The King's Blood

arrow through you by mistake. Tell the count that I need to speak with him immediately. The situation has changed, he and I have very little time. Can you do that?”
    “Y-yes, Lord Marshal.”
    “Then stop looking at me and go !”
    When the sun came up, Dawson and Mysin Hawl, Count of Evenford, were at their little table in the no-man’s-land. At midmorning, the count rode back to the city, shaken and weeping, the deciphered letter tucked in his belt. All day, Dawson sat at the parley table. His chair was as uncomfortable as a saddle, but in a different way. His back ached afresh, and he was hungry and thirsty, and desperately tired, but he remained at the table, the parley still not officially concluded.
    The sun had started its long, weary arc toward the horizon when a sound came. A great, dry mourning drum. Far away before him, the gates of Kaltfel cracked and slowly swung open. The soldiers who came out carried the banner of Lechan, hung in reverse, and the yellow pennant of surrender. From behind him, Dawson heard the swelling, roaring shouts of victory. The sound washed over him like surf against the shore. All he felt himself was relief. King Lechan was a small man with poor teeth, but he held himself with dignity as Dawson accepted his surrender and took him into protection. In exchange, Dawson swore to do all he could to maintain that protection. All of the things he’d written to Palliako became true, except for a small matter of timing.
    A small matter of timing that was the difference between loyalty to the man sitting on the throne and loyalty to the honor of the throne itself.
    He gave command of the sack to Fallon Broot. For twelve hours, Kaltfel would feel the price of its loss as the soldiers of Antea ran riot over it, stripping its gold and gems and silver, its spices and silks. All the soldiers of Antea except two. If Dawson had looked for a better way to be assured privacy, he couldn’t have invented one.
    Alan Klin was paler than Dawson remembered him. A fever had taken him during the southern campaign, and he had not entirely recovered. The cunning men said he might never. He sat on the ground, his expression closed and sullen. Dawson considered his onetime enemy with a bitter amusement. The world made for strange partners.
    “Curtin Issandrian met with my wife,” Dawson said. “He was jealous of you. He hoped to have his own chance in the field. A way to regain his honor and good name.”
    “He’s always been a bit of an idiot,” Klin said. “Sincere, but…”
    “You do have a chance to regain your honor,” Dawson said quietly.
    “I’m not here to get back my good name. I’m not here because of what Maas did. Back before Vanai, I pulled a prank on Geder Palliako. And now he’s killing me without even the favor of doing it quickly.”
    “I think that’s true,” Dawson said and handed Klin a cup of honeyed water.
    “I mean less than a book to him. My life is worth less than a book.”
    “How many of your friends do you still have in the court?” Dawson asked.
    “A few, but none that’ll speak to me anyway. Everyone knows that Palliako bronzes a grudge. I’m going to be trapped under his idea of revenge for the rest of my life.” He sipped the water.
    “Sir Klin,” Dawson said. “I need your help. Your kingdom needs your help.”
    Klin chuckled and shook his head.
    “What is it this time? Does the greater glory of the empire require me to climb a mountain naked with bear bait strapped to my neck?”
    Dawson leaned forward. He had a sudden and powerful apprehension that the three priests would be nearby, that they would hear him.
    “There’s a difference between being loyal to a man and loyal to a nation,” Dawson said. “I thought once that Palliako was nothing more than an apt tool.”
    “I think you called that poorly, Lord Marshal,” Klin said, but his eyes were more focused than they had been. He scented smoke in what Dawson was saying. He wasn’t a stupid man.
    “No, I was right. My mistake was that I thought he was my tool. He isn’t. He belongs to those priests he pulled back out of the world’s asshole. They are uncanny, and I suspect they are more powerful than we understand. He’s dancing to whatever song they call. He is letting them choose our way, and he will do so until Aster’s of age. He is a monstrosity and we, in our folly, have given him the throne. As long as he has it, Antea will suffer. And you, my dear old friend, will be marked