The Dragon's Path

tension.
    “Where’s Coe?” he said. “I sent him to—”
    Clara raised an arm, gesturing behind him. Coe stood in the shadow behind the open door. The huntsman had a bared sword in one hand, a vicious curved dagger in the other. If Dawson had been an attacker, he’d never have known what killed him.
    “Well done,” he said. In the dimness, it was hard to tell whether Coe blushed. Dawson nodded to the doorway, and closed it behind the huntsman when he was gone.
    “I am so sorry, dear,” Clara said. “The footman brought word that Lord Issandrian was here, and I didn’t even think. I just had them make him comfortable. I couldn’t imagine leaving him to sit on the step like a delivery boy, and I thought if he needed to speak to you, then perhaps it would be best if he did. I never thought that he might have designs…”
    “He didn’t,” Dawson said. “Not this time. If he comes back, though, don’t let him in. Or any of Maas’s people.”
    “I have to see Phelia if she comes. I can’t simply pretend she doesn’t exist.”
    “Not even her, love. After it’s over. Not now.”
    Clara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The gesture was unladylike, unplanned, and broke Dawson’s heart a little. He squeezed her knee, trying to impart some comfort.
    “Has it gotten worse, then?” she asked.
    “Issandrian’s gathering soldiers. Cunning men. It may come to blood.”
    Clara took a long breath, the air curling slowly out her nostrils.
    “Very well, then.”
    “Everyone claims to have Simeon’s best interests, but God help us if someone should arrive who has the boldness to actually lead. Asterilhold and Northcoast are lining up to buy both sides, and either one would be as happy to see their puppet on the Severed Throne,” Dawson said. He coughed. “We have to win this while it’s still our war.”

Geder
     
    A riot?” Geder said, his heart sinking. “Why’s there a riot?”
    “People are going hungry, Lord Protector,” Sir Gospey Allintot said. “The farmers have been taking all their grain to Newport.”
    Geder pressed a hand to his chin, determined to keep Sir Allintot from seeing that he was trembling. He’d been told, of course, something about farmers and grain shipments, but in the thousand different things that administering the city required, it hadn’t stood out. Now angry voices roared one against the other until it sounded like a bonfire in the square beyond his windows. Someone was plotting against Vanai, an enemy out of the shadows weakening the fabric of the city. Maccia, perhaps, preparing to retake the city before Antea could solidify its claims. Or the exiled prince gathering allies throughout the countryside. Geder’s thoughts whirled and skittered ahead of themselves, dry leaves driven by wind.
    “Who’s behind it?” he asked, forcing himself to sound calm.
    Sir Allintot cleared his throat.
    “I believe it’s in reaction to your increasing the grain import tax, my lord,” Allintot said. “The farmers makemore coin for their grain, even though it means traveling farther, because the Newport tax rates are lower.”
    “So in order to make more money, they’ll let Vanai starve?” Geder said. “That won’t stand. We can send men out. Intercept the grain and bring it here.”
    Sir Allintot cleared his throat again. Either the man was getting sick, or he was struggling to hide laughter.
    “All respect, my lord,” Allintot said. “Even if we put all other things equal, riots are rarely solved by taking troops away from the city. Perhaps my lord might consider reducing the taxes to their previous level. Or, given the gravity of the city’s supplies, slightly lower.”
    “And reduce the amount we have for the crown?” Geder said.
    “Again, all respect, my lord. As long as no grain comes to Vanai, no grain taxes do either. The payments are already short of your stated marks.”
    The shouts from the square swelled. Geder jumped up from his seat and stalked to the window.
    “God damn it. Why can’t they be
quiet
?”
    They swarmed at the steps leading up to the palace. Two or three hundred people, waving fists and stones and sticks. Two dozen men in Antean armor held firm, blades at the front, bows at the rear. Geder saw Jorey Kalliam pacing among the soldiers. The mob surged forward a few steps, then fell back.
    “I’ll talk to them,” Geder said.
    “My lord?”
    “Tell them I’m coming out,” Geder said. “I’ll explain the problem, and