Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

“Estranged cousin,” Daskellin said. “But dead cousin in any case. His greatest strength was that he had no love for Issandrian and no direct ties to any of us.”

Dawson spat.

“How is it we’ve come so quickly to the place where we don’t want to seat one of our enemies or one of our own.”

“It’s the danger of conspiracy,” Daskellin said. “Breeds a certain distrust.”

Dawson crossed his arms. In his heart, he wanted his son Jorey in the prince’s chair. He could rely on his own blood in a way that mere politics could never attain. Which was, of course, why he’d sworn against it. Vanai had to be denied to Issandrian. But it couldn’t be taken by any single member of Dawson’s still-fresh alliance without threatening its fracture. Dawson had foreseen the problem. He had his proposal ready.

“Hear me out, Canl. Vanai was always a small piece in this,” Dawson said carefully.

“True.”

“With Klin gone, Issandrian’s lost the tribute, but the city is still his project. Maas agitated for taking it. Klin fought for it, and even controlled the city until now. If we don’t put someone in power who is identified with us, it will remain Issandrian’s in the general opinion.”

“But who of ours can we put in?”

“No one,” Dawson said, “that’s what I mean. We can’t take it from Issandrian in the mind of the court. But now we can control what it says about him. What if the governance of the city were to become a catastrophe? Lose the city to incompetence, and Issandrian’s reputation suffers along with it.”

Daskellin stopped. Between the dimness of the light spilling from the feast chamber and the darkness of the man’s complexion, Dawson couldn’t read his expression. He pressed on.

“My youngest son is there,” Dawson said. “He’s been sending reports. Lerer Palliako’s son is in Vanai. Geder, his name is. Klin’s been using him to do the unpopular work. No one likes or respects him.”

“Why not? Is he dim?”

“Worse than dim, one of those men who only knows what he’s read in books. He’s the kind that reads an account of a sailing voyage and thinks he’s a captain.”

“And you want Ternigan to name Geder Palliako in Klin’s place?”

“If half of what I’ve heard is true,” Dawson said with a smile, “there’s no one better suited to lose Vanai.”

Night in the salt district of Porte Oliva wasn’t quiet. Even in the deep night when no moon lit the street, there were sounds. Voices lifted in song or anger, the scuttling and complaints of feral cats. And, in the rooms he and Yardem had hired, the slow, regular breath of the girl, sleeping at last. Marcus had come to know the difference between the way she inhaled when she was sleeping and when she was only willing herself to. It was an intimacy he never spoke of.

Yardem squatted on the floor by the glowing embers of the fire, ears forward, eyes focused on nothing. Marcus had seen the Tralgu sit through whole nights like that; motionless, waiting, aware without insisting upon awareness. Yardem never fell asleep on watch, and he never struggled to rest when he was off duty. Marcus, blanket-wrapped and sleepless, envied him that.

The cold of winter was still on the city, but it wouldn’t be many more weeks before the sea lanes opened. A ship from Porte Oliva to Carse would be faster than going overland through Birancour. And as long as he could keep it from captain and crew what exactly they were hauling—

The scraping sound was soft, there and gone again in an eyeblink. Leather sole against stone. Yardem sat up a degree straighter. He looked over at Marcus, then pointed once toward the opaque parchment window, and then at the door. Marcus nodded and rolled slowly off the cot, careful not to let the canvas creak beneath him. He took a slow step toward the window as Yardem shifted toward the door. When Marcus drew his knife, he kept his left thumb against the steel to keep it from singing when it cleared the scabbard. Cithrin snored delicately behind him.

Whoever they were, they’d done this before. The door burst open at the same instant a man leaped through the parchment window. Marcus kicked low, his boot slamming against the man’s knee. While the man struggled to regain his balance, Marcus slit his throat, and two more men poured in after him. They had daggers. Swords would have been awkward in so small a space. Marcus had hoped they’d have swords.

Yardem grunted the way he did when he lifted something too heavy, and an unfamiliar voice cried out in pain. The knife man on Marcus’s left made a flurry of short swings designed to catch his eye and force him back while the one on the right shifted to flank him. They were thickly built, but not massive. Firstblood or Jasuru rather than Yemmu or Haavirkin. Marcus ignored the false attack, feinting instead to keep the man on his right from getting around him. The first man took the opening and slid his blade in. Marcus felt the pain bloom on his ribs, but he ignored it. Behind him, a bone snapped, but no one screamed.

“We surrender,” Marcus said, and slid forward, his ankle hooking behind the rightmost attacker’s leg. When he brought his knife out, the man instinctively stepped back, stumbling. Marcus sank his blade in the man’s groin, but the effort left him open again. The remaining attacker, having drawn blood once, swooped in for the kill. Marcus twisted, the enemy blade skittering across his shoulder. Marcus dropped his own knife and took a grip on the other man’s elbow, but the attacker moved in close, bending Marcus back with a combination of weight and leverage. The hot breath stank of beer and fish. The embers glittered on scaled skin and evil, pointed teeth. Jasuru, then. Marcus felt the tip of the Jasuru’s blade prick his belly. Another push and the knife would open him like a trout.

“Yardem?” Marcus grunted.

“Sir?” Yardem said, and then, “Oh. Sorry.”

A dagger sprouted from the Jasuru’s left eye, the blood sheeting down from the wound, black in the monochrome dimness. The attacker pressed forward even as he died, but Marcus felt the strength leave the man and stepped back to let the body fall.

Three men lay by the torn window, dead or bleeding dry. Another lay motionless on the floor, one arm sprawled into the fire grate and starting to burn, and the last slumped against the wall at Yardem’s feet, head at an improbable angle. Five men. Strong and experienced. This, Marcus thought, was very, very bad.

“What’s the matter?” Cithrin asked groggily. “Did something happen?”

“Outside,” Yardem said, and Marcus heard it too. Retreating footsteps.

“Stay here,” Marcus said, and bolted out the ruined window.

The night-black streets blinded him, but he loped forward, committing to each stride and hoping that his foot didn’t come down on any icy puddle or unexpected step. Ahead of him, the footsteps slapped against cobbles. Something large and animal hissed as Marcus flew past. His lungs burned, and the blood on his shoulder and side chilled him. The fleeing footsteps skittered, lost balance, and pelted off toward the left. He was getting closer.

The street opened onto a wider square, and there, by starlight, Marcus caught sight of the fleeing figure. It was small and wrapped in a dark cloak with a hood that covered head and hair. The disguise was pointless. By the time he’d seen the fleeing woman take two steps, he knew her as well as if he’d seen her face.

“Opal!” he shouted. “You should stop.”

The actress hesitated and then pressed on, pretending she hadn’t been recognized. Marcus cursed, gritted his teeth, and kept running. The dark city ignored them. Opal shifted through streets and alleys, trying desperately to confuse or exhaust him. Marcus ignored his wounds and kept after her, one foot in front of the other, until by a wide cistern, Opal stopped, knelt, and put her head in her hands. Her chest was working like a bellows. Marcus tottered up beside her and sat. They were both wheezing like old men. Her pale hair caught the starlight.