print onto the page. The prefect did likewise.
And it was done. Cithrin took the onionskin, folded it, and slipped it in the purse that hung from her belt. Marcus followed her back down the stairs and out to the square. The sun had burned off the mist now, and the sounds of human traffic were the same low roar he’d become accustomed to.
“We’re a bank,” Cithrin said.
Marcus nodded. He would have felt better if there had been someone to fight. Or at least threaten. The anxiety of what they’d just done wanted some release. Cithrin took a handful of coins from her purse and held them out to him.
“Here,” she said. “That’s to hire on more guards. Now that it’s my money, we might as well spend it. I’m thinking a dozen men, but use your best judgment. We’ll want day and night guards, and then a few to accompany goods when we transfer them. I didn’t haul these silks all the way from the Free Cities to have some back-alley thief take them now. I’ve got my eye on a couple of places the bank might operate from that give a better impression than squatting over a gambling shop.”
Marcus looked at the coins. They were the first she’d ever paid him, and so what she’d just said was her first true order. The warmth in his chest was as surprising as it was powerful.
However it unfurled from this, whatever the consequences, the girl had done what damn few would have had the nerve for. This from the half-idiot carter boy he’d met in Vanai last autumn.
He was proud of her.
“Is there a problem?” Cithrin asked, real concern in her voice.
“No, ma’am,” Marcus said.
Dawson
Issandrian’s parade began at the edge of the city, snaked through the low market, then north along the broad king’s road, past the gates of the Kingspire, and then east to the stadium. The broad streets teemed with the subjects of King Simeon, sworn loyalists of the Severed Throne, all standing on their toes to catch a glimpse of the slave races arrived to turn Antea into the puppet of Asterilhold. The roar of the assembled voices was like the surf, and the smell of their bodies threatened to overwhelm the gentle scents of springtime. Some follower of Issandrian’s cabal had paid the rabble to carry banners and signs celebrating the games and Prince Aster. From where Dawson sat, he saw one-beautiful blue-dyed cloth with the prince’s name in letters of silver-held aloft on poles, but with the wrong side up. It was Issandrian’s revolt in a nutshell: the words of nobility hefted by men who couldn’t read them.
The noble houses had their viewing platforms set in order and position according to the status of each family’s blood. The place each man stood told where he put his allegiance. The state of the court as a whole could be read in a glance, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. Banner colors from a dozen houses fluttered about king and prince, and more of them belonged to Issandrian’s cabal than not. Even Feldin Maas’s grey and green. King Simeon sat high above it all, dressed in velvet and black mink, and managed to smile despite what was before him.
A column of Jasuru archers marched through the streets, the bronze scales of their skins oiled and glittering like metal in the sun. They carried the stripped-hide banners of Borja. Dawson made a rough count. Two dozen, say. He noted it down as the archers paused before the royal stand and saluted King Simeon and his son. Prince Aster returned the gesture with the same wide grin that he had each company before and would each one still to come.
“Issandrian’s a cruel bastard,” Dawson said. “If you’ve come to steal the boy’s place, you should have the dignity not to put ribbons on it.”
“For God’s sake, Kalliam, don’t say that sort of thing where people might hear you,” Odderd Faskellan said. Behind them, Canl Daskellin chuckled.
On the road, five Yemmu lumbered. Their jaw tusks were dyed improbable colors of green and blue, and they towered over the watching crowd of Firstbloods. They didn’t seem to have armor or weapons apart from the freakish size of their race. The five stopped before the king and made their salute. Prince Aster returned it, and one of the Yemmu men lifted his voice in a rolling, barbaric call. The others joined in, one voice layering over the other until the sounds seemed to braid. A soft breeze tugged at Dawson’s cloak, and the trees that lined the street bobbed and shuddered. The air called in from all directions. The voices deepened, and the Yemmu at the center of the pack lifted a great, meaty fist. They were whipped by the tiny whirlwind.
Cunning men, then. Dawson made a note.
“Do you think the blow will come before the games commence?” Daskellin asked as if wondering aloud about the chance of rain.
“There doesn’t have to be a blow, does there?” Odderd asked.
“More likely during,” Dawson said. “But anything’s possible.”
“Reconsider Paerin Clark’s offer,” Daskellin said.
“I will not,” Dawson said.
“We have to. Or aren’t you seeing the same display I am? If we’re standing against this, we need allies. And, frankly, gold. Do you have a way to get them? Because as it happens, I do. ”
A troop of swordsmen marched past. Fifty of them, all in the bright-burnished armor of Elassae, and evenly divided between black-scaled Timzinae and wide-eyed Southling. Cockroaches and night-cats. Races created in slavery to serve their dragon masters, marching into the center of Firstblood power.
“If we can’t win as Anteans, we deserve to lose,” Dawson said.
The shocked silence behind him meant he’d gone too far. He noted the swordsmen.
“I began this because I believed you were right, old friend,” Daskellin said. “I didn’t say I’d crawl into your grave.”
“Something-” Odderd began, but Dawson ignored him.
“If we win this by putting ourselves out to bid, we’re no better than Maas or Issandrian or Klin. So yes, Canl, I will go to my grave for Antea. And with one loyalty. Not so many hundredths to the throne and so many on a green table in Northcoast.”
Daskellin’s face went still as coal.
“You’re talking out of fear,” he said, “and so I’ll excuse-”
“Both of you, shut up!” Odderd snapped. “Something’s happening.”
Dawson followed the man’s gaze. On the royal platform, an older woman in the colors of the Kingspire bent her knee before King Simeon. A youth was at her side, leather-armored and still dusty from the road. Prince Aster was looking at his father, the parade forgotten. King Simeon’s mouth moved, and even at distance, Dawson recognized shock in his expression.
“Who’s the boy?” Canl Daskellin said, almost to himself. “Who brought him news?”
Footsteps came from the wooden stairs behind them, and Vincen Coe appeared. The huntsman bowed to the two other men, but his eyes were on Dawson.
“Your lady wife sent me, lord. You’re needed at home.”
“What’s happened?” Dawson said.
“Your son’s returned,” Coe said. “There’s news from Vanai.”
He what?” Dawson said.
“He burned it,” Jorey said, leaning forward on the bench and scratching a dog between its ears. “Poured oil in the streets, closed the gates, and burned it down.”
The year that had passed since Dawson had seen his youngest son had changed the boy. Sitting in the sunroom, Jorey looked more than a year older. His cheekbones had the thin look that came with time on campaign, and the smile that had always lurked just behind whatever expression he wore was gone. Exhaustion pulled at the boy’s shoulders, and he smelled of horse sweat and unwashed soldier. It struck Dawson like a detail from a dream that Jorey and Coe could have passed for cousins. Dawson rose and the floor tilted oddly beneath him. He walked to the windows and looked out at the gardens. Snow still haunted the shadows, and the first press of green was softening the bark of the trees. At the back, cherry trees bloomed white and pink.
Geder Palliako burned Vanai.
