Dawson
Summer in Osterling Fells. Dawson rose with the sun and spent his days riding through his lands, tending to the work that his winter business and the intrigues of the spring had left undone. The canals that fed the southern fields needed to be remade. One of the villages in the west had burned late in the spring, and Dawson saw to the rebuilding. Two men had been found trapping deer in his forest, and he attended the hanging. Where he went, his landbound subjects offered him honor, and he accepted it as his due.
Along the roads, the grass grew higher. The trees spread their broad leaves, shimmering green and silver in the breezes and sunlight. Two days from east to west, four from north to south, with mountain tracks to hunt, his own bed to sleep in, and a bowl of perfect blue skies above him. Dawson Kalliam could hardly imagine a more luxurious prison to waste his weeks in while the kingdom crumbled.
The holding itself buzzed with activity. The men and women of the holding were no more accustomed to the presence of the lord during the long days of summer than they were to his absence during the winter months not taken up by the King's Hunt. Dawson felt the weight of their consideration. Everyone knew that he had been exiled for the season, and no doubt the servants' quarters and the stables were alive with stories, speculation, and gossip.
Resenting that made as much sense as being angry at crickets for singing. They were low, small people. They understood nothing that wasn't put on the table before them. Dawson had no reason to treat their opinions of the greater world with more regard than he would a raindrop or a twig on a tree.
Canl Daskellin, on the other hand, he had expected better of.
"Another letter, dear?" Clara asked as he paced the length of the long gallery.
"He's telling me nothing. Listen to this," Dawson said, shaking the pages. He found the passage. "His majesty remains in poor health. His physicians suspect the weight of the mercenary riot is weighing on him, but expect he will be much improved by the winter. Or this. Lord Maas has been most aggressive in his defense of Lord Issandrian's good character, and is making the most of having escaped censure. It's all like this. Provocations and hints."
Clara put down her needlework. The heat of the afternoon left a beading of sweat across her brow and upper lip, and a lock of her hair had come free of its dressing. Her dress was thin summer cloth that did little to hide the shape of her body, softer than a young woman's and more at ease with itself. In the golden light spilling through the windows, she looked beautiful.
"What did you expect, love?" she asked. "Direct talk, plainly stated?"
"He might as well not have written," Dawson said.
"You know that isn't true, love," Clara said. "Even if Canl isn't giving you all the details of the court, the fact that he's corresponding means something. You can always judge a person by who they write to. Have you heard from Jorey?"
Dawson sat on the divan across from her. At the far end of the gallery, a servant girl stepped through the doorway, saw the lord and lady in the room, and backed out again.
"I had a letter from him ten days ago," Dawson said. "He says everyone in court is walking quietly and speaking low. Nobody thinks this is over. Simeon was due to name Prince Aster's ward at his naming day, but he's postponed it three times now."
"Why would he do that?" Clara asked.
"The same reason he exiled me for Issandrian's treasons," Dawson said. "If he favors us, he's afraid they will take up arms. If he favors them, then we'll do it. And with Canl calling the tunes, I can't say he's wrong to think it."
"I could go and ask Phelia," Clara said. "Her husband's been put in roughly the same position as Canl, hasn't he? And Phelia and I haven't seen each other in ages. It would be good to talk with her again."
"Absolutely not. Send you into Camnipol alone? To Feldin Maas? It wouldn't be safe. I forbid it."
"I wouldn't be alone. Jorey would be there, and I'd take Vincen Coe to keep me safe."
"No."
"Dawson. Love," Clara said, and her voice had taken on a hardness he rarely heard from her. "I let you stop me when there were foreign mercenaries in the streets, but that's passed. And if someone doesn't reach out, the breach will never be healed. Simeon can't do it, poor bear, because it isn't something that can be commanded. You and Feldin can't because you're men and you don't know how. The way this happens is you draw your swords, and we talk about who wore the most fetching dress at the ball until you put them back in their scabbards. Just because you don't feel comfortable with it doesn't mean it's difficult."
"We've gone past that now," Dawson said.
Clara lifted an eyebrow. The silence lasted three heartbeats. Four.
"You need to raise your army, then, don't you?" she said.
"It's forbidden. Part of my season of exile."
"Well, then," Clara said, picking her needlework back up. "I'll write to Phelia this evening and let her know I'd be open to an invitation."
"Clara - "
"You're quite right. I wouldn't dream of going without escort. Would you like to speak with Vincen Coe, or shall I?"
The anger that leapt up in Dawson surprised him. He rose to his feet, throwing the pages of Canl Daskellin's letter to the floor. He badly wanted to take some book or bauble or chair and throw it out the gallery window and into the courtyard. Clara's eyes were on her work, the thin glimmer of the needle piercing the cloth and drawing through, piercing and drawing. Her mouth was set.
"Simeon is my king too," she said. "Yours isn't the only noble blood in this house."
"I'll talk to him," Dawson muttered, forcing the words out through a narrowed throat.
"I'm sorry, dear. What did you say?"
"Coe. I'll talk to Coe. But if he doesn't go with you, you aren't going."
Clara smiled.
"Send my maid to me when you go, dear. I'll have her fetch my pen."
The huntsman's quarters were outside the great granite-and-jade walls of the holding. A long, low building, the roof's thatching laced down by long ropes of woven leather and weighted by the skulls and bones of fallen prey. The courtyard had weeds growing at the sides where the boots of men didn't trample them down and baled hay targets for the archers to practice against. The air stank of dog shit from the adjoining kennels, and a huge shade tree arched above the building's side, snowy with midsummer blooms.
Voices led Dawson to the back of the building. Five of his huntsmen stood or sat around the table of an ancient stump, raw cheese and fresh bread on the wood. They were young men, stripped to their hose in the heat. Dawson felt a moment's deep nostalgia. Once he'd been much like them. Strong, sure of his body, and able to lose himself in the joys of a warm day. And when he had been, Simeon had been at his side. The years had robbed them both.
One caught sight of him and leapt to his feet in salute. The others quickly followed. Vincen Coe was in the back, his left eye swollen and dark. Dawson strode over to them, ignoring all but the wounded man.
"Coe," he said. "With me."
"My lord," the huntsman said, and hurried to Dawson's side. Dawson walked fast down the wide track that led from the holding down toward the pond to the north. The shadows of the spiraling towers striped the land.
"What happened to you?" Dawson said. "You look like you tried to catch a rock with your eyelids."
"Nothing of importance, lord."
"Tell me."
"We drank a bit too much last night, lord. One of the new boys got a bit merry and... made a suggestion I found offensive. He repeated it, and I found myself moved to correct him."
"He called you a catamite?"
"No, my lord."
"What, then?"
In spring, before the start of the court season, the pond was clear as water from a stream. In autumn, after Dawson's return from court, it could be as dark as tea. He'd rarely seen it in the height of summer, the green of the water building on the reflections of the trees to make something almost emerald. Half a dozen ducks made their way across the water, their wakes spreading out behind them. Dawson stood at the edge where the grass had the dampness of mud beneath it. Vincen Coe's uncomfortable silence became more interesting with every passing breath.
"I could ask the others," Dawson said. "They'll tell me if you won't."
Vincen looked out over water to the distant mountains.
"He impugned the honor of Lady Kalliam, my lord. And made some speculations that..."
"Ah," Dawson said. Sour rage haunted the back of his mouth. "Is he still here?"
"No, my lord. His brothers carried him back to his village last night."
"Carried him?"
"I didn't leave him in fit state to walk, sir."
Dawson chuckled. Flies danced across the water before him.
"She's going back to Camnipol," Dawson said. "She has the idea that she can make peace with Maas."
The young huntsman nodded once, but didn't speak.
"Say it," Dawson said.
"With permission, sir. That's not wise. It's hardest drawing blood the first time, and that's already happened. It only gets easier."
"I know it, but she's determined."
"Send me instead."
"I'm sending you in addition," Dawson said. "Jorey's still in the city. He can give you a better picture of where things stand. You protected me when this all started. I need you to protect her now."
The two men stood together. Voices came from behind them. The kennel master shouting to his apprentice. The laughter of the huntsmen. It all seemed to come from another world. One not so far in the past when things had been better and safer and still right.
"Nothing will hurt her, my lord," Vincen Coe said. "Not while I live."
Three days after Clara left, riding off in the open carriage that had brought them with Vincen Coe riding close behind, the unwelcome guest arrived.
The heat of the day had driven Dawson out of the holding proper and into the winter garden. Out of its season, it looked plain. The flowers that would offer up blooms of gold and vermillion in the falling days of the year looked like tough green weeds now. Three of his dogs lay panting in the heat, dark eyes closed and pink tongues lolling out. The glasshouse stood open. Closed, it would have been hotter than an oven. The garden slept, waiting for its time, and when that time came, it would transform itself.
By then, Clara would have returned. He had spent time away from her, of course. He had court business and the hunt. She had her circle and the management of the household. And yet when she left him behind, the solitude was harder to bear gracefully. He woke in the mornings wondering where she was. He lay down at night wishing she would walk in through the dressing room door, alive with news and insight and simple inane gossip. Between the two moments, he tried not to think of her, or of Feldin Maas, or the possibility of her being used somehow against him.
"Lord Kalliam."
The servant was a young Dartinae girl, new to his service. Her eyes burned in the manner of her race.
"What is it?"
"A man's come asking audience, my lord. Paerin Clark, sir."
"Don't know him," Dawson said, but half a breath later, he did. The pale banker, agent of Northcoast, and seducer of Canl Daskellin. Dawson stood. At his feet, the dogs sat up, looking from him to the servant girl and back while they whined softly. "Is he alone?"
The girl's eyes widened, suddenly anxious.
"He has a retinue, my lord. A driver and footmen. And I think his private man."
"Where is he now?"
"In the lesser hall, my lord."
"Tell him I'll see him in a moment," Dawson said. "Bring him ale and bread, put his men in the servants' hall, and then get me my guard."
The pale man looked up when the doors of the lesser hall swung open and stood when Dawson entered. That Dawson had four swordsmen in hunting leathers behind him didn't so much as raise the man's eyebrows. The bread on the plate before him had a single bite taken from it, the pewter ale tankard might not have been touched.
"Baron Osterling," the banker said with a bow. "Thank you for seeing me. I apologize for arriving unannounced."
"Are you running Canl Daskellin's errands now, or he running yours?"
"I'm running his. The situation in the court is delicate. He wanted you informed, but he doesn't trust couriers and some things he wouldn't want written in his hand regardless."
"And so he sends the puppet master of Northcoast?"
The banker paused. The faintest touch of color came to his skin, and the polite smile he always wore.
"My lord, without giving offense, there are one or two points it might be best if we clarified. I am a subject of Northcoast, but I am not a member of its court, and I am not here at the bidding of my king. I represent the Medean bank and only the Medean bank."
"A spy without a kingdom, then. So much the worse."
"I apologize, my lord," the banker said. "I see I am not welcome. Please forgive the trespass."
Paerin Clark bowed deeply and started toward the door, taking the court and Camnipol with him. Just because you don't feel comfortable with it doesn't mean it's difficult, Clara said in his memory.
"Wait," Dawson said, and took a deep breath. "Who's wearing the prettiest dress at the twice-damned ball?"
"Excuse me?"
"You came for a reason," Dawson said. "Don't be such a coward you abandon it the first time someone barks at you. Sit. Tell me what you have to tell."
Paerin Clark came and sat. His eyes seemed darker now, his face as blank as a man at cards.
"It isn't you," Dawson said, sitting across the table and ripping off a crust of the bread. "Not as a man. It's what you are."
"I'm the man Komme Medean sends when there's a problem," Paerin Clark said. "No more, no less."
"You're an agent of chaos," Dawson said, softly, trying to pull the sting from the words. "You're a man who makes poor men rich and rich men poor. Rank and order mean nothing to men like you, and they mean everything to men like me. It isn't you I disdain. It's only what you are."
The banker laced his fingers across his knee.
"Will you hear my news, my lord? Despite what you think I am?"
"I will."
For the better part of an hour, the banker spoke in a low voice, detailing the slow landslide that was happening in Camnipol. As Dawson had suspected, Simeon's unwillingness to commit his son as the ward of any house came from the fear of making waves. The respect for his kingship was failing on all sides. Daskellin and his remaining allies offered what support they could, but even within the ranks of the faithful, unease was growing. Issandrian and Klin remained in exile, but Feldin Maas was everywhere in the city. It seemed as if the man never slept, and wherever he went, the story he told was the same: the attack of the show fighters had been rigged to throw disgrace on Curtin Issandrian in order that the prince not be sent to his house. The implication was that the convenient appearance of the soldiers from Vanai had been part of a great theater piece.
"Arranged by me," Dawson said.
"Not you alone, but yes."
"Lies, beginning to end," Dawson said.
"Not everyone believes it. But some do."
Dawson rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Outside, the day was leaning toward night, the sunlight reddening. It was all as he suspected. And Clara was riding into the center of it. The hope she'd offered before she'd left had sounded risky at the time. After this report, it seemed merely naive. He would have given his hand to have had the banker come a week earlier. Now it was too late. He could as well wish a thrown rock back into his hand.
"Simeon?" Dawson asked. "Is he well?"
"The hard times wear on him," Paerin Clark said. "And, I think, on his son."
"I think it isn't death that kills us," Dawson said. "I think it's fear. And Asterilhold?"
"My sources tell me that Maas is in contact with several important men in the court there. There have been loans of gold, and promises of support."
"He's raising an army."
"He is."
"And Canl?"
"He's trying to, yes."
"How long before it comes down to the field?"
"No one can know that, my lord. If you're careful and lucky, maybe never."
"I can't think that's true," Dawson said. "We have Asterilhold on one hand and you on the other."
"No, my lord," the banker said, "you don't. We both know I came hoping for advantage, but an Antean civil war won't profit us. If it does come to pass, we won't take a side. I've done what I can here. I won't be going back to Camnipol."
Dawson sat up straighter. The banker was smiling now, and it looked suspiciously like pity.
"You've abandoned Daskellin? Now?"
"This is one of the great kingdoms of the world," Paerin Clark said, "but my employer plays his games on larger boards than that. I wish you the best of luck, but Antea is yours to lose. Not mine. I'm traveling south."
"South? What's more important than this in the south?"
"There's an irregularity that needs my attention in Porte Oliva."
