“I suppose it was, now you mention it,” he said. And another danger was stepped past.
“This new regent of yours,” Paerin Clark said. “Geder Palliako. It’s not a name I’ve heard often. I’m surprised we didn’t see a more familiar man.”
“I hope you aren’t looking at me,” Daskellin said. “No, Palliako’s father is a viscount. Unremarkable man. His son’s something different, though. He stopped the showfighters’ coup. He exposed Feldin Maas. There’s a strong case that this war is his private project from the start.”
“What sort of man is he?” Chana asked, then winked broadly at Cithrin and said, “I hear he isn’t married.”
They all laughed because it was expected.
“He’s a strong man,” Daskellin said. “He comes almost from outside the court, and it makes him very independent. His own thoughts. His own plans.”
“Ambitious?” Komme asked, cracking open a clam and pulling out the flesh.
“He’d have to be,” Canl said. “People underestimated him at first. That’s happening less now. His unofficial patron is Dawson Kalliam, and I think he’s got the feeling of riding a tiger.”
“Bad enemy to have,” Paerin said.
“That,” Daskellin said, “is the regent in a phrase. Would someone pass me that wine? I seem to have finished mine.”
“No,” Komme Medean said, feigning horror. “Never that.”
The meal went on until well after dark. The conversation ranged over art and politics and the indignities of travel. Everyone was very casual, and traded jokes and stories. The wine was very good, and left Cithrin feeling a little above herself, warm and happy and more relaxed than was strictly wise. Before he left, Daskellin shook all the men’s hands and embraced Komme Medean like a brother. He also kissed Cithrin on the lips, so he might have been more than a bit tipsy himself.
After he left, servants came in and cleared the table, bringing a stool for Komme’s bad leg. It had gotten visibly worse during the evening, but it was only now that he showed that it bothered him. The others took their seats, and so Cithrin did too.
“Well?” Komme said, his voice perfectly sober and crisp. “What do we have?”
“The regent’s unpredictable,” Chana said. “And Daskellin doesn’t like him.”
“Fears him, though,” Paerin Clark said.
“Do you think so?” Lauro said. “He seemed to speak well of him to me.”
“No,” Cithrin said. “Fears him is right. And there was something else, I couldn’t make out. He’s uneasy about the war. Even though they’re winning it. Why is that?”
It was eerie. All her childhood had been spent around a different table with Magister Imaniel and Cam and Besel having conversations much like this. Analysis, debate, discussion. Dissection. And now here she was in a strange place with different people and utterly at home.
“Either he doesn’t think it’s going to end with Asterilhold or he expects the balance of power in court to shift because of it,” Chana said. “Did you see how nervous he looked when I joked about the regent not having a wife?”
“You’re thinking there might be a political marriage with Asterilhold?” Komme said. “Unification?”
“I think it’s on his mind and he doesn’t want it,” Chana said. “Does he have a daughter?”
“Yes,” Paerin said. “And of the right age.”
“Well then,” Chana said as if the matter were settled.
“I’m not sure,” Komme said. “I think there was something more to it than that. How much do we know about Palliako’s allies?”
“Very little,” Paerin said. “His reputation is as a scholar. And newly pious.”
“Pious, eh? That may be an issue. King Tracian should send a group,” Komme said. “Sound out the court. This new war went awfully well for Antea. It’d be good to know if this Palliako’s gotten a taste for blood. If this doesn’t end with Asterilhold, that will change quite a few calculations.”
“I’ll speak with his majesty,” Paerin Clark said. “I’m fairly sure he’s of a similar mind. Not anything official, I think. Not an embassy. A dozen important people from court. A few powerful merchants.”
“Meaning you,” Lauro said. He sounded peevish.
“Meaning me,” Paerin Clark said. “I have some other contacts in Antea it might be wise to visit. See what we can find.”
Cithrin found herself nodding, but her mind was elsewhere. The wine fumes confused her, but only a bit. In her memory, Paerin Clark was saying,
“With your permission, sir,” she said, “when the group goes to Camnipol, I’d like to go too.”
Geder
The Kingspire was as busy as an anthill. Servants and workers and merchants moved through the sacred places of Antea with faster steps and louder voices. It felt like at any moment they all might break into song or else battle. And it wasn’t only the Kingspire. When Geder appeared at a feast or a ball, the sense was the same. The whole court was vibrating with a wild, barely constrained energy. The whole of Camnipol. They were preparing for the celebrations that would come when King Lechan of Asterilhold surrendered to Lord Marshal Kalliam and the short, decisive war— hardly a half a season long—ended with the Severed Throne triumphant.
It all made Geder very nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the victory to come. Every day brought more couriers and reports, and the news was consistent: Kalliam and the armies were advancing steadily toward Kaltfel. The enemy was demoralized and falling back. The priests of the spider goddess seemed to be a very real help. Morale in the ranks was high, and three enemy commanders had already offered private surrender and been taken prisoner. Geder had the impression from Dawson Kalliam’s letter that there might be some friction between him and the priests, but it didn’t seem to be affecting anything. And the man could be a little prickly sometimes, so likely that wasn’t a problem.
No, the thing that bothered Geder most was catching glimpses of bright costumes and servants cutting bright paper into bits small enough to throw. He understood that there would be celebrations when the war ended and that people would have to prepare. The city was like the taut bud of some lavish flower, only waiting for the right moment. And still, to assume a victory that hadn’t actually happened seemed like courting bad luck. And as much as the half-hidden costumes and half-made gaudy bothered him, the sober discussions of how to proceed once Asterilhold was crushed bothered him more.
“Once Lechan sues for peace,” Emmer Faskellan said, lacing his fingers across his wide belly, “I believe we have established that the Seref Bridge must be permanently under our control. That’s the absolute very least.”
“And reparations,” Gospey Allintot said. “We’ve lost most of the planting season, and it’s not fair that our women and children should go hungry. And we’ve lost good men whose widows and children will need to be supported.”
It was a discussion that had clearly been going on in the rooms of the Great Bear, now translated into Geder’s meeting chambers, a grander venue for the old conversation. The walls here were draped with silk and tapestries from Far Syramys and fine golden chains from Put, the floor covered with Southling-woven carpets from one of the small nations in the interior of Lyoneia. The table around which they all sat was a single piece of carved basalt from Borja; representations of the thirteen races of humanity made up the legs, all supporting the tabletop- wide stylized crown. Furniture as political sculpture. The air was perfumed with a musky Hallskari incense that made Geder think of rich food and ripe fruit.
Geder’s personal guard stood in the corners of the room, armed and impassive, and Basrahip sat at a small table by the doorway where Geder could see him. The priest was only apparently meditating, his not quite closed eyes glittering under their lids.
It wasn’t the most formal of councils, as many of the most important and powerful men in Antea were
