Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“No,” he said.

Clara

Well, it’s mostly the bits the butcher usually throws away, but there’s enough salt in it, anyway,” Aly said, putting the soup bowl in front of Clara.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Clara said, picking up her spoon.

“I’m sure it’s not,” the other woman said, laughing. “But the company makes it better, eh?”

Aly lived in a small apartment on the fifth story of a narrow building. Her table was small enough that it was cramped even just with the two of them. The weak winter sunlight pressed in through dingy curtains and made the place seem warm and cozy, even though it was in fact almost as cold as the street.

With the court gone from Camnipol and the winter turning the black-cobbled streets to grey, Clara had given more time to the friends she’d made at the Prisoner’s Span. Ostin Soukar, the odd little man who kept forcing his way into homes that weren’t his, and being caught by the magistrates’ men because he’d fallen asleep there. Ishia Man, who was sweet as honey sober but fought like a bull when he got drunk. Aly Koutinen and her son Mihal. They were criminals, and some of them violent. There were many, many people she had met and spoken with whom she’d not choose to be in a room alone with, but taken as a whole, they were not particularly better or worse than the noblemen who debated at the Great Bear and fought in the dueling yards.

“Did you hear about Sasin?” Aly said.

“No,” Clara said, sipping at the weak, watery soup. “And I don’t dare to ask what’s happened this time.”

“Tried to take the begging cup from that one-legged Tralgu sets up by the northern gate. You know the one? Well, the one-legged bastard hopped up on his one foot and beat poor Sasin blue with his cane. Now they’re both in the pens with all those roach babies.”

“Well, warmer than the cages, at least,” Clara said.

“Don’t know,” Aly said. “I’d rather take my chances with the wind than live around Timzinae. I think it’s wrong to put them in gaols with real people. Animals live in a menagerie, and they’re all just a kind of dragon that got made short and stupid. I say put ’em where they belong. Bread?”

“Please,” Clara said. “And … wait, where’s my bag? Ah, here. I’ve brought my own contribution to the meal.”

Aly’s eyes brightened as Clara pulled the little jar from her bag.

“No. Really? You’ve got butter?”

“Just a little bit,” Clara said. “But enough to share. Here you go.”

Aly grinned and began spreading the soft cream on the dark crust of bread.

“You know,” Clara said, “the Timzinae weren’t any part of what Dawson did.”

“Yeah?” Aly said. “Well, not what I’ve heard, but I suppose you’d be in a better place to know. Still, there’s no question that they’ve been conspiring against the throne. If not your man, then the others. And really, dear, you might not have known it. They had their little hooks into Lord Ternigan, after all, and who would have thought that?”

“I suppose,” Clara said, taking back the butter jar.

After their little meal, Aly walked down the street with her and east, toward the Division. Vincen was huddled by a smithy along with a dozen other people, watching the smith hammering away at his anvil, drawn by the warmth of the forge. Aly took her leave with a half-mocking curtsey, and Clara kissed her cheek. When she put her hand on Vincen’s elbow, he turned and smiled.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Not today,” she said. “It’s astonishing how little palace intrigue changes when one takes away the palace.”

The news of Lord Ternigan’s death had come first from a cunning man in Camnipol who shared dreams with one on campaign in Kiaria. At first, of course, no one believed it. The dreams of cunning men were swift, but they weren’t particularly reliable. Then the birds came with little notes that confirmed it. Lord Ternigan had been plotting against the Lord Regent and Prince Aster, and only Geder Palliako’s brilliance and uncanny ability to root out corruption and purify the court had saved the kingdom from another battle on its own soil.

Within hours of the birds’ arrival, guardsmen were closing Ternigan’s mansion in the city. Granted, there was less to do with the season over and Ternigan off on campaign before that, but what there was—tables, beds, silver—was hauled in carts to the Kingspire. Before the night was through, vandals had broken into the abandoned house and put it to the torch. By morning, Lord Ternigan had gone from the hero of the nation to a loathed traitor and puppet of the Timzinae.

Seeing it play out that way fascinated Clara. She had seen the story of Geder Palliako take form. From his unmasking of Feldin Maas and King Lechan, to Dawson’s rebellion, and now to a second Lord Marshal’s betrayal. That the facts in each case were utterly dissimilar didn’t matter; it was the story that remained the same. A dark conspiracy threatened the kingdom, and Geder Palliako, blessed by the goddess, brought it to light. And while she had expected that there would be a growing sense of fear in the city when Lords Ternigan and Mecilli fell, she’d been wrong on several counts.

First, Mecilli’s name hadn’t been mentioned, and his house and honor remained intact. But beyond that, and more interesting, was the sense of comfort that the news seemed to bring. As if by repeating the form of last year’s betrayals, they had become familiar, and the story’s end always left the throne safer and more secure, the dangers lessened. There was even, she thought, a sense of anticipation. A looking ahead to the next traitor, the next betrayal, and the next act of redeeming violence. In one way, she thought the general willingness to embrace stories with that shape and pattern might ease her work of driving Geder’s best advisors away from him. But in another, she found herself complicit in the growing legend of Geder Palliako.

“Clara?” Vincen said.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “My mind wandering.”

“Shall I take you home?”

Clara smiled and tugged on his arm. They walked together through the streets arm in arm. It was a small indiscretion. Even the last stragglers of the court were gone by now, and any who were there on winter business would likely be as pleased not to be seen as she would. Among her new acquaintances, an older woman with a younger lover was hardly cause for comment. Crows called from the eaves and sparrows darted down into the depths of the Division. She had the sudden memory of Dawson looking at Geder in his black leather cloak and the priest in his brown robes. Crows and sparrows, he’d called them.

As they walked, Clara began planning her next letter to Carse. She could, of course, give a great deal of information about what had happened to Lord Ternigan, but she wasn’t certain that would serve her well. Perhaps it would suffice if she could simply repeat what she’d heard on the streets along with an additional fact or two that was private to her. She could also report on the levels of food in Camnipol, and the miserable state of things in Palliako’s prisons.

She felt Vincen’s steps falter before she knew what was wrong. He drew his arm free from hers and stepped to her side. She followed his gaze. There before the boarding house, a grand carriage sat with footmen and drivers at the ready. The device on the side announced House Skestinin. Clara felt the air leave her body. Something had happened to Jorey. Or Sabiha and the new babe. She walked faster, not running. Not quite.

Jorey sat in the common room like an emerald on dirt. His jacket was a pure white with silver buttons and his cloak was black leather. When she stepped through the doorway, he rose, smiling.