The King's Blood

“No. There’s a job needs doing,” Marcus said. “Show me what we’ve got.”

Dawson

Camnipol opened its gates to Dawson and his men as if to a hero from legends. The sober black and gold of the city was covered over in bright, celebratory array. Pennants as long as five men standing fluttered from the windows of the Kingspire, and the great bridges were hung with flowers produced by both nature and artifice. As he marched through the great streets, honor guard surrounding him, choirs of children sang the ancient songs of heroes and wars with Dawson’s name included among the great generals of the past. He was hailed as a great man and a patriot. The irony was rich. All of it was true, and not a word of it had been earned.

Not yet.

His army, of course, waited in camp outside the walls. No armed force was allowed within Camnipol. That had always been true, and after the showfighters’ riot, the old tradition had been reinforced. And even if Dawson had ordered the attack, it would have done no good. He was praised and honored today only as far as he was the tool of Geder Palliako and his cult. To turn against the man too soon was to invite failure. Dawson raised his chin, smiled, waved, accepted the garlands of white and red flowers offered to him, and reminded himself that all of it was not earned by what he had done, but borrowed against what he was about to achieve.

Behind him, King Lechan walked with as much dignity as the old man could muster. The chains around his neck and wrists were made of silver and thin enough that they might almost have passed for adornments, but they were still chains.

At the Kingspire, the Lord Regent waited in his grand audience chamber. Prince Aster sat at the man’s side, and the bull-massive priest stood behind the throne. Palliako wore the small, golden crown of the regency and his own signature black leather cloak, despite the heat of the day. The priest wore a dust-brown robe, much as the other priests did. A sparrow whispering to a crow.

The crowd around them was quiet. Not silent. Dawson could hear mutterings and complaint, but near enough that when he spoke, the callers could make out his words clearly.

“Lord Regent,” he said. “You have tasked me with the submission of Asterilhold. I have come to report that duty is done.”

And on the word done, the crowd erupted in cheers. Dawson kept himself from smiling and watched Palliako’s face. No one knew that he had refused the regent’s order, and no reply had come to Dawson’s report that the nobility of Asterilhold was under his personal protection. It was possible that Palliako would have him named traitor for what he’d done, but with the adulation of the crowd ringing the city like a bell, it seemed unlikely. Nearly impossible.

And, in fact, the regent was smiling. He looked about with a wide grin, as if the cheers were for him. Palliako stood, motioning for silence, but the cacophony went on, trailing off only slowly.

“Lord Marshal Kalliam. You have shown yourself again to be an invaluable friend to the Severed Throne. It is my duty and pleasure to add to your titles and holdings. From this day forward, you are Dawson Kalliam, Baron of Osterling Fells and also of the Barony of Kaltfel.”

Dawson felt a sudden tightness in his breast. The renewed cheers were wild as a windstorm. He had guessed that there would be no suit of peace, no treaty. The war now behind them had not been a conflict between civilized kingdoms. It had been raw conquest, and now as its spoils, Palliako had granted Dawson a city almost as great as Camnipol itself. He had made Dawson effectively the second most powerful man in Antea, behind only the regent himself.

Dawson gave salute, but his mind was possessed by the implications. He imagined the wealth of Kaltfel pouring into his hands, his house, and the fortunes of his sons. Even Lord Bannien would look a beggar by comparison.

All he would have to do was accept Geder’s rule and the rule of his priests. All it would cost was his honor. Dawson took a garland of flowers from around his neck and placed it on the ground before him, as if offering them up to Palliako.

I will earn these, he thought, but even if he had shouted it, no one would have heard.

After the official audience, Dawson suffered through hours more of his official duties. The surrender of the prisoners, which took some extra time as he needed to impress on the gaolers that King Lechan especially was being surrendered only for holding, and that he remained under Dawson’s personal protection. Then he ordered the disband, freeing his men to return to their homes and families and ending his tenure as Lord Marshal.

He tried to avoid being in a room with Palliako and the priest, but form required at least a private glass of wine. The private audience was in a small garden near the dueling grounds. Prince Aster greeted him formally, and then excused himself to go play with a handful of other boys born of noble houses. Palliako and Minister Basrahip sat at a table of lacquered rosewood, servants rushing to them with cooled wine and fruit. Dawson bowed to the regent and took his seat, but his gaze was on the personal guard. Ten of them. Ten blades set to protect Palliako at all times. They would be difficult to overcome, but not by any means impossible…

“I hope your journey back wasn’t too arduous,” Geder said. “I hear you left Fallon Broot as Protector of Asterilhold?”

“I did, Lord Regent.”

“Now there’s a man whose fortunes have changed in the last years,” Geder burbled. “You know I met him on the Vanai campaign?”

Dawson drank from his glass. The wine was excellent. Simeon had always cared about his drink. Now Palliako was getting the benefit of that.

“I believe I had heard that, my lord,” Dawson said.

“Well, it’s bad fortune for him that he’ll be missing your revel. I still remember what you did for me. After Vanai. I’ve been looking forward to returning the favor. It will be amazing. Honestly, I think people will be talking about this for a generation.”

Dawson permitted himself a smile.

“I hope that you are right,” he said.

“I was sorry to hear that you didn’t have Basrahip’s priests help with the battle at Kaltfel. They were useful taking the bridge, weren’t they?”

“I didn’t believe their help was required at Kaltfel,” Dawson said. “And I thought it would be better for morale if the victory were unquestionably Antea’s.”

“Oh, that’s silly,” Geder said with a wave of his hand. “Everyone knows they’re on our side. I mean, they weren’t out driving down the enemy’s confidence over some private feud they had with them.”

“I suppose not,” Dawson said, fighting not to stare his anger at the priest. “But for the sake of form, if nothing else.”

“And once all this is over, I’d like to talk with you about how to manage the transition with Asterilhold. I’ve been reading the histories, and I don’t find any single good model for this. I mean, I know it helps that we both used to answer to the High Kings.” Geder sighed. “I wish my orders had gotten to you a day earlier. This would all be so much easier. I mean, when you’re at war, death’s to be expected. Now that they’ve surrendered, things will be more difficult.”

“They can’t be slaughtered wholesale,” Dawson said.

“But we can’t just leave them,” Geder said. “It doesn’t make sense to have half a victory. If you don’t destroy your enemies utterly, aren’t you just asking for another fight later when they’ve regained their strength? If you want peace—real peace—I think you have to conquer, don’t you?”

“We need justice, not petty revenge.” There was more bite in the words than he’d intended. “Forgive my saying so, my lord.”

“Oh, no. Please. Speak your mind. You’re one of the only men in this city I trust.”

Dawson leaned forward in his seat.

“We are noblemen, my lord,” Dawson said, choosing his words. “Our role in the world is to protect and preserve order. The houses of Asterilhold have Antean blood, many of them, but even if they did not, we share a