The King's Blood(80)

“No,” Komme Medean said, feigning horror. “Never that.”

The meal went on until well after dark. The conversation ranged over art and politics and the indignities of travel. Everyone was very casual, and traded jokes and stories. The wine was very good, and left Cithrin feeling a little above herself, warm and happy and more relaxed than was strictly wise. Before he left, Daskellin shook all the men’s hands and embraced Komme Medean like a brother. He also kissed Cithrin on the lips, so he might have been more than a bit tipsy himself.

After he left, servants came in and cleared the table, bringing a stool for Komme’s bad leg. It had gotten visibly worse during the evening, but it was only now that he showed that it bothered him. The others took their seats, and so Cithrin did too.

“Well?” Komme said, his voice perfectly sober and crisp. “What do we have?”

“The regent’s unpredictable,” Chana said. “And Daskellin doesn’t like him.”

“Fears him, though,” Paerin Clark said.

“Do you think so?” Lauro said. “He seemed to speak well of him to me.”

“No,” Cithrin said. “Fears him is right. And there was something else, I couldn’t make out. He’s uneasy about the war. Even though they’re winning it. Why is that?”

It was eerie. All her childhood had been spent around a different table with Magister Imaniel and Cam and Besel having conversations much like this. Analysis, debate, discussion. Dissection. And now here she was in a strange place with different people and utterly at home.

“Either he doesn’t think it’s going to end with Asterilhold or he expects the balance of power in court to shift because of it,” Chana said. “Did you see how nervous he looked when I joked about the regent not having a wife?”

“You’re thinking there might be a political marriage with Asterilhold?” Komme said. “Unification?”

“I think it’s on his mind and he doesn’t want it,” Chana said. “Does he have a daughter?”

“Yes,” Paerin said. “And of the right age.”

“Well then,” Chana said as if the matter were settled.

“I’m not sure,” Komme said. “I think there was something more to it than that. How much do we know about Palliako’s allies?”

“Very little,” Paerin said. “His reputation is as a scholar. And newly pious.”

“Pious, eh? That may be an issue. King Tracian should send a group,” Komme said. “Sound out the court. This new war went awfully well for Antea. It’d be good to know if this Palliako’s gotten a taste for blood. If this doesn’t end with Asterilhold, that will change quite a few calculations.”

“I’ll speak with his majesty,” Paerin Clark said. “I’m fairly sure he’s of a similar mind. Not anything official, I think. Not an embassy. A dozen important people from court. A few powerful merchants.”

“Meaning you,” Lauro said. He sounded peevish.

“Meaning me,” Paerin Clark said. “I have some other contacts in Antea it might be wise to visit. See what we can find.”

Cithrin found herself nodding, but her mind was elsewhere. The wine fumes confused her, but only a bit. In her memory, Paerin Clark was saying, You lack experience. It’s not a criticism, it’s only true. As if the truth couldn’t be critical. Something in the back of her mind shifted. This wasn’t the moment for more brashness. This was when to show some range. She could do that. She cleared her throat and lifted her hand like a schoolgirl asking to be recognized. Komme Medean nodded.

“With your permission, sir,” she said, “when the group goes to Camnipol, I’d like to go too.”





Geder



T

he Kingspire was as busy as an anthill. Servants and workers and merchants moved through the sacred places of Antea with faster steps and louder voices. It felt like at any moment they all might break into song or else battle. And it wasn’t only the Kingspire. When Geder appeared at a feast or a ball, the sense was the same. The whole court was vibrating with a wild, barely constrained energy. The whole of Camnipol. They were preparing for the celebrations that would come when King Lechan of Asterilhold surrendered to Lord Marshal Kalliam and the short, decisive war— hardly a half a season long—ended with the Severed Throne triumphant.

It all made Geder very nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the victory to come. Every day brought more couriers and reports, and the news was consistent: Kalliam and the armies were advancing steadily toward Kaltfel. The enemy was demoralized and falling back. The priests of the spider goddess seemed to be a very real help. Morale in the ranks was high, and three enemy commanders had already offered private surrender and been taken prisoner. Geder had the impression from Dawson Kalliam’s letter that there might be some friction between him and the priests, but it didn’t seem to be affecting anything. And the man could be a little prickly sometimes, so likely that wasn’t a problem.