him all the noble persons and houses of Asterilhold, into my protection. I am devastated that your most recent instructions as to the terms of surrender reached me when the agreement had already been made. I feel certain that the respect and reverence we both have for the honor of the empire will compel you as it does me to respect the word as I have given it in your name, and Prince Aster’s.
Dawson took a small silver blade, pressing it to his thumb until a drop of blood appeared, and then pressed it into the thirsty paper. He sewed the letter closed himself, melted the wax, and pressed his seal into it. He felt the hours of the night slipping by him, and he trotted out to the sounds of the first birds. There was no light in the east, no sign of the dawn apart from the bright and cheerful birdsong. He pressed the letter into the courier’s hand.
“Take this back. Give it to no one but the Lord Regent. No one else, you understand? Even if his priest swears he will deliver it at once, you put this in the regent’s hands, yes?”
“Yes, Lord Marshal,” the boy said, and was gone.
Dawson stood for a moment, listening to the hoofbeats, soft against the mud and patchy grass, grow softer. And then the distant tapping when they reached the eternally solid jade. There was still time. He could send a fresh rider after the boy on a fast horse. Dawson had set this thing in motion, but he could still take it back. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the cool air filling him and then seeping away. He waited for his heart to feel some misgiving.
He found his squire dozing and shook him awake.
“Listen to me,” Dawson said. “Wake up and listen to me, you little bastard. You go and find the flag of parley. Take it out to the city. And take someone with you to carry it if someone gets excited and puts an arrow through you by mistake. Tell the count that I need to speak with him immediately. The situation has changed, he and I have very little time. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes, Lord Marshal.”
“Then stop looking at me and
When the sun came up, Dawson and Mysin Hawl, Count of Evenford, were at their little table in the no- man’s-land. At midmorning, the count rode back to the city, shaken and weeping, the deciphered letter tucked in his belt. All day, Dawson sat at the parley table. His chair was as uncomfortable as a saddle, but in a different way. His back ached afresh, and he was hungry and thirsty, and desperately tired, but he remained at the table, the parley still not officially concluded.
The sun had started its long, weary arc toward the horizon when a sound came. A great, dry mourning drum. Far away before him, the gates of Kaltfel cracked and slowly swung open. The soldiers who came out carried the banner of Lechan, hung in reverse, and the yellow pennant of surrender. From behind him, Dawson heard the swelling, roaring shouts of victory. The sound washed over him like surf against the shore. All he felt himself was relief. King Lechan was a small man with poor teeth, but he held himself with dignity as Dawson accepted his surrender and took him into protection. In exchange, Dawson swore to do all he could to maintain that protection. All of the things he’d written to Palliako became true, except for a small matter of timing.
A small matter of timing that was the difference between loyalty to the man sitting on the throne and loyalty to the honor of the throne itself.
He gave command of the sack to Fallon Broot. For twelve hours, Kaltfel would feel the price of its loss as the soldiers of Antea ran riot over it, stripping its gold and gems and silver, its spices and silks. All the soldiers of Antea except two. If Dawson had looked for a better way to be assured privacy, he couldn’t have invented one.
Alan Klin was paler than Dawson remembered him. A fever had taken him during the southern campaign, and he had not entirely recovered. The cunning men said he might never. He sat on the ground, his expression closed and sullen. Dawson considered his onetime enemy with a bitter amusement. The world made for strange partners.
“Curtin Issandrian met with my wife,” Dawson said. “He was jealous of you. He hoped to have his own chance in the field. A way to regain his honor and good name.”
“He’s always been a bit of an idiot,” Klin said. “Sincere, but…”
“You do have a chance to regain your honor,” Dawson said quietly.
“I’m not here to get back my good name. I’m not here because of what Maas did. Back before Vanai, I pulled a prank on Geder Palliako. And now he’s killing me without even the favor of doing it quickly.”
“I think that’s true,” Dawson said and handed Klin a cup of honeyed water.
“I mean less than a book to him. My life is worth less than a book.”
“How many of your friends do you still have in the court?” Dawson asked.
“A few, but none that’ll speak to me anyway. Everyone knows that Palliako bronzes a grudge. I’m going to be trapped under his idea of revenge for the rest of my life.” He sipped the water.
“Sir Klin,” Dawson said. “I need your help. Your kingdom needs your help.”
Klin chuckled and shook his head.
“What is it this time? Does the greater glory of the empire require me to climb a mountain naked with bear bait strapped to my neck?”
Dawson leaned forward. He had a sudden and powerful apprehension that the three priests would be nearby, that they would hear him.
“There’s a difference between being loyal to a man and loyal to a nation,” Dawson said. “I thought once that Palliako was nothing more than an apt tool.”
“I think you called that poorly, Lord Marshal,” Klin said, but his eyes were more focused than they had been. He scented smoke in what Dawson was saying. He wasn’t a stupid man.
“No, I was right. My mistake was that I thought he was
Klin drank his water again, but his gaze was solidly on Dawson now. He handed the cup back and licked his lips.
“I think you’re telling me something,” Klin said. “But I’m very tired and I’ve been very ill, so I think you should say exactly what you mean in very simple terms, yes?”
“Fair enough. I am offering you freedom from Palliako’s wrath and the return of your good name and reputation. And more than that, I am calling you to the defense of Antea and the Severed Throne. We have been betrayed from within, and we allowed it to happen. Now we have to make it right. Antea needs a different regent. Anyone other than Geder Palliako.”
“And how am I to manage that?” Klin asked, but Dawson could see that he already knew the answer.
“You help me kill him.”
Marcus
The trade ships from Narinisle arrived in Porte Oliva, and the city was a madness of activity. Merchants flooded the inns and pubs near the port, digging for information, pouring beer into the sailors and coin into the purses of keeps and brewers. Which ships had left first, which last, which traders had met with each other on the distant island kingdom. No detail was too small to be wrung of all significance. It was the high season of Porte Oliva, and even in the exhausting heat of the day, trade and barter and negotiations filled every corner. The Medean bank had placed no direct stake the previous year, and so the absence of Cithrin bel Sarcour could be excused. It could not, however, go unnoticed.
A light rain fell from a low, white sky, leaving the air steamy and thick. The interior of the taproom was punishingly hot. Given the choice between the damp and the heat, rain won out, and the courtyard that overlooked the sea was thick with benches and chairs. The keep had taken away the tables to make more room. Marcus sat with Yardem, Ahariel Akkabrian, and the Jasuru named Hart. Four men of four different races all sitting together. They were, Marcus noted, the only such group in the yard.
“You need a cunning man who can turn the beer cold,” Ahariel said.
