sense of threat. Aster was there, sitting at the high table in regal array, but with his eyes traveling to the dueling yard where the boys of the great houses were battling with chalked practice swords; caught between the man he wasn’t yet and the boy he could never entirely be. Geder sat at his side and gestured toward the playing boys.
“You should,” he said. “It’s in Kalliam’s honor.”
“It’s just playing,” Aster said, feigning contempt.
“I think it isn’t,” Geder said. “Those boys are going to be the men you lead one day. You’d be wise to get to know them now. I mean…”
Basrahip, sitting behind him, nodded. It would be safe. Safe enough. Aster licked his lips and glanced at the boys. One of the oldest was showing the smaller ones how to twist the practice sword across his wrist and catch it overhand.
“You’re right,” Aster said with a little nod. “Thank you, Geder.”
“But Aster? Be… be careful.”
“I will,” the boy said.
Geder sat back in his chair, his hands worrying at the tablecloth. The entertainers went through their common paces. The servants brought him a dozen different platters of food. The singers extemporized praises of Dawson Kalliam. Geder found himself enjoying none of it. When Kalliam arrived—unfortunately alone, as both Clara Kalliam and Sabiha were feeling unwell, and Dawson had left Jorey to watch their conditions—Geder let himself relax a degree, but the memory of Basrahip questioning his guards stood at the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest. He could no more turn his unease aside than he could will himself to fly.
After the meal, the revel moved on, the hours between midday and the feast proper filled with games of sport and chance. It was like watching a small tourney. The great houses all came, sat in their boxes, and gossiped. They were like a flock of peacocks, strutting for one another’s benefit, and Kalliam’s thinly veiled contempt mirrored Geder’s frame of mind.
The jousting came and went, then the melee, then a series of show duels more fanciful than any real combat could be. Kalliam acted as judge, and his awards held the sharp wit he was known for. Sir Minin Laat was awarded a special prize in the melee for the most artful falling down. The joust between Lord Ternigan and his nephew Oster was declared a draw “to avoid dividing the family’s loyalties any further.” The jests were sharp, the laughter they called forth had an edge of cruelty, and Geder began to feel calmer. Whatever dangers Basrahip might have feared, they failed to appear.
The feast itself was held an hour before sundown in the largest hall of the Kingspire. Chandeliers of oil lamps and cut crystal filled the air with a soft, almost shadowless light and the heat of a smith’s forge. The room was built in the shape of an X with the high table in the center on a massive turntable that revolved twice an hour. Dawson, Aster, and Basrahip sat nearest him, his personal guard kneeling at the ready behind. Lord Ternigan and his son sat to Basrahip’s right looking pleased and amiable. Canl Daskellin and his daughter Sanna sat to Kalliam’s right, farther from Geder. The woman kept catching his eye, and he didn’t know whether to smile at her or look away. In the heat of the summer, all court fashion tended toward lighter clothing, and the sheath of silk Sanna Daskellin wore made him wish she was sitting closer and that she hadn’t come at all both at the same time.
“I’ve some people I’d like you to meet, Lord Regent,” Daskellin said as the table made its slow revolution. “I came too late to help with the war, but my conversations in North-coast were very interesting. I’d go so far as to say that the whole world’s interest is on you these days.”
“I don’t see why,” Geder said. “I mean, the war wasn’t my choosing. That lies at Lechan’s feet. And winning so handily was all Dawson and Basrahip.”
“Minister Basrahip?” Daskellin said, shooting a glance at Dawson. The elder Kalliam’s face was ice and stone. Chagrin flashed through Geder’s heart as he saw the insult he’d unintentionally delivered.
“As spiritual guide and comfort,” Geder said, the words coming too quickly, bumping into one another on his lips. “The victory was Kalliam’s.”
The urge to go on, to complain about his failed orders of execution, pressed at him, but he held back. There was time for that conversation later. He’d need to call a larger council for that, and no doubt Daskellin and Kalliam would have more than enough time to talk over how best to go about assuring Antea’s permanent safety from its enemies then.
“I see you brought your banker,” Kalliam said. Geder was confused for a moment, then realized that the comment had been meant for Daskellin. “I’m surprised that you’d include him in a revel in my name.”
“Really?” Daskellin replied. His voice was as warm as before, but there was something underneath it. It was like watching the afternoon’s duels all over again, except with words and subtle meanings in place of blades. “And here I thought the two of you had parted on good terms. He certainly gave the impression that his time at Osterling Fells was pleasant enough.”
“I didn’t cut his hands off,” Dawson said.
“He didn’t lie to you,” Daskellin said.
Basrahip’s calm, enigmatic smile and deceptively sleepy eyes gave no reaction to anything the men said. Geder wondered what it would be like to hear the truth and deceptions in what the men said, and whether it would make the conversation clearer or more obscure.
“Who are we talking about?” Geder asked.
“Paerin Clark,” Daskellin said. “He’s the son-in-law of Komme Medean of the Medean bank. He’s very powerful, though not from noble blood.”
“That is what they will write on your tomb, old friend,” Dawson said. “
“Have I done something to offend you, Kalliam?” Daskellin asked.
Geder shot a glance at Aster and Basrahip. The boy seemed frightened by the animosity between the two men, but the priest was quiescent. Dawson’s face was dark with blood, but then he pressed his lips thin and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit anxious this evening. Nothing to do with you. All apologies.”
“At least we didn’t need to break your revel for a formal duel.”
“No,” Dawson said. “Not for that.”
“Perhaps I could meet this banker?” Geder asked, grasping for something to turn the subject of the conversation. “Which one is he?”
Daskellin pointed out a pale man in green velvet sitting between an enormously fat man in the formal clothing of a Borjan knight and a remarkably thin woman so fair-haired as to be almost white. Cinnae, but also not. Daskellin’s gaze followed his.
“She’s Cithrin bel Sarcour. Magistra of their branch in Porte Oliva,” he said. “Very new to the bank, and apparently something of a wild talent.”
“Why are they here?” Geder asked, and then when he heard how the words sounded, “I mean, they’re welcome of course, but are they on some business in Antea?”
“They’re come to meet you,” Daskellin said. “As have the Duchess of Longhearth, and the Dukes of Whitestone and Wodford. I think you should consider—”
But what he thought Geder should consider was lost in a sudden shouting from behind them. Geder craned around in his chair. At the end of the vast room’s southern leg, something was happening. Men in boiled leather were marching into the hall. They had swords drawn. As Geder watched, one of the palace guards marched up to demand explanation. When they cut him down, the screaming began.
“Prince Geder!” Basrahip shouted. Geder didn’t remember rising to his feet, and when the great priest shoved him hard enough to drop him to his knees, the only thing he felt at first was confusion. He turned, tried to stand, and the image confused him. A dark, spreading stain marked Basrahip’s left arm just above the elbow. The priest’s face was twisted in pain, and on the other side of him Dawson Kalliam stood, a bloody dagger in his hand. A woman was screaming, but Geder didn’t know where. Dawson flinched as if stung, dropping his blade, and Geder’s personal guard swarmed toward him.
“To me!” Dawson shouted as he leaped over the high table. “He’s over here! To me!”
“No, wait,” Geder said. “Stop. Something’s wrong.”
Basrahip’s hand took him by the arm, four wide fingers almost filling the full distance between shoulder and elbow.
“We must go, Lord Geder. We must go now. Come.”
