The King's Blood (49 page)

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. Basrahip 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.

“You will speak when
I say you can
!” Geder screamed. Cithrin almost laughed at the unintended, bleak comedy of it. No one would ever successfully command Dawson Kalliam to speak again.

Geder stood, looking out at the crowd as if seeing them for the first time and unimpressed. At his feet, Dawson Kalliam spasmed once, then again, bare heels kicking at the floor. He went still.

“It’s over,” Geder said. “You can go now.”

He walked out quickly, the bloody sword forgotten in his hand.

“I do believe that man is about to vomit,” Paerin Clark said.

“I think we should leave,” Cithrin said.

The court left with them. Men with wide eyes and women with tight mouths. They’d come to see a death, and there had been one, but the form of it had been wrong and it left them shaken. If Dawson Kalliam had been stabbed with thirteen dull, rusted blades, there would have been no discomfort. Instead, Geder had lost his temper and taken the thing in hand and anything was possible. And she’d have bet a month’s salary that by nightfall, the story in the taphouses and alley mouths would make it sound like something out of a drama. The righteous king taking the executioner’s sword in his own hand.

The day gave no hint at the violence that had just taken place. Birds still sang, and the breeze smelled of flowers and smoke and the promise of rain. As she and Paerin walked down the flagstone pathway past sprays of midsummer blooms, she caught sight of the woman in grey. Lady Kalliam. On impulse, she took Paerin’s hand and dragged him with her as she threaded her way through the crowd.

“Lady Kalliam,” she said as she drew up beside the woman.

“Yes?”

“My name is Cithrin bel Sarcour. I’m voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. I wanted to give you the bank’s sympathies and my own. This can’t have been a good day.”

Lady Kalliam lifted her chin and smiled. She looked younger than Cithrin had thought. And on a better day, she would have been beautiful.

“That’s kind of you,” she said. “Very few people seem to feel that way.”

Cithrin put her hand on the woman’s arm, and Lady Kalliam covered Cithrin’s fingers with her own. It was less than a breath, and then the crowd parted them again.

“And that was for?” Paerin asked.

“Her son’s important enough to Palliako that there was special dispensation to speak at the execution,” Cithrin said. “May be useful later, it may not. Either way it costs us nothing.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one—”

“Cithrin!”

She stopped, looking back. The crowd between her and the Kingspire was splitting apart, highborn and low, noblemen and servants, all of them stepped off the flagstones and into flowerbeds or grass or mud. Geder Palliako was racing toward them, his face red. Blood still spattered his sleeves and face. She waited for him. The eyes of the court were on her like hawks considering a rabbit. Paerin Clark’s eyebrows were crawling up his forehead. This was a problem, and she couldn’t solve it.

“Oh dear,” she said. Then, stepping forward. “Lord Regent. You’re much too kind.”

He stood before her now, his chest working like a bellows.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. I shouldn’t have … I meant to invite you. And Paerin. Both of you. After it was done, I wanted you to join me for a meal. Some conversation. I have a book of poems that I got in Vanai, and I wanted you …”

Paerin Clark, beside her, said nothing. She didn’t think a little help here would have been too much to ask, but she also knew he wouldn’t give it.

“You are very, very kind to make such an offer, my lord,” she said. “But it occurs to me that you are presently soaked in a dead man’s blood.”

“Oh,” Geder said, looking down at himself. “I am. I’m sorry about that too. But if you’ll wait, just a few minutes.”

“There will be better days for it, my lord,” Cithrin said. For a heartstopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he only bowed much more deeply than the head of an empire should ever do before a banker. The looks of surprise and outrage traveled out from him like a ripple in a pond, but she only kept her smile in place as he made his way back toward the Kingspire. When she turned to leave, Canl Daskellin’s daughter was looking at her like the promise of an early death. Cithrin bowed to her as well, and took Paerin Clark by the arm.

The crowd re-formed, high men scraping mud off their best leather boots, and the tittering and laughter and scandalized eyebrows swarming among them. Cithrin cursed quietly under her breath, repeating a nearly silent string of obscenities until they were nearly at the cart. She was embarrassed. She was horrified. And more deeply than any of the rest, she found she was afraid. Afraid in particular of Geder Palliako.

The carter started them off into the press of the street. No one was moving quickly. It could take them hours to get back to their rooms. Cithrin wished deeply for a way to clear their path, and not just here on the street.

“So,” Paerin Clark said. “Did all of that mean something?”

“It meant it’s time for us to get out of Camnipol,” Cithrin said.

Marcus

I

t had been years since Marcus had traveled the coast of Elassae. He’d forgotten how beautiful it was. Just after Newport, the ground became rough, the coastline ragged and craggy. Mountains rose up, dead volcanoes with caldera lakes. They marched along north to south like soldiers marching into the sea. The string of islands leading south into the Inner Sea was their heads as they sank deeper and deeper. The water had none of the greenish tint and cloudiness of the colder climes. Sailing a boat on these waters would be like taking wing and flying.

There was no dragon’s road along this coast, or rather there were rumors that once there had been one, and the spill of the molten rock had covered it over back before the volcanoes had gone into their torpor. Somewhere deep under the rolling black hills, a thread of eternal green about as useful now as a fishhook in the desert. And Marcus found he didn’t particularly care. The path before them was clear enough: don’t walk so far north that you were going uphill, don’t walk so far south that your feet got wet. Soon enough, they’d reach the inner plains, and then Suddapal and then south across the Inner Sea to Lyoneia. And after that, it was too far ahead to figure.

The grass on the hills they rode was so green it hurt to look at. So intense that there were times Marcus felt that he was dreaming or hallucinating, and the sun and the tall blue air left him feeling that he could stretch up his arms and take it all into himself. Small villages studded the coastline. Timzinae fishermen, their black, insectlike chitin greyed and cracked by years of brine. When they were asked, Master Kit told a story about being a naturalist for the queen of Birancour searching for a rare kind of singing shrimp. He told it well enough that Marcus had found himself wondering sometimes whether the next cove might have them. Or perhaps it was the power of Master Kit’s strange blood that made him so convincing.

They were asked less often than Marcus had expected, though. The more usual case was that they were offered a bowl of the potluck stew that every fishing dock kept cooking all through the year, each man paying in something from that day’s catch in return for a bowl that had been simmering since before some of them had been born. The fishermen of the coast were dour and gruff and friendly. The women, apart from being Timzinae, were beautiful. The scales were more than enough to keep Marcus from repeating his error from Porte Oliva, though. And Master Kit, while a vicious flirt, never seemed to follow along as far as a woman’s bed.

Suddapal was a complex of five coastal cities, the largest of which spread out black and tan against the unreal green of the countryside. Where there should have been farms, sheep, goats, there was a vast swath of wild grassland, untouched and unhunted except at religious festivals. It struck Marcus as a terrible way to assure a steady food supply, but he had to admit it was beautiful to look at and walk through. A dragon’s road led east from its main square, but they’d gone as far east as they were going to go.

Which meant finding a boat.

“Are you sailors, then?” the Yemmu man asked.

“I’ve been known to haul a rope a time or two,” Marcus said.

“I’ve been known to pray a time or two,” the man said, the words surprisingly clear around the massive bulk of his tusks. “Doesn’t make me a priest.”

The docks of Suddapal spread out before them, piers running out into the wide blue water like bridges so long that Marcus could imagine walking to Lyoneia. After Timzinae, the most common race in Suddapal were the Yemmu like this man, thick, strong, intimidating to look at, but for the most part nicer than Pyk Usterhall. It was good to be reminded that the woman’s irritating nature was her own and not her people’s.

“We aren’t expecting difficult waters,” Master Kit said. “I understand that the worst of the storm season is over, and the maps I’ve seen show the current carrying us quite near our destination.”

“Maps you’ve seen,” the Yemmu said. “So you’ve never been there.”

“No.”

The man nodded his massive head.

“You’re a pair of idiots,” he said.

“Friendly, though,” Master Kit said. “And I do have a certain amount of gold.”

“Gold sinks,” the Yemmu said. “I don’t mind taking your coin, but I start feeling guilty when I let idiots die. Here’s what I will do, though. Small finder’s fee. Nothing you can’t afford. I’ll find you a ship and someone that knows how to use it.”

Marcus looked at Master Kit. The actor frowned.

“I hesitate to take anyone with us,” Master Kit said. “Our business is sensitive.”

“You know what else is sensitive? My—”

“I’m afraid that what we’re doing might be dangerous,” Master Kit said.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Kit,” Marcus said. “Give the man his fee. If we find something that’ll work, we’re not obligated to wait. If we don’t, that’s a fine second best.”

Kit sighed, counted out seven silver coins, and pushed them across the table. The Yemmu man took them, nodded once, and heaved himself up and away. Marcus watched him lumbering away from them down the docks.

“You think he’ll really look for someone?” Marcus asked.