“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. “His friends were powerful, though not from noble blood.”
“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.