiled at him.
“Now love,” she said. “You’ve had your play at war. Don’t begrudge us our play at peace.”
Objections sprang to mind like dogs after a fox: dueling wasn’t a game, it was honor; Maas had earned the scar and the humiliation that went with it; receiving him now was empty etiquette, and on and on. Clara hoisted an eyebrow and canted her head to the side. All his bluster drained away. He laughed.
“My love,” he said, “you civilize me.”
“Oh not that, surely,” she said. “Now come along and say something pleasant.”
The receiving room swam in tapestry. Clothwork images of the Last Battle with the dragon’s wings worked in silver thread and Drakis Stormcrow in gold. Sunlight spilled through a wide window of colored glass worked in the heraldic gryphon-and-axe of Kalliam. The furnishings were among the most elegant in the house. Feldin Maas stood by the door as if at attention. His dark-haired, sharp-faced wife flowed forward as Dawson and Clara entered the room.
“Cousin!” she said, taking Clara’s hands. “I am so happy to see you.”
“Yes, Phelia,” Clara said. “I’m sorry that we only ever seem to visit one another when our boys have been misbehaving.”
“Osterling,” Feldin Maas said, using Dawson’s more formal title.
“Ebbinbaugh,” Dawson replied, bowing. Feldin retuned the bow with a stiffness that said the pain of his new cut still bothered him.
“Oh stop it, both of you,” Clara said at the same moment Feldin’s wife said, “Sit down and have some wine.”
The men did as they were told. After a few minutes of chatter, Feldin leaned over, speaking low.
“I hadn’t heard whether you were joining the king’s tourney.”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I thought you might be leaving some glory for your sons, old friend,” Feldin said. “That’s all. No offense intended. I don’t think I can afford much more of your offense. At least not until I’ve healed.”
“Perhaps next time we should duel with words. Insulting couplets at ten paces.”
“Oh, blades will be fine. Your couplets do permanent damage. People still call Sir Lauren the Rabbit Knight because of you.”
“Me? No. I could never have done it without his teeth and that ridiculous helmet of his. I know they were supposed to be wings, but by God they looked like ears to me,” Dawson said and took a drink. “You acquitted yourself well today, my boy. Not as well as I did, but you’re a fighter and no doubt.”
Clara rewarded him with a smile. She was right; it wasn’t so hard being magnanimous. There was even a kind of warmth in it. The wine was rich, and the servants brought in a plate of dry cheese and pickled sausages. Clara and her cousin gossiped and touched each other’s arms and hands at every chance, like children flirting. It was much the same thing, he supposed. First insult, then violence, and reassurance afterward. It was women like theirs who kept the kingdom from bursting apart in a war of ego and manliness.
“We are lucky men,” Dawson said, “to have wives like these.”
Feldin Maas startled, considered the two women deep in conversation about the difficulty of maintaining households in Camnipol and their family holdings both, and gave a rough half-smile.
“I suppose we are,” he said. “How long are you staying in Camnipol?”
“Until the tourney, and then another week or two. I want to get home again before the snows.”
“Yes. Nothing like the Kingspire in winter for catching every breath of wind off the plain. It’s like his majesty had a sailmaker for an architect. I’ve heard the king’s thinking of touring the reaches just so he can spend some time in a warm house.”
“It’s the hunting,” Dawson said. “Ever since we were boys, he’s loved the winter hunts in the reaches.”
“Still, he’s getting old for it, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I bow to your opinion,” Feldin said, but his smile was thin and smug. Dawson felt a tug of anger, and Clara must have seen it. Part of peacekeeping, it appeared, was to know how to stop playing at friends before the illusion faded. She called for the servants, gathered a gift of violets for her cousin, and they walked together to the entry hall to say their farewells. Just before he turned away, Feldin Maas frowned and raised a finger.
“I forget, my lord. Do you have family in the Free Cities?”
“No,” Dawson said. “Well, I think Clara has some obscure relations in Gilea.”
“Through marriage,” Clara said. “Not blood.”
“Nothing in Maccia, then. That’s good,” Feldin Maas said.
Dawson’s spine stiffened.
“Maccia? No,” he said. “Why? What’s in Maccia.”
“Apparently the Grand Doge there has decided to throw in with Vanai against his majesty. ‘Unity in the face of aggression’ or some such.”
Feldin knew about Vanai’s reinforcements. And if he knew, so did Sir Alan Klin. Did they know whose influence had brought Vanai its new allies, or did they only suspect? They must at least suspect, or Feldin wouldn’t have brought it up. Dawson smiled the way he hoped he would have if he’d had no stake in the matter.
“Unity among the Free Cities? That seems unlikely,” he said. “Probably just rumor.”
“Yes,” Feldin Maas said. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
The dog-faced, small-cocked, hypocrite bastard son of a weasel and a whore bowed and escorted his wife from the house. When Dawson didn’t move, Clara took his hand.
“Are you well, dear? You look pained.”
“Excuse me,” he said.
Once in his library, he locked the doors, lit the candles, and pulled his maps from their shelves. He’d marked the paths from Maccia to Vanai and the roads the army was sure to take. He measured and made his calculations, fury rising like waves whipped by a storm. He’d been betrayed. Somewhere along the chain of communications, somebody had said something, and his plans had been tipped to the ground. He had overreached, and it left him exposed. He’d been outplayed. By Feldin Maas. One of the dogs whined and scratched at the door until Dawson unlocked it and let it in.
The dog climbed onto the couch, wrapping its haunches in close and looking up at Dawson with anxious eyes. The Baron of Osterling Fells sank down beside the beast and scratched its ears. The dog whined again, pressing its
