The King's Blood

of them. Clara closed the shutter before she walked away.
    Jorey was in the kitchen when she returned to it. His hair was in disarray, the leathers he’d worn to war hung halflaced from his shoulders. He’d started to affect a beard, but it was still only stubble; a shadow across his cheeks no light dispelled. As she stepped in, her son looked up at her. The distance in his eyes was terrible to see.
    “Help me bind him up,” Clara said, forcing a smile into the words. “Your father’s a dear man and always has been, but I won’t have him leaking on the floors.”
    Dawson chuckled if Jorey didn’t. They stood at the wide table and tore the pale shirt into strips, the cloth parting under her fingers, threads ripping apart.
    “Bannien’s got the most men,” Dawson said, carrying on a conversation they’d already begun, “but his estate’s not defensible. Too open, too many low hedges a man could vault. Klin’s isn’t as good as Mastellin’s, but until we know how word of this leaked, we can’t trust the men I’ve trusted.”
    “But you can trust Klin?”
    “He wouldn’t take Palliako’s side if he was on fire and Geder had the only water in the world. Strange as it is, Klin’s the only man I feel certain I can rely on now.”
    She prodded at Dawson’s elbow to make him lift it, then laid the strips of pale cloth against his injured skin. Her fingers seemed to know what to do without her direction. Just as well, since her mind was a whirlwind and no two thoughts within it connecting to each other. When she needed to get around back to tie the bandaging down, Jorey held the cloth for her, and she had the sudden, powerful memory of helping her sister wash their father’s body for burial. The thickness in her throat was as unwelcome as undeniable.
    “I’ll go to him,” Jorey said. “If you think it’s best.”
    “No,” Dawson said. “Send a runner. You take Sabiha and your mother. Get them to safety.”
    “And what makes you think I would consent to go anywhere?” Clara asked tartly. “Last I saw, this was still my home.”
    The last of the bandages in place, she reached for the darker shirt. Dawson caught her hand. She couldn’t say which of them was trembling.
    “If you stay, Jorey will,” Dawson said, “and if he does, the girl will too. I’m not defeated, but I can’t both fight this battle and keep eyes on all of you. If you’re all here, I will keep eyes on you. Won’t be able to stop.”
    “You would have to,” Clara began, and the words choked her. She swallowed. “You would have to believe that there’s someplace safer than here.”
    “Jorey will take you out of the city. And when this is done, he will bring you back.”
    “Are you telling me the truth?” she asked, but they both knew it wasn’t a question he could answer. She kissed him sharply on the forehead: love and anger. “Let me gather a few things. Jorey, get your wife.”
    H
    orses and carriages would have been fastest, but they would also have called the most attention to them. Instead Clara and Sabiha wore dark cloaks with the hoods drawn up. Jorey walked in front wearing his leather and a sword at his side. Uncharitably, she wished now that she hadn’t sent Vincen Coe away. An additional sword either here with her or at the mansion guarding Dawson’s back would have been welcome. In the north, fires were burning.
    The city was transformed. The wide streets seemed dangerous, too open and leaving someone too easily seen. The shadows called to Clara, promising protection in their obscuring darkness. From the way that Sabiha walked close to her, she guessed the girl felt the same. These dark buildings and blackcobbled streets weren’t the city they’d lived in, but someplace unknown, unsafe, and malign wearing a mask of their home.
    They reached the square where in daylight farmers would sell their goods to the servants of the great houses on the western side of the Division. The smell of rotting leaves in the gutters marked where the last day’s fallen greens had been bruised into muck. Across the way, a crowd of men strode into the square, torches held high above their head. Without so much as a word, Clara and Jorey stepped into the alcove of a little shop, pulling Sabiha along after them. The torchlight seemed too bright; it hurt to look at too closely. The men were shouting to each other, rough voices drunk with violence and wine. They were going back the way Clara had just come. Toward the