The King's Blood(141)

She stopped. Jorey went on another few steps before he realized that she had.

“You will disgrace him,” she said. “You will renounce him and deny him. Do you understand me? You will turn your back on him and let the whole world see you do it.”

“No, Mother.”

She raised her hand, commanding silence.

“This isn’t a debate at the club. Filial piety is all well and good, but that isn’t the time we’re living in. You have obligations. To Sabiha and to me.”

He was weeping now too, and in the street. Well, if they were going to make a spectacle of themselves, she supposed this would be the day for it. A cart rattled past them and she put her hand on his arm.

“Your father knows that you love and respect him. Nothing will change that. And he knows that you have a wife of your own. A life that he helped to give you. He won’t resent your protecting that. We don’t have very much left. We aren’t giving away what we do.”

“Father deserves to have someone beside him.”

Clara smiled, her heart breaking just a little more. Her son, loyal as a dog. We raised him well, she thought.

“He does deserve that,” she said, “but he wouldn’t want it. I’m only his wife, but he deserves to have his sons by his side. Only then he’d be distracted trying to protect us all. He knows you love him. He knows that you honor him in your heart. Seeing that you were suffering with him and because of him would make whatever happens to him worse. So you will renounce him. Change your name, likely. Do whatever you have to do to be as good a man to your Sabiha as Dawson has been to me.”

“But—”

“That’s what you will do,” she said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” he said.

“Good,” she said.

Lord Skestinin’s mansions in the city were modest at best, a nod to convention more than an actual working household. He was a naval man. His summer seasons were spent on the sea, not in the court, and his winters were at his holding or, rarely, on the King’s Hunt. Clara stowed her few things in a cell hardly larger than her dressing room, made up her face and straightened her gown, and went immediately back out to the street. The hour was almost upon her, and the shock of losing her home pressed her into action.

Curtin Issandrian’s mansion looked somewhat reduced, partly because it shared a courtyard with the house that belonged to the Baron of Ebbingbaugh, Geder Palliako. When Aster ascended, Palliako would retire there, and in the meantime it was being kept up as a point of pride. Any mansion would pale if compared to the Lord Regent’s, and Issandrian had fallen on hard times.

The door slave announced her, and almost at once, Curtin Issandrian led her into his withdrawing room. She was about to take her pipe from its holder when she realized she’d left all her tobacco at the house. She didn’t have any, and she didn’t feel right begging that when she’d already come to ask so much of him.

“I heard that your mansion has been confiscated,” he said. “I am truly sorry.”

“Well, I could hardly expect to keep it. The holding in Osterling Fells is gone too, of course. And I don’t think Dawson was actually Baron of Kaltfel for long enough that I’ll feel that loss. I’ll miss the holding, though. It’s a pretty place in winter.”

“I recall,” the man said, smiling. “Your hospitality was always excellent. Even to your husband’s rivals.”

“Oh, especially to them,” Clara said. “What sort of virtue does it take to be nice to your friends?”

Issandrian laughed at that. Good. He might be willing to hear her out. They talked about small things for a few more minutes. The heat of the day wasn’t so bad yet that the with-drawing room became unpleasant. It would come, but not yet.

“I confess I’ve come for more than kind words and comfort,” she said, “though you’re quite good at both of those.”

“How can I help?” he asked.

“You and my husband are acknowledged enemies.”

“Not so far as that, I hope. Rivals, perhaps.”

“No. Enemies. And there’s a sincerity in being a man’s enemy. It puts you in a position to help me. I have nothing to offer you in exchange, but if you can, please speak on behalf of my sons and daughters. Not formally, but in the Great Bear and privately. I should be very grateful.”

“Daughters? I thought you only had one.”

“Elisia and Sabiha,” Clara said.

“Ah,” Issandrian said. He didn’t look so bad with his hair cut short. Now that he’d worn it this way for a time, it became familiar. The difference was only a difference after all.