The Dragon's Path

Herez. Elassae. If this comes to blades in the street, we’ll need—”
    “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Dawson said. “We have guests.”
    The banker smiled and gave a brief nod. Dawson wished that etiquette allowed him to challenge a man of no status to a duel. The banker was nothing more than a trumped-up merchant. He should have been beneath Dawson’s notice, but something about the man’s studied placidity invited the drawing of blood. Canl Daskellin’s brows were nearly asingle knot, and Odderd was shifting his gaze between the others like a mouse at a catfight.
    “I have known Paerin Clark and his family for years,” Daskellin said, his voice tight and controlled. “I have absolute faith in his discretion.”
    “How sweet for you,” Dawson said. “I met him today.”
    “Please, my lords,” the banker said. “I came to make my position clear. I have done so. If Lord Kalliam should have a change of heart, the Medean bank’s offer stands. If not, then surely no harm’s done.”
    “We’ll continue this another time,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.
    “Oh yes. We will,” Daskellin said. Odderd said nothing, but the banker rose and bowed to Dawson as he left. Vincen Coe fell in behind him without a word. Dawson stalked up, following the winding paths that led through the roots of Camnipol.
    When at length they reached the street, his legs ached and his rage had faded. Coe doused the torch in a snowbank, the pitch leaving a filthy smear on the white. Dawson had chosen to walk rather than take his carriage in part to show any of Issandrian’s hired thugs that he didn’t fear them, but also in the name of discretion. Leaving his own team sitting on the Division’s edge waiting his reemergence from the underworld was as good as hanging a banner. Not that discretion seemed the first response from his cohorts. What had Daskellin been thinking?
    And still, when he reached his mansion, his face numbed by the chill wind, he was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice that a carriage not his own waited by the stables. The old Tralgu door slave flicked his ears nervously as Dawson approached.
    “Welcome home, my lord,” the slave said, his silver chainclinking as he made a bow. “A visitor arrived an hour ago, my lord.”
    “Who?” Dawson said.
    “Curtin Issandrian, my lord.”
    Dawson’s heart went tight, his blood suddenly singing through his veins. The cold of the day and the frustration of the meeting fell away. He glanced at Vincen Coe, and the huntsman’s expression mirrored his own shock.
    “You let him
in
?”
    The Tralgu slave bowed his head, an icon of fear and distress.
    “The lady insisted, my lord.”
    Dawson drew his sword and took the front steps three at a time. If Issandrian had laid hands on Clara, this would be the shortest and bloodiest revolution in the history of the world. Dawson would burn Issandrian’s bones in the square and piss on the fire. As he reached the atrium of the house, Coe was at his side.
    “Find Clara,” Dawson said. “Take her to her rooms, and kill anyone who comes in if they aren’t of the household.”
    Coe nodded once and vanished into the hallways, swift and silent as a breeze. Dawson strode quietly through his own house, sword in hand. He rounded one corner to the gasp of a maid, her eyes wide at sight of the weapon and her master. His dogs found him when he entered the solarium and followed behind him, whining and growling.
    He found Issandrian in the western sitting room, gazing into the fire grate. The man’s unfashionably long hair spilled out over his shoulders like a lion’s mane, the red-gold of it taking color from the flames. Issandrian noticed the sword and lifted his eyebrows, but made no other move.
    “Where is my wife?” Dawson asked, and behind him his dogs growled.
    “I couldn’t say,” Issandrian said. “I haven’t seen her since she brought me here to await your return.”
    Dawson narrowed his eyes, his senses straining for some sign of duplicity. Issandrian glanced at the dogs baring their teeth, then up at Dawson. There was no fear in his expression.
    “I can wait here a bit longer if you’d like to speak with her first.”
    “What do you want here?”
    “The good of the kingdom,” Issandrian said. “We’re men of the world, Lord Kalliam. We both know where the path we’re on leads.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Everyone says it. It’s Issandrian’s cabal against