“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. 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—”