“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?
And still, when he reached his mansion, his face numbed by the chill wind, he was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice that a carriage not his own waited by the stables. The old Tralgu door slave flicked his ears nervously as Dawson approached.
“Welcome home, my lord,” the slave said, his silver chain clinking as he made a bow. “A visitor arrived an hour ago, my lord.”
“Who?” Dawson said.
“Curtin Issandrian, my lord.”
Dawson’s heart went tight, his blood suddenly singing through his veins. The cold of the day and the frustration of the meeting fell away. He glanced at Vincen Coe, and the huntsman’s expression mirrored his own shock.
“You let him in?”
The Tralgu slave bowed his head, an icon of fear and distress.
“The lady insisted, my lord.”
Dawson drew his sword and took the front steps three at a time. If Issandrian had laid hands on Clara, this would be the shortest and bloodiest revolution in the history of the world. Dawson would burn Issandrian’s bones in the square and piss on the fire. As he reached the atrium of the house, Coe was at his side.
“Find Clara,” Dawson said. “Take her to her rooms, and kill anyone who comes in if they aren’t of the household.”
Coe nodded once and vanished into the hallways, swift and silent as a breeze. Dawson strode quietly through his own house, sword in hand. He rounded one corner to the gasp of a maid, her eyes wide at sight of the weapon and her master. His dogs found him when he entered the solarium and followed behind him, whining and growling.
He found Issandrian in the western sitting room, gazing into the fire grate. The man’s unfashionably long hair spilled out over his shoulders like a lion’s mane, the red-gold of it taking color from the flames. Issandrian noticed the sword and lifted his eyebrows, but made no other move.
“Where is my wife?” Dawson asked, and behind him his dogs growled.
“I couldn’t say,” Issandrian said. “I haven’t seen her since she brought me here to await your return.”
Dawson narrowed his eyes, his senses straining for some sign of duplicity. Issandrian glanced at the dogs baring their teeth, then up at Dawson. There was no fear in his expression.
“I can wait here a bit longer if you’d like to speak with her first.”
“What do you want here?”
“The good of the kingdom,” Issandrian said. “We’re men of the world, Lord Kalliam. We both know where the path we’re on leads.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Everyone says it. It’s Issandrian’s cabal against Kalliam’s, with King Simeon flapping in between depending on which way the wind blows.”
“No one talks about his majesty that way to me.”
“May I stand, Lord Kalliam? Or does your honor call for you to set your dogs on an unarmed man?”
The weariness in Issandrian’s voice gave Dawson pause. He sheathed his sword and gestured once to the dogs. They cringed back, quieting. Issandrian stood. He was a taller man than Dawson had remembered. Confident, at ease, and more regal than King Simeon. God help them all.
“May we at least talk of truce?” he asked.
“If you have something to say, say it,” Dawson said.
“Very well. The world is changing, Lord Kalliam. Not just here. Hallskar is on the edge of calling their king down from his throne and electing a new one. Sarakal and Elassae have both given concessions to merchants and farmers. The power of nobility for its own sake is passing, and for Antea to be a part of the coming age, we must change as well.”
“I’ve heard that song. I didn’t like the tune.”
“It doesn’t matter whether we like it or not. It’s happening. And we can act on it or else try to fence out the tide.”
“So your farmer’s council has all been a selfless action for the benefit of the crown, has it? Your own aggrandizement has nothing to do with it? Pull the other one, boy. It has bells on it.”
“I can make it yours,” Issandrian said. “If I gave sponsorship over the farmer’s council to you, would you take it?”
Dawson shook his head.
“Why not?” Issandrian asked.
Dawson turned and pointed to the dogs sitting nervously behind him.
“Look at them, Issandrian. They’re good animals, yes? Excellent in their ways. I’ve cared for each of them since they were pups. I see them fed. I give them shelter. Sometimes I let them rest on my couch and keep my feet warm. Should I dress them in my clothes and give them seats at my table?”
“Men aren’t dogs,” Issandrian said, crossing his arms.
“Of course they are. Three years ago a man working my land stole into his neighbor’s house in the night, killed his neighbor, raped the wife, and beat the children. Now, would you have had me give the bastard a place on the judge’s bench? A voice in his own punishment? Or should I nail his hands and cock to a log and throw him in the river?”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is. Men, women, dogs, and kings. We all have our places. My place is in court, following the voice and law of the throne. A farmer’s place is on a farm. If you tell a pig keeper he deserves a chair in court, you put the order of society itself in question, including my right to pass judgment on his actions. And once we’ve lost that, Lord Issandrian, we’ve lost everything.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Issandrian said.
“You tried to have me killed in the street,” Dawson said. “I don’t have any concern to spare for what you think.”
Issandrian pressed a palm to his eyes and nodded. He looked pained.