The Dragon's Path

refusing the footman’s help and scratching the hounds’ ears. It gave life meaning.
    “We’ve heard from Jorey?” he said.
    “Yes,” she said. “He’s fine. He’s having a wonderful time in the field. His captain is Adria Klin’s boy Alan. He says they’re getting along quite nicely.”
    Dawson leaned against a flower table, arms crossed. The twinge in his belly grew worse. Klin. Another of FeldinMaas’s cabal. It had been like a bone in the throat when the king had placed Jorey under the man, and it still brought a little taste of anger thinking of it.
    “Oh, and he says he’s serving with Geder Palliako, but that can’t be right, can it? Isn’t that the strange little pudgy man with the enthusiasm for maps and comic rhyme?”
    “You’re thinking of Lerer Palliako. Geder’s his son.”
    “Oh,” Clara said with a wave of her hand. “That makes much more sense, because I couldn’t see him going out in the field again at his age. I think we’re all well beyond that. And then Jorey also wrote a long passage about horses and plums that’s clearly some sort of coded message for you that I couldn’t make head or tail of.”
    After a moment’s rooting through the folds of her dress, she held out the folded paper.
    “Did you win your little fight?” she asked.
    “I did.”
    “And did that awful man apologize?”
    “Better than that, dear. He lost.”
    Jorey’s script dotted the pages like well-regulated bird scratches, neat and sloppy at the same time. Dawson skimmed through the opening paragraphs. A few bluff comments about the rigors of the march, an arch comment about Alan Klin that Clara had either not seen or chosen to misunderstand, a brief passage about the Palliako boy who was apparently something of the company joke. And then the important part. He read it carefully, parsing each phrase, picking out the words he and his son had chosen to represent certain key players and strategems.
There aren’t any windfall plums this year.
Meaning Sir Klin was not the client of Lord Ternigan. Klin took his orders because Lord Ternigan was marshal of the army and not through any particular political alliance. That was useful information to know.
My own horse is in realdanger of developing a limp on his right side.
Horse, not mount. Limp, not lameness. Right side, not left. So Klin’s company was favored to remain in conquered Vanai, and Klin himself the likely temporary governor. Ternigan wasn’t planning to take rule of the city on himself. All the more important, then, that the army stall.
    Only
stall,
of course. Not
fail.
Never fail. Everything would be in place, if Ternigan’s forces could just withhold victory for a season. That difference between postponement and failure kept his private negotiations with Maccia from crossing the line into treason. As long as the conquest of Vanai was delayed until the spring season, there would be time to get Klin recalled to the court and Jorey put in his place. Governing Vanai would be Jorey’s first step up within the court, and it would take some prestige away from Maas and Klin and their type.
    Dawson had worked through the most obscure channels he could, had sent letters to agents in Stollbourne who sent letters to merchants in Birancour who had business in Maccia. Discretion was critical, but he had managed it. Six hundred soldiers would reinforce the free city of Vanai until such time as it was convenient that they not. In spring, they would retreat, Vanai would fall, and by summer Dawson would be drinking with King Simeon and laughing together at his cleverness.
    “My lord?”
    The servant stood in the solarium’s doorway, bowing his apology. Dawson folded the letter and handed it back to Clara.
    “What is it?”
    “A visitor, sir. Baron Maas and his wife.”
    Dawson snorted, but Clara stood and adjusted her sleeves.Her face took on an almost serene calm, and she smiled at him.
    “Now love,” she said. “You’ve had your play at war. Don’t begrudge us our play at peace.”
    Objections sprang to mind like dogs after a fox: dueling wasn’t a game, it was honor; Maas had earned the scar and the humiliation that went with it; receiving him now was empty etiquette, and on and on. Clara hoisted an eyebrow and canted her head to the side. All his bluster drained away. He laughed.
    “My love,” he said, “you civilize me.”
    “Oh not that, surely,” she said. “Now come along and say something pleasant.”
    The receiving room swam