The lanterns were all lit in the courtyard when she arrived home. The full staff of the house, servants and slaves alike, were turned out as if prepared for a massive gathering. On the one hand, the household was her mercenary company, doing her will and watching. No one would come or go from the house tonight except Clara would know of it. And by keeping them in the halls and passages, watching the gardens and windows, they’d be less likely to eavesdrop on Jorey and Sabiha. Her son and her new daughter.
She sat in her withdrawing room eating honeyed bread and drinking tea and thinking about grandchildren. Of course, there already was one, of sorts. Sabiha’s scandalous child would be old enough to call for his mother by now. Old enough to crawl. He wouldn’t know that his mother had begun a new life today. He might not even know who his mother was. Certainly Lord Skestinin hadn’t allowed Sabiha to be with the child, much less care for it.
Clara lit her pipe, picked up her embroidery, and promised herself to look into conditions for the boy in the morning. Now that Sabiha was part of her household, it would fall on Clara to be sure the boy was cared for honorably and otherwise never heard from again.
A gentle knock came at the door, and she called out her permission. The master of house had arranged the gifts and had the accounting ready for her. She held out her hand, and he laid the length of paper in it. Lord Bannien had gifted them with two geldings from his stables and a small carriage in the colors of House Kalliam. Lord Bastin had offered up a silver box with a half ounce of spice worth more than Bannien’s horses and carriage together, if it was truly what he claimed. Even Curtin Issandrian had offered up a hand mirror from the glassworks of Elassae, rimmed in silver and stamped with their two names together.
This was what weddings were for, after all. The opportunity for kindness and extravagance. The chance for last year’s rivals to become this season’s friends or, failing that, at least friendly acquaintances. It was the other side of the battles and intrigues, this creation of bonds and connections. They were weaving the fabric of civilization. What Dawson protected with common rites and tradition, Clara built for herself out of notes of gratitude and imported hand mirrors. Neither strategy was better than the other, and both were necessary.
She went to bed late, Dawson still not returned to the house, and slept almost at once. She was dreaming of mice and a spinning wheel when the familiar touch brought her partway to wakefulness. The dream receded and her own room swam into focus. Dawson sat at the edge of the bed, still in his festive black and gold. For a moment, she thought he had come to celebrate in his own way, and she smiled lazily at the prospect of their familiar physical intimacy.
The candlelight caught his face, the tear tracks shining on his cheeks, and all vestige of sleep in her died. Clara sat up.
“What’s happened?”
Dawson shook his head. He smelled of fortified wine and rich tobacco. Her mind went instantly to Jorey, to Sabiha. Too many tragic songs called forth the calamity of the bridal night. She took her husband by the shoulder and twisted him until his eyes met her.
“Love,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”
“I am old and growing older,” he said. “My youngest son has a wife and a family of his own, and the companions of my boyhood are leaving me. Pulled away into darkness.”
He was drunk, but the sorrow in his voice was unmistakable. He wasn’t sad because he’d drunk too much, rather he’d drunk too much from being sad.
“Simeon?” she asked, and he nodded. When he answered, his voice was melancholy.
“The king is dead.”
Cithrin
N
ortheast in Narinisle, the grey stone city of Stollbourne, center of the bluewater trade. Southeast in Herez, Daun the city of lamps and dogs and the great mines of the Dartinae. South in Elassae, the five cities of Suddapal commanding the trade of the Inner Sea. In Northcoast, Carse and the Grave of Dragons and Komme Medean and his holding company. Once, not very long ago in the Free Cities, Vanai, and now in the southern reaches of Birancour, Porte Oliva. The branches of the Medean bank spread across the continent like spokes on a wheel. Cithrin sat at her table and traced her fingertips across the map and dreamed of them.
Her life for as long as she remembered had been in Vanai. When it burned, her past burned with it. The streets and canals she’d played in when she was a child were gone now, as were almost all the people who remembered them. If she couldn’t quite recall whether a particular street sat north or south of the market square, the knowledge was simply lost to the world. There was no way to find out, and worse, no reason to.