The King's Blood

gotten a taste for blood. If this doesn’t end with Asterilhold, that will change quite a few calculations.”
    “I’ll speak with his majesty,” Paerin Clark said. “I’m fairly sure he’s of a similar mind. Not anything official, I think. Not an embassy. A dozen important people from court. A few powerful merchants.”
    “Meaning you,” Lauro said. He sounded peevish.
    “Meaning me,” Paerin Clark said. “I have some other contacts in Antea it might be wise to visit. See what we can find.”
    Cithrin found herself nodding, but her mind was elsewhere. The wine fumes confused her, but only a bit. In her memory, Paerin Clark was saying, You lack experience. It’s not a criticism, it’s only true. As if the truth couldn’t be critical. Something in the back of her mind shifted. This wasn’t the moment for more brashness. This was when to show some range. She could do that. She cleared her throat and lifted her hand like a schoolgirl asking to be recognized. Komme Medean nodded.
    “With your permission, sir,” she said, “when the group goes to Camnipol, I’d like to go too.”

Geder
     
    T
    he Kingspire was as busy as an anthill. Servants and workers and merchants moved through the sacred places of Antea with faster steps and louder voices. It felt like at any moment they all might break into song or else battle. And it wasn’t only the Kingspire. When Geder appeared at a feast or a ball, the sense was the same. The whole court was vibrating with a wild, barely constrained energy. The whole of Camnipol. They were preparing for the celebrations that would come when King Lechan of Asterilhold surrendered to Lord Marshal Kalliam and the short, decisive war— hardly a half a season long—ended with the Severed Throne triumphant.
    It all made Geder very nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the victory to come. Every day brought more couriers and reports, and the news was consistent: Kalliam and the armies were advancing steadily toward Kaltfel. The enemy was demoralized and falling back. The priests of the spider goddess seemed to be a very real help. Morale in the ranks was high, and three enemy commanders had already offered private surrender and been taken prisoner. Geder had the impression from Dawson Kalliam’s letter that there might be some friction between him and the priests, but it didn’t seem to be affecting anything. And the man could be a little prickly sometimes, so likely that wasn’t a problem.
    No, the thing that bothered Geder most was catching glimpses of bright costumes and servants cutting bright paper into bits small enough to throw. He understood that there would be celebrations when the war ended and that people would have to prepare. The city was like the taut bud of some lavish flower, only waiting for the right moment. And still, to assume a victory that hadn’t actually happened seemed like courting bad luck. And as much as the half-hidden costumes and half-made gaudy bothered him, the sober discussions of how to proceed once Asterilhold was crushed bothered him more.
    “Once Lechan sues for peace,” Emmer Faskellan said, lacing his fingers across his wide belly, “I believe we have established that the Seref Bridge must be permanently under our control. That’s the absolute very least.”
    “And reparations,” Gospey Allintot said. “We’ve lost most of the planting season, and it’s not fair that our women and children should go hungry. And we’ve lost good men whose widows and children will need to be supported.”
    It was a discussion that had clearly been going on in the rooms of the Great Bear, now translated into Geder’s meeting chambers, a grander venue for the old conversation. The walls here were draped with silk and tapestries from Far Syramys and fine golden chains from Pût, the floor covered with Southling-woven carpets from one of the small nations in the interior of Lyoneia. The table around which they all sat was a single piece of carved basalt from Borja; representations of the thirteen races of humanity made up the legs, all supporting the tabletop-wide stylized crown. Furniture as political sculpture. The air was perfumed with a musky Hallskari incense that made Geder think of rich food and ripe fruit.
    Geder’s personal guard stood in the corners of the room, armed and impassive, and Basrahip sat at a small table by the doorway where Geder could see him. The priest was only apparently meditating, his not quite closed eyes