The Dragon's Path

right.
    “Nothing will hurt her, my lord,” Vincen Coe said. “Not while I live.”
    T hree days after Clara left, riding off in the open carriage that had brought them with Vincen Coe riding close behind, the unwelcome guest arrived.
    The heat of the day had driven Dawson out of the holding proper and into the winter garden. Out of its season, it looked plain. The flowers that would offer up blooms of gold and vermillion in the falling days of the year looked like tough green weeds now. Three of his dogs lay panting in the heat, dark eyes closed and pink tongues lolling out. The glasshouse stood open. Closed, it would have been hotter than an oven. The garden slept, waiting for its time, and when that time came, it would transform itself.
    By then, Clara would have returned. He had spent time away from her, of course. He had court business and the hunt. She had her circle and the management of the household. And yet when she left him behind, the solitude was harder to bear gracefully. He woke in the mornings wondering where she was. He lay down at night wishing she would walk in through the dressing room door, alive with news and insight and simple inane gossip. Between the two moments, he tried not to think of her, or of Feldin Maas, or the possibility of her being used somehow against him.
    “Lord Kalliam.”
    The servant was a young Dartinae girl, new to his service. Her eyes burned in the manner of her race.
    “What is it?”
    “A man’s come asking audience, my lord. Paerin Clark, sir.”
    “Don’t know him,” Dawson said, but half a breath later, he did. The pale banker, agent of Northcoast, and seducer of Canl Daskellin. Dawson stood. At his feet, the dogs sat up, looking from him to the servant girl and back while they whined softly. “Is he alone?”
    The girl’s eyes widened, suddenly anxious.
    “He has a retinue, my lord. A driver and footmen. And I think his private man.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “In the lesser hall, my lord.”
    “Tell him I’ll see him in a moment,” Dawson said. “Bring him ale and bread, put his men in the servants’ hall, and then get me my guard.”
    The pale man looked up when the doors of the lesser hall swung open and stood when Dawson entered. That Dawson had four swordsmen in hunting leathers behind him didn’t so much as raise the man’s eyebrows. The bread on the plate before him had a single bite taken from it, the pewter ale tankard might not have been touched.
    “Baron Osterling,” the banker said with a bow. “Thank you for seeing me. I apologize for arriving unannounced.”
    “Are you running Canl Daskellin’s errands now, or he running yours?”
    “I’m running his. The situation in the court is delicate. He wanted you informed, but he doesn’t trust couriers and some things he wouldn’t want written in his hand regardless.”
    “And so he sends the puppet master of Northcoast?”
    The banker paused. The faintest touch of color came to his skin, and the polite smile he always wore.
    “My lord, without giving offense, there are one or two points it might be best if we clarified. I am a subject of Northcoast, but I am not a member of its court, and I am not here at the bidding of my king. I represent the Medean bank and only the Medean bank.”
    “A spy without a kingdom, then. So much the worse.”
    “I apologize, my lord,” the banker said. “I see I am not welcome. Please forgive the trespass.”
    Paerin Clark bowed deeply and started toward the door, taking the court and Camnipol with him.
Just because you don’t feel comfortable with it doesn’t mean it’s difficult,
Clara said in his memory.
    “Wait,” Dawson said, and took a deep breath. “Who’s wearing the prettiest dress at the twice-damned ball?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You came for a reason,” Dawson said. “Don’t be such a coward you abandon it the first time someone barks at you. Sit. Tell me what you have to tell.”
    Paerin Clark came and sat. His eyes seemed darker now, his face as blank as a man at cards.
    “It isn’t you,” Dawson said, sitting across the table and ripping off a crust of the bread. “Not as a man. It’s what you are.”
    “I’m the man Komme Medean sends when there’s a problem,” Paerin Clark said. “No more, no less.”
    “You’re an agent of chaos,” Dawson said, softly, trying to pull the sting from the words. “You’re a man who makes poor men rich and rich men poor. Rank and order mean nothing to men like you, and