The King's Blood

by Daniel Abraham

  Barriath and Jorey were in the greatest danger, and so she concentrated her work there, doggedly calling on everyone she knew, everyone she could think of who might still accept her socially. Anyone to whom she had once been known. She used all those past moments of grace and unnecessary kindness as a tool now. And like any untested tool, sometimes it would work as she hoped. Other times it would fail under strain. She might never know which was which. Nor did it matter, so long as her children were safe.

  She stopped at the beginning of evening meals when she could no longer politely intrude uninvited and found a small baker’s shop that sold yesterday’s rolls with sausages and black mustard and beer. She reached for her pipe again and put it away cursing under her breath. She would have to find a way to afford a bit of tobacco. And for that matter, a bit of food. And whatever shelter she could manage after Lord Skestinin’s hospitality came to its inevitable end. One didn’t take in the wife of a traitor indefinitely. If Barriath became commander of the fleet or Jorey won a war in the field, she might remake herself as the mother of a respectable man. But for the future that she could imagine, she was doomed to be her husband’s wife.

  For a few minutes, sitting at the little stall with its splintering wooden tables and unsteady chairs, she let herself stop smiling. She was lost now, and emptied in a way she hadn’t ever imagined she would be. Her marriage, her family, the small and peaceable intrigues of the court, and Dawson with his archaic love of duty and his blindness to the inconsistencies of his application of it. Those had been her life since she’d left her own mother’s house. She hadn’t built that life, but rather grown in it.

  Now she felt like a flower plant that had been dug up gently and washed in water. She wasn’t injured precisely, but her pale roots were all exposed. If she couldn’t find soil, that would be enough to kill her. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise and the autumn would come.

  And the center of it all was the powerful absence of Dawson Kalliam. The man who had loved her better than he had understood her. The constant in her life. She could still remember what he had looked like the first night she’d kissed him. The way he’d hidden his fear behind chivalry and she’d wrapped hers in modesty until she was more than half certain neither of them would do anything, and they would sit in that garden, aching for each other until the earth itself grew old. He’d been young and handsome. The best friend of Prince Simeon. And who had she been? The girl that his father had chosen for him. The marriage arranged before either of them had had the chance to refuse it.

  She wondered if there might have been something that she could have done that would have changed his course. She wanted there to have been something. If all this disaster was her fault, at least she would have had some control. But it was a fantasy. There was no dinner party or distracting conversation that would have reconciled Dawson to being ruled by Geder Palliako’s priests. Stones would fly like birds first.

  It had been inescapable. And even if there had been something, it was gone now. She sighed and took a bite of the sausage. Too much gristle and oregano, but otherwise perfectly acceptable, and the black mustard hid an abundance of sins. She wept quietly while she finished her little meal and beer, then gathered herself, regained her smile, and returned to the world. She was heartbroken, and she would be for a very long time, but she needn’t be ineffective.

  She came back to Lord Skestinin’s house near nightfall. Her feet ached and her back. The hem of her dress was filthy from walking in the common street with the dogs and horses. The smell of animal shit seemed a part of the life of the city she might have to get used to. She bore worse. It was nothing.

  As she came into the house, she heard Barriath’s voice raised in anger and Jorey’s responding in kind. Her lips pressed thin, and she followed the sounds of fighting through the dim hallways and into the dining room lit by cheap tallow candles and decorated for a family that didn’t live there.

  “He’s my wife’s father,” Jorey said.

  “And I’m your brother,” Barriath roared, his face red to the edge of purple. “When did that stop mattering? Next you’ll be cozying up to that son of a whore in the Kingspire, asking him if he’ll give you room and a scrap of meat.”

  Sabiha stood in the doorway at the far side of the room, her knuckles white around a bit of lace handkerchief. Her expression told Clara how much damage Barriath had already done.

  “Good God,” Clara said, stepping into the room confidently as a bear tamer walking into the pit, “I’d think you were children again and someone had taken your best toys. What is this about?”

  “You’re taking shelter with Skestinin,” Barriath said, turning his wrath on her. “I won’t have it. He took my position with the fleet. I served him for years, and as soon as there’s a bit of trouble, I’m overboard like old fish.”

  “There are certain realities—”

  “I’m the eldest man in this family. That makes me responsible for our name,” Barriath said. “And I won’t have my dignity compromised by this.”

  Clara didn’t know what change of expression came to her face, but she saw Jorey’s eyes go wide and Barriath’s blood-thickened face grow apprehensive. A faint smile touched Sabiha’s lips. Clara met her firstborn son’s eyes. One day, he would have been Baron of Osterling Fells, she thought. His future had gone away without warning or reason, and grief made people mad. They did things they would never have otherwise done.

  She began to speak, paused, and began again.

  “My husband,” she said, softly and with terrible precision, “is not dead. You are my son. Jorey is my son. Sabiha is my daughter. Lord Skestinin is your family, and it would be best for all of us if he found that burden light.”

  Barriath scowled, but he looked away. The bear tamed, for the time being.

  “Jorey’s going to renounce Father,” Barriath said. He sounded peevish.

  “I know he is, dear,” Clara said, sitting down at the table with a sigh. “So are you.”

  Under Clara’s eye, Lord Skestinin’s house kept its uneasy peace for the night. Barriath sulked and pouted the way he had since the day he’d drawn breath. Jorey brooded more subtly, and with greater consideration for those around him. Clara sat by an unfamiliar window that looked out on a garden not her own, knotting lace because her needlework was lost to the Lord Regent’s justice. Just before bed, Sabiha found her, a small leather sack of pipe tobacco in her hand. Clara had kissed the girl’s cheek, but they hadn’t said anything. Some nights, Clara decided, were too delicate to risk with words.

  In the morning, the news came that Lord Geder Palliako was prepared to announce his judgment on the traitor Dawson Kalliam.

  Cithrin

  I

  f Cithrin had known when she went to the tailor that she would be dressing for an execution, she might have made different choices. In Vanai, the gaol had been open, and those waiting to see the magistrate could be seen and mocked, but the justice of the prince was done in private, the bodies of the condemned buried if they had families to watch over them and bear the cost or left on the hills outside the city if not.

  Porte Oliva was just the reverse. Waiting to be judged was a private matter, but once the sentence was passed, or the enforcement fees paid, the punishment was open for anyone walking by to see. The idea of holding a ceremony with all the highest levels of the court in attendance in order to carry out a slaughter that everyone knew was coming seemed perverse, and her limited wardrobe didn’t support it.

  In the end, she chose the darker of her two dresses. The lines of the lighter one were simpler and more sober, but even after consulting with Paerin Clark, she wasn’t certain how much of the day was supposed to be a celebration. A bit of face paint to give definition to her eyes, but not so much that she’d start to look like she was melting if the room was too warm. Two bits of jewelry that she’d acquired since the fire she tried in every combination, eventually settling on a thin silver necklace and no bracelet. She didn’t want to appea
r to compete with the nobility. Simple, understated, formal.

  She was on the edge of reconsidering her choice of dress when it occurred to her that she wasn’t concerned about the opinion of the court. To them, she was a foreigner, a halfbreed, and a merchant. If she’d worn the perfect clothes with the ideal jewels, the ones who had use of a banker would treat her nicely to her face and the others would ignore her.

  No, she was worried because Geder would be there. And that had to stop at once. She wasn’t a child or one of Sandr’s easily impressed stage followers. Something had happened once if they chose to agree that it did, and nothing had if they said it hadn’t. Going to court as if he would have time, interest, or attention for her was idiocy. And still, he had talked of allowing the bank to open a branch, so perhaps wanting to dress well in his presence wasn’t entirely dim.

  Still, she put on the bracelet before she stepped out to the gathering. Not for Geder or Paerin Clark or anyone else. She just liked it.

  The heat of summer was losing its grip on the city. The sky overhead was blue, but not rich, and she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Smit’s eventual rain came in the next day. She went out to the kitchen where the lowborn among the party were waiting. Elsewhere in the mansion, Baron Watermarch and his wife and daughters were making themselves ready, and no one would be leaving the courtyard until the family was prepared. Fortunately, the cook had put a plate of biscuits and cheese out for the guests to eat before they left.

  Paerin Clark was in a simple tunic and hose with a narrow leather belt. Seeing him, she felt more comfortable with her own decision. He smiled and offered a half bow, which she returned, reaching for a biscuit as she did.

  “Well, this should be interesting, at least,” he said. “It isn’t every journey we begin with the celebration of a war hero and stay for his execution.”

  “Do we know anything about him?” she asked around a mouthful of salt and butter with just enough flour to hold it together. Whatever shortcomings the hospitality might suffer, Daskellin’s cooks spared little and the results were lovely. “I’ve met him several times. He was important to putting Palliako on the throne and he’s been swimming-deep in court intrigue since I met him. Rigid thinker, no use for us or our kind.”

  “I’ll keep my mourning short,” she said. “Anything I should be watching for?”

  “I don’t know,” Paerin said. “Listen to what people say about the insurrection. If Kalliam has partisans, this will be the time to catch them upset.”

  “I will,” she said. “I would have thought that there would be more punishments. Kalliam wasn’t the only house involved in the thing.”

  “No, it wasn’t, but it was the leader. And some of the others made peace. Kalliam was captured. It makes him the extreme case.”

  The door opened and one of the junior footmen leaned in.

  “The lord and lady are walking out,” he said. “Come on along or we’ll be left behind.”

  “And here I thought we were waiting for them,” Cithrin said.

  “Noble blood flows by different rules. Best to nod and bow and be patient.”

  “And piss before you leave,” Cithrin said sourly.

  “Yes,” Paerin said with a smile. “And that.”

  Canl Daskellin and his family rode a palanquin with a dozen bearers while Cithrin and Paerin followed at a polite distance in a cart pulled by horses. As they came near the Kingspire, the magnitude of the crowd became clear to her. Every street and alley was packed with the powerful. Their servants shouted and fought, pushing for advantage and arguing precedence and points of etiquette like fishermen coming in from the dock shouted about nets. Their own cart didn’t come near the great tower itself, but drew aside perhaps a quarter mile away and stopped.

  “My thanks,” Paerin Clark called to the carter and tossed a copper coin through the air to him. Cithrin slid down at his side.

  “Walking the rest of the way?” she said.

  “As befits our station,” he said, offering his arm.

  The architecture of the chamber was marvelous. No matter where people stood, no matter how tall the person before them was, the view of the raised dais at the end was clear. Geder sat on a plush chair and Aster at his side. Cithrin felt a passing urge to wave to them. Seeing the pair of them together gave everything the feeling of theater. Though of course that wasn’t true. Geder wasn’t simply playing at Lord Regent, that was who and what he was. Or perhaps playing at it and being it were the same thing.

  The priest Basrahip stood to the side, his head bowed as if listening. Cithrin had the irrational sense that he was aware of every conversation in the hall, however quietly spoken.

  “You see the woman on the far left in grey?” Paerin said softly enough that the words were almost lost in the murmur of a hundred small conversations. Cithrin craned her head. She saw Canl Daskellin and his family, but none of them wore grey. The daughter especially seemed to be dressed for a celebration. She shifted again, and then found the one Paerinmeant. She was in the first part of her early middle years with a face that seemed to be made without angles. The cloak she wore was the grey of ashes. Two younger men stood at either side, the taller, thicker of the pair affected a full sailor’s beard. The smaller had a beard of more recent vintage.

  “Kalliam’s wife and sons,” she said.

  “Ah, you’ve seen them before, then.”

  “No,” she said, and began looking at the people around them. The disgraced family stared straight ahead, expressions empty or despairing or thick with dread, and the people nearby pretended not to notice them. The three might have been ghosts. No one saw them.

  No, that wasn’t true. Geder did. Cithrin leaned forward. Geder was looking at them, and his expression wasn’t angry or vengeful. That was interesting. Down in the darkness, he’d said he wanted every humiliation answered for, and she believed him. But now he looked anxious.

  The beat of a drum announced the arrival of the prisoner, and a small wooden door opened not far from Geder and Aster. The man who came through had grey hair pulled back from his face. He wore peasant canvas with smears of dirt and filth on the tunic and legs. His feet were bare and the soles black. He bore himself more regally than Geder, so much so that she felt a little pang of embarrassment on Geder’s behalf.

  Dawson Kalliam, patriot and traitor, was made to kneel in the center of the room, guards with drawn blades behind him either side. Aster glanced at him nervously.

  Cithrin bit her lip. What was she seeing here? Geder’s reluctance was written in every angle and underscored each movement. When he cleared his throat, the court went silent.

  “I have been petitioned by the … sons of House Kalliam for permission to speak. I hereby grant this to Jorey Kalliam of House Kalliam.”

  The crowd murmured as the younger son walked out. This wasn’t expected, then. Geder was giving something to the family of the man who’d tried to kill him. She couldn’t guess what he wanted in return. Lady Kalliam’s eyes were closed, her face nearly the grey of her clothing. The larger of her sons held her hand.

  “Lord Regent Palliako,” Jorey Kalliam said. He had a nice voice. Strong without being overpowering. “My prince, I have come to speak before you. Please know that I love my father much, and that I respect him for the honest service he has given the crown in the past.”

  The rumbling of the crowd told her that the sentiment wasn’t widely shared, but the man lifted his chin and his voice, pressing on.

  “However this most recent endeavor was …” The word was lost, the youngest Kalliam choking on it. “This most recent endeavor was treason. And I on behalf of my house renounce my father, Dawson Kalliam. I reject his name and reaffirm my loyalty to the crown.”

  Jorey Kalliam bent his knee and bowed his head. A glance at the crowd showed that all eyes were on the father whose son had just refused his name, but Cithrin was more interested in Geder. He wasn’t looking at the young man. His eyes were on the priest, and they were anxious. Ba
srahip gave some sign too small for her to make out, but the relief that flooded Geder’s frame was perfectly clear. Beside her, Paerin made a small click between tongue and teeth that meant he’d seen the same thing.

  “Did Jorey Kalliam just give the Lord Regent permission to kill his father?” Cithrin muttered.

  “Don’t know,” Paerin said. He had the trick of not moving his lips at all when he spoke. “But he got his permission from somewhere. Look how solid he’s turned.”

  It was true. The way Geder held his body had changed profoundly. The anxiety and uncertainty were gone. He looked as if he might start grinning at any moment.

  “I would speak,” Dawson Kalliam said.

  “You don’t have leave,” Geder said.

  “Your leave is shit, you doughy little coward. I won your wars for you,” Dawson said and tried to rise to his feet. The guards moved quickly forward to pull him down. The crowd fixed their attention on Dawson or else Geder, but Cithrin turned to watch the family. Lady Kalliam was nearly white now, her eyes pressed closed. The older son’s eyes were wide and his nostrils flared wide. Not the image of a family looking forward to the death of their patriarch.

  “I am the one who lifted you up,” Dawson shouted from his knees, “and you have betrayed everything that my kingdom and my friend Simeon stood—”

  “I didn’t give you leave to speak,” Geder shouted. Cithrin was watching him now. His face was darkening, and the relief was gone. “You will be quiet!”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? You’re a buffoon. I see how you’ve sold the throne. I stepped forward, and know this, Palliako, when we start to rise, you won’t be able to kill us fast enough. The true men of Antea will—”

  It happened quickly. There were executioners at the ready, dull and rusted blades in their hands. Geder ignored them. His face a mask of fury, he strode out to where Kalliam knelt, arms chain-bound. Geder walked past him, plucked the blade from the guard’s side, and swung it hard and artlessly as a child hewing wood. The sword took Kalliam in the face, shearing off a great slice of his cheek. He stumbled back, lost his footing, and fell. Geder stood over the fallen man, swinging the blade up and down again, soaking himself and the guards in the dying man’s blood.