Daniel Abraham - The King's Blood

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.