“Where is he now?”
“In the lesser hall, my lord.”
“Tell him I’ll see him in a moment,” Dawson said. “Bring him ale and bread, put his men in the servants’ hall, and then get me my guard.”
The pale man looked up when the doors of the lesser hall swung open and stood when Dawson entered. That Dawson had four swordsmen in hunting leathers behind him didn’t so much as raise the man’s eyebrows. The bread on the plate before him had a single bite taken from it, the pewter ale tankard might not have been touched.
“Baron Osterling,” the banker said with a bow. “Thank you for seeing me. I apologize for arriving unannounced.”
“Are you running Canl Daskellin’s errands now, or he running yours?”
“I’m running his. The situation in the court is delicate. He wanted you informed, but he doesn’t trust couriers and some things he wouldn’t want written in his hand regardless.”
“And so he sends the puppet master of Northcoast?”
The banker paused. The faintest touch of color came to his skin, and the polite smile he always wore.
“My lord, without giving offense, there are one or two points it might be best if we clarified. I am a subject of Northcoast, but I am not a member of its court, and I am not here at the bidding of my king. I represent the Medean bank and only the Medean bank.”
“A spy without a kingdom, then. So much the worse.”
“I apologize, my lord,” the banker said. “I see I am not welcome. Please forgive the trespass.”
Paerin Clark bowed deeply and started toward the door, taking the court and Camnipol with him. Just because you don’t feel comfortable with it doesn’t mean it’s difficult, Clara said in his memory.
“Wait,” Dawson said, and took a deep breath. “Who’s wearing the prettiest dress at the twice-damned ball?”
“Excuse me?”
“You came for a reason,” Dawson said. “Don’t be such a coward you abandon it the first time someone barks at you. Sit. Tell me what you have to tell.”
Paerin Clark came and sat. His eyes seemed darker now, his face as blank as a man at cards.
“It isn’t you,” Dawson said, sitting across the table and ripping off a crust of the bread. “Not as a man. It’s what you are.”
“I’m the man Komme Medean sends when there’s a problem,” Paerin Clark said. “No more, no less.”
“You’re an agent of chaos,” Dawson said, softly, trying to pull the sting from the words. “You’re a man who makes poor men rich and rich men poor. Rank and order mean nothing to men like you, and they mean everything to men like me. It isn’t you I disdain. It’s only what you are.”
The banker laced his fingers across his knee.
“Will you hear my news, my lord? Despite what you think I am?”
“I will.”
For the better part of an hour, the banker spoke in a low voice, detailing the slow landslide that was happening in Camnipol. As Dawson had suspected, Simeon’s unwillingness to commit his son as the ward of any house came from the fear of making waves. The respect for his kingship was failing on all sides. Daskellin and his remaining allies offered what support they could, but even within the ranks of the faithful, unease was growing. Issandrian and Klin remained in exile, but Feldin Maas was everywhere in the city. It seemed as if the man never slept, and wherever he went, the story he told was the same: the attack of the show fighters had been rigged to throw disgrace on Curtin Issandrian in order that the prince not be sent to his house. The implication was that the convenient appearance of the soldiers from Vanai had been part of a great theater piece.
“Arranged by me,” Dawson said.
“Not you alone, but yes.”
“Lies, beginning to end,” Dawson said.
“Not everyone believes it. But some do.”
Dawson rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Outside, the day was leaning toward night, the sunlight reddening. It was all as he suspected. And Clara was riding into the center of it. The hope she’d offered before she’d left had sounded risky at the time. After this report, it seemed merely naive. He would have given his hand to have had the banker come a week earlier. Now it was too late. He could as well wish a thrown rock back into his hand.
“Simeon?” Dawson asked. “Is he well?”
“The hard times wear on him,” Paerin Clark said. “And, I think, on his son.”
“I think it isn’t death that kills us,” Dawson said. “I think it’s fear. And Asterilhold?”
“My sources tell me that Maas is in contact with several important men in the court there. There have been loans of gold, and promises of support.”
“He’s raising an army.”
“He is.”
“And Canl?”
“He’s trying to, yes.”
“How long before it comes down to the field?”
“No one can know that, my lord. If you’re careful and lucky, maybe never.”
“I can’t think that’s true,” Dawson said. “We have Asterilhold on one hand and you on the other.”
“No, my lord,” the banker said, “you don’t. We both know I came hoping for advantage, but an Antean civil war won’t profit us. If it does come to pass, we won’t take a side. I’ve done what I can here. I won’t be going back to Camnipol.”
Dawson sat up straighter. The banker was smiling now, and it looked suspiciously like pity.
“You’ve abandoned Daskellin? Now? ”
“This is one of the great kingdoms of the world,” Paerin Clark said, “but my employer plays his games on larger boards than that. I wish you the best of luck, but Antea is yours to lose. Not mine. I’m traveling south.”
“South? What’s more important than this in the south?”
“There’s an irregularity that needs my attention in Porte Oliva.”
Cithrin
Cithrin stood at the top of the seawall, the city spread out behind her and the vast blue of sea and sky ahead. At the edge where the pale, shallow water of the bay turned to deep blue, five ships stood. The towering masts were trees rising from the water. The furled sails thickened the spars. The small, shallow boats of the fishing fleet were rushing into port or else out of the traffic as dozens of guide boats raced out, fighting to be the first to reach the ships and take the honor of guiding them in.
The trade ships from Narinisle had arrived. Five ships, arriving together and flying the banners of Birancour and Porte Oliva. When they had left, there had been seven. The other two might have become separated by storm or choice or scattered in an attack. They might arrive the next day or the next week or never. On the docks below her, merchants waited in agonies of hope and fear, waiting for the ships to come near enough to identify. And then, once the ships were in their berths, the fortunate among the sponsors would board, compare contracts and bills of lading, and discover whether profits were assured. The unfortunate would wait on the docks or in the port taprooms, digging at the sailors for news.
And then, once the captains of the ships had answered their sponsors, once the laborers had begun the long business of hauling the goods from ship to warehouse, once the frenzy of trade and goods and the exchange of coin had passed over Porte Oliva like a wind across the water, it would be time to begin the preparation for the next year’s journey. Shipyards would make repairs. The new sponsors would offer contracts and terms to the captains. And Idderrigo Bellind Siden, Prime Governor of Porte Oliva, would consult with the captains and the masters of the guilds, and graciously accept the proposals to change this from one port city among many to the center of trade for a generation to come.
And in her hand, written in green ink on paper as smooth as poured cream, was the letter that forbade her
