Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

“Dawson!” Canl said. “I was beginning to worry.”

“No need,” Dawson said, waving Vincen Coe back toward the shadows. “I’m only pleased I was in the city. I’d hoped to spend part of the year in Osterling Fells.”

“Next year,” Odderd said. “God willing, we’ll all be back to normal next year. Though with this latest news…”

“There’s news, then?” Dawson said.

Canl Daskellin gestured to the seat across from him, and Dawson lowered himself into it. The pale man smiled politely.

“I don’t think we know each other,” Dawson said to the smile.

“Dawson Kalliam, Baron of Osterling Fells,” Daskellin said with a grin of his own. “May I introduce the solution to our problems. This is Paerin Clark.”

“The pleasure is mine, Baron Osterling,” the pale man said. His voice had the slushy accent of Northcoast. Dawson felt the small hairs on his arm rise. The man had no title. He wasn’t Antean. And yet he was here.

“What’s the news,” Dawson said. “And how does our new friend here enter into it?”

“He’s married to the youngest daughter of Komme Medean,” Odderd said. “He lives in Northcoast. Carse.”

“I wasn’t aware we had business with the Medean bank,” Dawson said.

“Issandrian knows what we’ve been doing,” Daskellin said. “Not only Vanai. The men we placed to stir trouble with the farmers, the move to strip Feldin Maas of his southern holdings. Everything.”

Dawson waved the words away as if they were gnats. He was more concerned that this banker appeared to know it all as well. Issandrian would have discovered their traps and schemes eventually.

“He’s petitioned King Simeon to sponsor games,” Odderd said. “Issandrian and Klin and Maas, and half a dozen more besides. They’re putting up the coin for it. Cleaning out the stadium. Hiring show fighters and horesemen. Borjan long archers. Cunning men. It’s supposed to be a celebration for Prince Aster.”

“It’s a fighting force inside the walls of Camnipol,” Canl Daskellin said.

“It’s a bluff a child could see through,” Dawson said. “If it came to insurrection, Issandrian would lose. He doesn’t have the men or the money to back a war.”

“ Ah, ” the banker said.

Dawson lifted his chin like a forest animal scenting smoke. Canl Daskellin took a handful of folded paper from the seat beside him and held them out to Dawson. The paper was cheap, the handwriting plain and unadorned. Copies, then, of some more prestigious correspondence. Dawson squinted. The dim light set the words swimming, but with a little concentration he could make them out clearly enough. I send the best wishes to you and your family and so on. Our mutual great-aunt, Ekarina Sakiallin, Baroness of the noble lands of Sirinae…

“Sirinae,” Dawson said. “That’s in Asterilhold.”

“Our friend Feldin Maas has family in the court,” Odderd said. “Part of making peace after the Treaty of Astersan was a fashion for strategic marriages. It’s three generations back now, but the ties are still there. Maas has been sending letters to a dozen of his cousins that we know of. There may be others we didn’t intercept.”

“They’ve gone mad,” Dawson said. “If they think they can bring in Asterilhold against King Simeon—”

“That isn’t the story,” the banker said. His voice was cool and dry as fresh paper, and Dawson was instinctively repulsed by it. “Maas has been telling of a conservative conspiracy of hidebound old men within the court pressuring King Simeon. He describes men who are willing to ally themselves with enemies of Antea for their own political gain.”

“Idiocy.”

“He suggests,” the banker said, “that Maccia may have been invited to defend Vanai by someone who opposed Alan Klin, and he makes a plausible case. And so, in the face of others seeking foreign help to influence the throne, Maas has no option but to appeal for the aid of Asterilhold in defending the honor and legitimate rule of King Simeon and safeguarding the person and health of Prince Aster.”

“We’re the ones defending Simeon!” Dawson shouted.

“As you say,” the banker said.

Canl Daskellin leaned forward. His eyes were bright.

“Things are starting, Dawson. If Issandrian’s cabal has gotten the backing of Asterilhold to put an armed force in Camnipol—and, by God, I think they have—they aren’t coming for Simeon. They’re aiming at us.”

“They’ve already tried to kill you once,” Odderd said. “These men have no sense of bounds or honor. We can’t afford to treat them as if they were gentlemen. We have to beat them to the blow.”

Dawson lifted his hands, commanding silence. Anger and mistrust filled his head like bees. He pointed to the banker.

“What’s Northcoast’s interest in this?” he asked. Meaning, Why are you here? Daskellin frowned at his tone of voice, but the banker seemed to take no offense.

“I couldn’t say. Lord Daskellin is Special Ambassador to Northcoast. I’m sure he would be in a better position to sound out the more influential opinions.”

“But your bank’s in Carse,” Dawson said. It was almost an accusation.

“The holding company is, and we have a branch there,” the banker said. “But all our branches account independently.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dawson said.

“We aren’t a company exclusively married to the interests of Northcoast,” the banker said. “We have a close relationship with people in many courts—even Antea now that Vanai is under your protection—and a strong interest in peace throughout the northern kingdoms. Unfortunately, we have some very strict policies about lending in situations like this—”

“I wouldn’t take your money if you left it in a sock on my doorstep.”

“Kalliam!” Canl Daskellin said, but the banker continued on as if nothing had been said.

“—but in the cause of peace and stability, we would be pleased to act as intermediary if we were of use. As disinterested third parties, we might be able to approach people that you noble gentlemen found awkward.”

“We don’t need help.”

“I understand,” the banker said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Daskellin said. “The Medean bank has branches in Narinisle and Herez. Elassae. If this comes to blades in the street, we’ll need—”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Dawson said. “We have guests.”

The banker smiled and gave a brief nod. Dawson wished that etiquette allowed him to challenge a man of no status to a duel. The banker was nothing more than a trumped-up merchant. He should have been beneath Dawson’s notice, but something about the man’s studied placidity invited the drawing of blood. Canl Daskellin’s brows were nearly a single knot, and Odderd was shifting his gaze between the others like a mouse at a catfight.

“I have known Paerin Clark and his family for years,” Daskellin said, his voice tight and controlled. “I have absolute faith in his discretion.”

“How sweet for you,” Dawson said. “I met him today.”

“Please, my lords,” the banker said. “I came to make my position clear. I have done so. If Lord Kalliam should have a change of heart, the Medean bank’s offer stands. If not, then surely no harm’s done.”

“We’ll continue this another time,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.

“Oh yes. We will,” Daskellin said. Odderd said nothing, but the banker rose and bowed to Dawson as he left. Vincen Coe fell in behind him without a word. Dawson stalked up, following the winding paths that led through the roots of Camnipol.

When at length they reached the street, his legs ached and his rage had faded. Coe doused the torch in a snowbank, the pitch leaving a filthy smear on the white. Dawson had chosen to walk rather than take his carriage in part to show any of Issandrian’s hired thugs that he didn’t fear them, but also in the name of discretion. Leaving his own team sitting on the Division’s edge waiting his reemergence from the underworld was as good as hanging a banner. Not that discretion seemed the first response from his cohorts. What had Daskellin been thinking?