The King's Blood

priests of the goddess. Twenty of them at least. They had blades at their sides and crossbows in their hands. Geder heard one of his personal guard gasp. Basrahip motioned for Geder to stop, then walked to the center of the first tier of benches. He motioned Geder to come stand by his side. The personal guard arrayed themselves unobtrusively against the wall, but Geder could see their eyes shifting around the room.
    Basrahip pointed to the man farthest to the left.
    “You, my friend. Step forward, please.”
    The guard didn’t move.
    “It’s all right,” Geder said. “Do what he asks.”
    The man came out to stand in the center of the room. In the gloom, he looked like a player about to deliver a speech. Geder had never really considered the guards as people before. This man looked to be in his fourth decade, with a pale scar that ran along his jaw on the left. Geder wondered what his name was.
    “Have you conspired to harm Lord Geder?” Basrahip asked.
    “No,” the guardsman said in a sharp voice.
    Basrahip nodded. “Please step back, my friend. You beside him, step forward.”
    One by one, the priest called each of the guards forward and asked the same question. At the end, he clapped Geder on the shoulder and grinned.
    “These men can be trusted,” the priest said. “Keep them close. And I will do all I can to be close by at all times. Until we find the extent of the threat against you, you must be wary and clever.”
    “I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” Geder said, but he wasn’t.
    “It will,” Basrahip said. “But there will be some times of danger also. Your Righteous Servant will protect you.”
    It was less comforting than it should have been. He went to the revel as he had planned, but with a growing sense of threat. Aster was there, sitting at the high table in regal array, but with his eyes traveling to the dueling yard where the boys of the great houses were battling with chalked practice swords; caught between the man he wasn’t yet and the boy he could never entirely be. Geder sat at his side and gestured toward the playing boys.
    “You should,” he said. “It’s in Kalliam’s honor.”
    “It’s just playing,” Aster said, feigning contempt.
    “I think it isn’t,” Geder said. “Those boys are going to be the men you lead one day. You’d be wise to get to know them now. I mean…”
    Basrahip, sitting behind him, nodded. It would be safe. Safe enough. Aster licked his lips and glanced at the boys. One of the oldest was showing the smaller ones how to twist the practice sword across his wrist and catch it overhand.
    “You’re right,” Aster said with a little nod. “Thank you, Geder.”
    “But Aster? Be… be careful.”
    “I will,” the boy said.
    Geder sat back in his chair, his hands worrying at the tablecloth. The entertainers went through their common paces. The servants brought him a dozen different platters of food. The singers extemporized praises of Dawson Kalliam. Geder found himself enjoying none of it. When Kalliam arrived—unfortunately alone, as both Clara Kalliam and Sabiha were feeling unwell, and Dawson had left Jorey to watch their conditions—Geder let himself relax a degree, but the memory of Basrahip questioning his guards stood at the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest. He could no more turn his unease aside than he could will himself to fly.
    After the meal, the revel moved on, the hours between midday and the feast proper filled with games of sport and chance. It was like watching a small tourney. The great houses all came, sat in their boxes, and gossiped. They were like a flock of peacocks, strutting for one another’s benefit, and Kalliam’s thinly veiled contempt mirrored Geder’s frame of mind.
    The jousting came and went, then the melee, then a series of show duels more fanciful than any real combat could be. Kalliam acted as judge, and his awards held the sharp wit he was known for. Sir Minin Laat was awarded a special prize in the melee for the most artful falling down. The joust between Lord Ternigan and his nephew Oster was declared a draw “to avoid dividing the family’s loyalties any further.” The jests were sharp, the laughter they called forth had an edge of cruelty, and Geder began to feel calmer. Whatever dangers Basrahip might have feared, they failed to appear.
    The feast itself was held an hour before sundown in the largest hall of the Kingspire. Chandeliers of oil lamps and cut crystal filled the air