The King's Blood

blame her if she didn’t. And someday I’ll need to find what it’s going to take to get a family I can keep.”
    Yardem nodded and flicked one jingling ear. They were silent for a moment.
    “I have an answer for that,” Yardem said.
    “Is it theological?”
    “Is.”
    “Best we save it, then,” Marcus said, clapping his hands on his thighs and standing up. His back was a single long ache, and his mouth felt as dry as cotton. When he stretched his arms, something between his shoulders cracked like a dry stick. “I take it Pyk has a list of work for us?”
    “Does, sir. But if you’d like to sleep, I can take a group through it all. It’s not so much we can’t manage without.”
    “No. There’s a job needs doing,” Marcus said. “Show me what we’ve got.”

Dawson
     
    C
    amnipol opened its gates to Dawson and his men as if to a hero from legends. The sober black and gold of the city was covered over in bright, celebratory array. Pennants as long as five men standing fluttered from the windows of the Kingspire, and the great bridges were hung with flowers produced by both nature and artifice. As he marched through the great streets, honor guard surrounding him, choirs of children sang the ancient songs of heroes and wars with Dawson’s name included among the great generals of the past. He was hailed as a great man and a patriot. The irony was rich. All of it was true, and not a word of it had been earned.
    Not yet.
    His army, of course, waited in camp outside the walls. No armed force was allowed within Camnipol. That had always been true, and after the showfighters’ riot, the old tradition had been reinforced. And even if Dawson had ordered the attack, it would have done no good. He was praised and honored today only as far as he was the tool of Geder Palliako and his cult. To turn against the man too soon was to invite failure. Dawson raised his chin, smiled, waved, accepted the garlands of white and red flowers offered to him, and reminded himself that all of it was not earned by what he had done, but borrowed against what he was about to achieve.
    Behind him, King Lechan walked with as much dignity as the old man could muster. The chains around his neck and wrists were made of silver and thin enough that they might almost have passed for adornments, but they were still chains.
    At the Kingspire, the Lord Regent waited in his grand audience chamber. Prince Aster sat at the man’s side, and the bull-massive priest stood behind the throne. Palliako wore the small, golden crown of the regency and his own signature black leather cloak, despite the heat of the day. The priest wore a dust-brown robe, much as the other priests did. A sparrow whispering to a crow.
    The crowd around them was quiet. Not silent. Dawson could hear mutterings and complaint, but near enough that when he spoke, the callers could make out his words clearly.
    “Lord Regent,” he said. “You have tasked me with the submission of Asterilhold. I have come to report that duty is done.”
    And on the word done , the crowd erupted in cheers. Dawson kept himself from smiling and watched Palliako’s face. No one knew that he had refused the regent’s order, and no reply had come to Dawson’s report that the nobility of Asterilhold was under his personal protection. It was possible that Palliako would have him named traitor for what he’d done, but with the adulation of the crowd ringing the city like a bell, it seemed unlikely. Nearly impossible.
    And, in fact, the regent was smiling. He looked about with a wide grin, as if the cheers were for him. Palliako stood, motioning for silence, but the cacophony went on, trailing off only slowly.
    “Lord Marshal Kalliam. You have shown yourself again to be an invaluable friend to the Severed Throne. It is my duty and pleasure to add to your titles and holdings. From this day forward, you are Dawson Kalliam, Baron of Osterling Fells and also of the Barony of Kaltfel.”
    Dawson felt a sudden tightness in his breast. The renewed cheers were wild as a windstorm. He had guessed that there would be no suit of peace, no treaty. The war now behind them had not been a conflict between civilized kingdoms. It had been raw conquest, and now as its spoils, Palliako had granted Dawson a city almost as great as Camnipol itself. He had made Dawson effectively the second most powerful man in Antea, behind only the regent himself.
    Dawson gave salute, but his mind was possessed by the implications.