The King's Blood

Cithrin

If Cithrin had known when she went to the tailor that she would be dressing for an execution, she might have made different choices. In Vanai, the gaol had been open, and those waiting to see the magistrate could be seen and mocked, but the justice of the prince was done in private, the bodies of the condemned buried if they had families to watch over them and bear the cost or left on the hills outside the city if not.

Porte Oliva was just the reverse. Waiting to be judged was a private matter, but once the sentence was passed, or the enforcement fees paid, the punishment was open for anyone walking by to see. The idea of holding a ceremony with all the highest levels of the court in attendance in order to carry out a slaughter that everyone knew was coming seemed perverse, and her limited wardrobe didn’t support it.

In the end, she chose the darker of her two dresses. The lines of the lighter one were simpler and more sober, but even after consulting with Paerin Clark, she wasn’t certain how much of the day was supposed to be a celebration. A bit of face paint to give definition to her eyes, but not so much that she’d start to look like she was melting if the room was too warm. Two bits of jewelry that she’d acquired since the fire she tried in every combination, eventually settling on a thin silver necklace and no bracelet. She didn’t want to appear to compete with the nobility. Simple, understated, formal.

She was on the edge of reconsidering her choice of dress when it occurred to her that she wasn’t concerned about the opinion of the court. To them, she was a foreigner, a halfbreed, and a merchant. If she’d worn the perfect clothes with the ideal jewels, the ones who had use of a banker would treat her nicely to her face and the others would ignore her.

No, she was worried because Geder would be there. And that had to stop at once. She wasn’t a child or one of Sandr’s easily impressed stage followers. Something had happened once if they chose to agree that it did, and nothing had if they said it hadn’t. Going to court as if he would have time, interest, or attention for her was idiocy. And still, he had talked of allowing the bank to open a branch, so perhaps wanting to dress well in his presence wasn’t entirely dim.

Still, she put on the bracelet before she stepped out to the gathering. Not for Geder or Paerin Clark or anyone else. She just liked it.

The heat of summer was losing its grip on the city. The sky overhead was blue, but not rich, and she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Smit’s eventual rain came in the next day. She went out to the kitchen where the lowborn among the party were waiting. Elsewhere in the mansion, Baron Watermarch and his wife and daughters were making themselves ready, and no one would be leaving the courtyard until the family was prepared. Fortunately, the cook had put a plate of biscuits and cheese out for the guests to eat before they left.

Paerin Clark was in a simple tunic and hose with a narrow leather belt. Seeing him, she felt more comfortable with her own decision. He smiled and offered a half bow, which she returned, reaching for a biscuit as she did.

“Well, this should be interesting, at least,” he said. “It isn’t every journey we begin with the celebration of a war hero and stay for his execution.”

“Do we know anything about him?” she asked around a mouthful of salt and butter with just enough flour to hold it together. Whatever shortcomings the hospitality might suffer, Daskellin’s cooks spared little and the results were lovely. “I’ve met him several times. He was important to putting Palliako on the throne and he’s been swimming-deep in court intrigue since I met him. Rigid thinker, no use for us or our kind.”

“I’ll keep my mourning short,” she said. “Anything I should be watching for?”

“I don’t know,” Paerin said. “Listen to what people say about the insurrection. If Kalliam has partisans, this will be the time to catch them upset.”

“I will,” she said. “I would have thought that there would be more punishments. Kalliam wasn’t the only house involved in the thing.”

“No, it wasn’t, but it was the leader. And some of the others made peace. Kalliam was captured. It makes him the extreme case.”

The door opened and one of the junior footmen leaned in.

“The lord and lady are walking out,” he said. “Come on along or we’ll be left behind.”

“And here I thought we were waiting for them,” Cithrin said.

“Noble blood flows by different rules. Best to nod and bow and be patient.”

“And piss before you leave,” Cithrin said sourly.

“Yes,” Paerin said with a smile. “And that.”

Canl Daskellin and his family rode a palanquin with a dozen bearers while Cithrin and Paerin followed at a polite distance in a cart pulled by horses. As they came near the Kingspire, the magnitude of the crowd became clear to her. Every street and alley was packed with the powerful. Their servants shouted and fought, pushing for advantage and arguing precedence and points of etiquette like fishermen coming in from the dock shouted about nets. Their own cart didn’t come near the great tower itself, but drew aside perhaps a quarter mile away and stopped.

“My thanks,” Paerin Clark called to the carter and tossed a copper coin through the air to him. Cithrin slid down at his side.

“Walking the rest of the way?” she said.

“As befits our station,” he said, offering his arm.

The architecture of the chamber was marvelous. No matter where people stood, no matter how tall the person before them was, the view of the raised dais at the end was clear. Geder sat on a plush chair and Aster at his side. Cithrin felt a passing urge to wave to them. Seeing the pair of them together gave everything the feeling of theater. Though of course that wasn’t true. Geder wasn’t simply playing at Lord Regent, that was who and what he was. Or perhaps playing at it and being it were the same thing.

The priest Basrahip stood to the side, his head bowed as if listening. Cithrin had the irrational sense that he was aware of every conversation in the hall, however quietly spoken.

“You see the woman on the far left in grey?” Paerin said softly enough that the words were almost lost in the murmur of a hundred small conversations. Cithrin craned her head. She saw Canl Daskellin and his family, but none of them wore grey. The daughter especially seemed to be dressed for a celebration. She shifted again, and then found the one Paerinmeant. She was in the first part of her early middle years with a face that seemed to be made without angles. The cloak she wore was the grey of ashes. Two younger men stood at either side, the taller, thicker of the pair affected a full sailor’s beard. The smaller had a beard of more recent vintage.

“Kalliam’s wife and sons,” she said.

“Ah, you’ve seen them before, then.”

“No,” she said, and began looking at the people around them. The disgraced family stared straight ahead, expressions empty or despairing or thick with dread, and the people nearby pretended not to notice them. The three might have been ghosts. No one saw them.

No, that wasn’t true. Geder did. Cithrin leaned forward. Geder was looking at them, and his expression wasn’t angry or vengeful. That was interesting. Down in the darkness, he’d said he wanted every humiliation answered for, and she believed him. But now he looked anxious.

The beat of a drum announced the arrival of the prisoner, and a small wooden door opened not far from Geder and Aster. The man who came through had grey hair pulled back from his face. He wore peasant canvas with smears of dirt and filth on the tunic and legs. His feet were bare and the soles black. He bore himself more regally than Geder, so much so that she felt a little pang of embarrassment on Geder’s behalf.

Dawson Kalliam, patriot and traitor, was made to kneel in the center of the room, guards with drawn blades behind him either side. Aster glanced at him nervously.

Cithrin bit her lip. What was she seeing here? Geder’s reluctance was written in every angle and underscored each movement. When he cleared his throat, the court went silent.

“I have been petitioned by the … sons of House Kalliam for permission to speak. I hereby grant this to Jorey Kalliam of House Kalliam.”

The crowd murmured as the younger son walked out. This wasn’t expected, then. Geder was giving something to the family of the man who’d tried to kill him. She couldn’t guess what he wanted in return. Lady Kalliam’s eyes were closed, her face nearly the grey of her clothing. The larger of her sons held her hand.

“Lord Regent Palliako,” Jorey Kalliam said. He had a nice voice. Strong without being overpowering. “My prince, I have come to speak before you. Please know that I love my father much, and that I respect him for the honest service he has given the crown in the past.”

The rumbling of the crowd told her that the sentiment wasn’t widely shared, but the man lifted his chin and his voice, pressing on.

“However this most recent endeavor was …” The word was lost, the youngest Kalliam choking on it. “This most recent endeavor was treason. And I on behalf of my house renounce my father, Dawson Kalliam. I reject his name and reaffirm my loyalty to the crown.”

Jorey Kalliam bent his knee and bowed his head. A glance at the crowd showed that all eyes were on the father whose son had just refused his name, but Cithrin was more interested in Geder. He wasn’t looking at the young man. His eyes were on the priest, and they were anxious. Basrahip gave some sign too small for her to make out, but the relief that flooded Geder’s frame was perfectly clear. Beside her, Paerin made a small click between tongue and teeth that meant he’d seen the same thing.

“Did Jorey Kalliam just give the Lord Regent permission to kill his father?” Cithrin muttered.

“Don’t know,” Paerin said. He had the trick of not moving his lips at all when he spoke. “But he got his permission from somewhere. Look how solid he’s turned.”

It was true. The way Geder held his body had changed profoundly. The anxiety and uncertainty were gone. He looked as if he might start grinning at any moment.

“I would speak,” Dawson Kalliam said.

“You don’t have leave,” Geder said.

“Your leave is shit, you doughy little coward. I won your wars for you,” Dawson said and tried to rise to his feet. The guards moved quickly forward to pull him down. The crowd fixed their attention on Dawson or else Geder, but Cithrin turned to watch the family. Lady Kalliam was nearly white now, her eyes pressed closed. The older son’s eyes were wide and his nostrils flared wide. Not the image of a family looking forward to the death of their patriarch.

“I am the one who lifted you up,” Dawson shouted from his knees, “and you have betrayed everything that my kingdom and my friend Simeon stood—”

“I didn’t give you leave to speak,” Geder shouted. Cithrin was watching him now. His face was darkening, and the relief was gone. “You will be quiet!”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? You’re a buffoon. I see how you’ve sold the throne. I stepped forward, and know this, Palliako, when we start to rise, you won’t be able to kill us fast enough. The true men of Antea will—”

It happened quickly. There were executioners at the ready, dull and rusted blades in their hands. Geder ignored them. His face a mask of fury, he strode out to where Kalliam knelt, arms chain-bound. Geder walked past him, plucked the blade from the guard’s side, and swung it hard and artlessly as a child hewing wood. The sword took Kalliam in the face, shearing off a great slice of his cheek. He stumbled back, lost his footing, and fell. Geder stood over the fallen man, swinging the blade up and down again, soaking himself and the guards in the dying man’s blood.

“You will speak when I say you can!” Geder screamed. Cithrin almost laughed at the unintended, bleak comedy of it. No one would ever successfully command Dawson Kalliam to speak again.

Geder stood, looking out at the crowd as if seeing them for the first time and unimpressed. At his feet, Dawson Kalliam spasmed once, then again, bare heels kicking at the floor. He went still.

“It’s over,” Geder said. “You can go now.”

He walked out quickly, the bloody sword forgotten in his hand.

“I do believe that man is about to vomit,” Paerin Clark said.

“I think we should leave,” Cithrin said.

The court left with them. Men with wide eyes and women with tight mouths. They’d come to see a death, and there had been one, but the form of it had been wrong and it left them shaken. If Dawson Kalliam had been stabbed with thirteen dull, rusted blades, there would have been no discomfort. Instead, Geder had lost his temper and taken the thing in hand and anything was possible. And she’d have bet a month’s salary that by nightfall, the story in the taphouses and alley mouths would make it sound like something out of a drama. The righteous king taking the executioner’s sword in his own hand.

The day gave no hint at the violence that had just taken place. Birds still sang, and the breeze smelled of flowers and smoke and the promise of rain. As she and Paerin walked down the flagstone pathway past sprays of midsummer blooms, she caught sight of the woman in grey. Lady Kalliam. On impulse, she took Paerin’s hand and dragged him with her as she threaded her way through the crowd.

“Lady Kalliam,” she said as she drew up beside the woman.

“Yes?”

“My name is Cithrin bel Sarcour. I’m voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. I wanted to give you the bank’s sympathies and my own. This can’t have been a good day.”

Lady Kalliam lifted her chin and smiled. She looked younger than Cithrin had thought. And on a better day, she would have been beautiful.

“That’s kind of you,” she said. “Very few people seem to feel that way.”

Cithrin put her hand on the woman’s arm, and Lady Kalliam covered Cithrin’s fingers with her own. It was less than a breath, and then the crowd parted them again.

“And that was for?” Paerin asked.

“Her son’s important enough to Palliako that there was special dispensation to speak at the execution,” Cithrin said. “May be useful later, it may not. Either way it costs us nothing.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one—”

“Cithrin!”

She stopped, looking back. The crowd between her and the Kingspire was splitting apart, highborn and low, noblemen and servants, all of them stepped off the flagstones and into flowerbeds or grass or mud. Geder Palliako was racing toward them, his face red. Blood still spattered his sleeves and face. She waited for him. The eyes of the court were on her like hawks considering a rabbit. Paerin Clark’s eyebrows were crawling up his forehead. This was a problem, and she couldn’t solve it.

“Oh dear,” she said. Then, stepping forward. “Lord Regent. You’re much too kind.”

He stood before her now, his chest working like a bellows.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. I shouldn’t have … I meant to invite you. And Paerin. Both of you. After it was done, I wanted you to join me for a meal. Some conversation. I have a book of poems that I got in Vanai, and I wanted you …”

Paerin Clark, beside her, said nothing. She didn’t think a little help here would have been too much to ask, but she also knew he wouldn’t give it.

“You are very, very kind to make such an offer, my lord,” she said. “But it occurs to me that you are presently soaked in a dead man’s blood.”

“Oh,” Geder said, looking down at himself. “I am. I’m sorry about that too. But if you’ll wait, just a few minutes.”

“There will be better days for it, my lord,” Cithrin said. For a heartstopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he only bowed much more deeply than the head of an empire should ever do before a banker. The looks of surprise and outrage traveled out from him like a ripple in a pond, but she only kept her smile in place as he made his way back toward the Kingspire. When she turned to leave, Canl Daskellin’s daughter was looking at her like the promise of an early death. Cithrin bowed to her as well, and took Paerin Clark by the arm.

The crowd re-formed, high men scraping mud off their best leather boots, and the tittering and laughter and scandalized eyebrows swarming among them. Cithrin cursed quietly under her breath, repeating a nearly silent string of obscenities until they were nearly at the cart. She was embarrassed. She was horrified. And more deeply than any of the rest, she found she was afraid. Afraid in particular of Geder Palliako.

The carter started them off into the press of the street. No one was moving quickly. It could take them hours to get back to their rooms. Cithrin wished deeply for a way to clear their path, and not just here on the street.

“So,” Paerin Clark said. “Did all of that mean something?”

“It meant it’s time for us to get out of Camnipol,” Cithrin said.