The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

map, and put it back in place with the red banner of the spider goddess with its eightfold sigil flying from its minute rooftop.
    “Do you think it’s true?” Aster asked.
    “What bit?” Geder asked.
    “Do you think it was really like that? With Lord Ternigan taking the battering ram and the frost on the tents and the cunning man calling up flames?”
    “That part, I don’t know. The number of lost soldiers is probably accurate or nearly so. I have other men who can confirm all that. And how long it took to win the keep. The things that can be measured and counted, I don’t think he’d dare exaggerate. But the rest?”
    “You think he lied?”
    “I read a fair number of field reports from all through history,” Geder said, “and they didn’t match my experience.”
    Aster glanced over at Basrahip, and the massive priest lifted his eyebrows.
    Geder hadn’t known many children. Growing up, he had been the only child in the manor, and the boys and girls of the village had been only occasional companions. But even then, Geder thought that the patterns of age must be invisible to the people suffering them. Aster was his example. It was almost two years now since King Simeon had come and asked Geder to become protector of the prince. Geder could almost think that the boy he sat with now had been there, but that was an illusion. Aster had grown a bit taller, yes, but more than that, he had grown into himself. The planes of his face were still gentle, but not those of a child. Or at least not as often. He had become stronger too, leaner. There were still years before Aster became a man grown and took his crown, but Geder could see glimpses of that man. That king. It left him proud and melancholy both. If he was going to give Aster a world that was truly at peace for the first time since the dragons fell, he wouldn’t be able to rest, and there were days he would have liked nothing better than to sleep late, eat in the library, and nap in the sun. He had known that being Lord Regent would be a sacrifice. Even with all the power and status it gave him, carrying the weight of empire was only supportable because he was doing it for Aster.
    That was what he told himself, anyway. He also could admit to himself that there were some parts of wielding power that he would miss, when the time came.
    “Lord Palliako?” The old man bowed almost double as he came into the room. Ever since he’d come back after the insurrection with the courage to break from small traditions like letting other people bathe and dress him, Geder had gotten a reputation with the servants of the Kingspire. It made them much more respectful. “The general audience is ready, my lord.”
    Geder stood, pulling his robes back into their best trim. Basrahip rose from his seat beside the window and stepped toward him, gentle for so large a man.
    “All right, then,” Geder said. “Let’s clean this all up, shall we?”
    When he turned toward the door, the servant’s face was pale. Geder glanced behind him, half expecting to see an assassin or a bee. Some sort of danger. There was nothing but the room.
    “What? What’s the matter?”
    The servant swallowed and coughed.
    “Your crown,” Aster said, and Geder’s hand rose to his bare brow. “It’s back here.”
    “Thank you,” Geder said, taking the metal circlet and putting it on. “How does it look?”
    “Regal,” Aster said.
    Geder struck an exaggerated pose. The boy prince laughed and Geder laughed with him.
    The general audience was reputed to be one of the great chores of the regency. Over the long months of the winter, requests for audience had built up like water behind a dam: magistrates who wished to escalate their decisions to the highest possible authority, prisoners of the crown who wished to make a case for clemency, and the assorted small business of sitting the Severed Throne. Geder had never done the thing, never even attended one, and he looked forward to the enterprise.
    The hall set aside for the general audience stood a hundred yards or so from the base of the Kingspire, and the massive presence of the building looming above gave the event a sense of grandeur that bordered on the ominous. The seat here was the actual Severed Throne, the ancient metal scarred where Bacian Ocur cut it and Annan the Forge made it whole. Or so tradition had it. The truth behind the legend was anybody’s guess.
    From his seat, Geder looked out over a sea of faces. Gold and gems