She was older, and a Firstblood. Her hair was done up in a prim bun, and her skin had the ruddiness of the naturally pale who had been roughened by the sun. She could have been a caravan carter or a farmer, but her bearing was elegant and easy. Here among people of violence and wealth, she was at ease. More than that. Relaxed. Her hands, folded on the table, had a scattering of age spots, but they were strong. The woman’s gaze met Paerin as he brought the two magistras-in-exile into the room. The new woman nodded to Isadau with grace, but her eyes sharpened when they met Cithrin’s gaze.
She felt a wave of unease. For a long moment, she couldn’t place the woman. There was only a sense of the familiar and a half memory of terrible violence. Of blood and fear. It was as if a figure from Cithrin’s nightmares had stepped in among the flesh-and-blood of her daily life, and the dread that tightened her throat was inexplicable. Then the woman moved her shoulders, and something about the motion brought her full memory back.
“I suppose,” Paerin Clark said, “that introductions may be in order.”
“Of course not,” Cithrin said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Kalliam.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me,” Clara Kalliam said, rising to her feet. She wasn’t a large woman, but she seemed to radiate a strength that Cithrin didn’t remember of her. Of course the last time they’d spoken had been moments after Geder Palliako had slaughtered Lord Dawson Kalliam in front of the Antean court. “For that matter, I wasn’t at all certain I would know you, other than by reputation. As it happens, I do. I think you were very kind, the last time we spoke. Though I admit my recollection of the day isn’t what it might have been.”
“It was a terrible time,” Cithrin said.
“One of several, I’m afraid.”
Isadau cleared her throat. “Cithrin has an advantage over me.”
“Magistra Isadau,” Paerin Clark said, “Clara Annalise Kalliam, formerly Baroness of Osterling Fells, mother to the Antean Lord Marshall Jorey Kalliam and also our own ally Barriath. And also, it seems, to a spider priest named Vicarian who’s still in Porte Oliva.”
Isadau extended her hand, and Clara took it warmly.
“I also have a daughter,” Clara said, “but she often finds it more comfortable to distance herself from me, poor dear.”
“She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Barriath said. His voice was oddly childlike, as though the thought of his mother and sister being at odds distressed him. It wasn’t at all the reaction Cithrin expected of the exile of empire and pirate commander. She found it oddly endearing.
“Forgive me, Lady Kalliam,” Cithrin said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you here as an ally or a prisoner?”
The older woman laughed and took her chair again. “That is a fine question, isn’t it? I am here as a messenger and a spy.”
“A messenger from the Lord Marshal,” Komme said. “And a spy, it turns out, for us.”
Marcus made a small grunting sound that was probably some version of a laugh. “You recall how Kit and the players and I all spent weeks in Camnipol looking for the mysterious man who’d been feeding Paerin information on the Palliako’s court? It’s her. The handwriting matches. She’s been behind the struggle against the spider priests almost before we were.”
A rush of joy filled Cithrin. New intelligence of the Antean army, and more than that. A channel to feed her own information to the heart of the enemy. With someone at the Lord Marshal’s side, they could draw Geder’s army to its destruction. Only… no. She was doing it again.
“Is something the matter?” Chana Medean asked, but Cithrin waved the question away.
Komme was the one to pick up the thread. “We were just talking about our rather peculiar situation. Fighting alongside one of her sons against the other two. It seems that it’s even more complex than we’d thought.”
“Jorey’s been protecting his family. Myself and his wife and now his daughter as well,” Clara said.
“That,” Barriath said, “would be Lord Skestinin’s daughter and granddaughter respectively.”
“The same Lord Skestinin that’s in our gaol?” Isadau asked.
“Mentioned it was complicated, didn’t he?” Marcus said dryly. Lady Kalliam continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted.
“Jorey may be the man in Camnipol closest to Geder’s trust—apart from Basrahip and the priests and possibly Prince Aster—but he is not blind,” Clara said. “He knows as well as any of us the danger that Geder poses to the world. And to Antea. And to the soldiers under his care whom he has led against you. I am very sorry, by the way, about what happened in Porte Oliva. I was there during the battle and its aftermath. I grieve for your losses.”
“Thank you,” Cithrin said, then nodded, paused, shook her head. She felt as if she’d drunk too much wine. “Forgive me again. Have you just said that the Lord Marshall of Antea is ready to turn against the throne?”
“No,” Clara said. “I am saying that we need your help to save it.”
Clara Annalise Kalliam, Formerly Baroness of Osterling Fells
It was a fact well understood that a person was never a perfect match for the tales told of them. It might be something as small as Lady Caot’s reputation as having an iron will, which was true so far as it went but neglected her weaknesses for her grandson and butter tarts. It might be as great as the person of Geder Palliako, hero of Antea and champion of the empire, who was instead… what he was.
The story of a person could never be as complex as they actually were because then it would take as much time to know someone as it did to be them. Reputation, even when deserved, inevitably meant simplification, and every simplification deformed. Clara knew that. Since Dawson’s death, it was the space in which she lived.
And stilclass="underline" Cithrin bel Sarcour.
It was a name to conjure with. The woman who had broken Geder Palliako’s heart. Who had tricked him into letting God alone knew how many Timzinae escape his grasp in the fivefold city of Suddapal. A half-breed whose Cinnae blood thinned and paled her. Or whose Firstblood taint left her thick and dark, depending from which direction one came to the question. A merchant-class woman who had outwitted the Lord Regent of the greatest nation in the world. The most hated woman in Antea, and so also secretly beloved.
It was legend enough to carry a full lifetime, and she looked hardly more than a girl. So terribly young to have so much on her shoulders. And yet the impression she gave, sitting there among professional killers and hard-headed men of business and power, was one of naïve brilliance. A monstrous talent that could do anything because no one had managed to convince it of what was impossible. Apart from Geder himself, Clara couldn’t think of anyone she had met who had impressed her so profoundly as being dangerous.
“It’s nearly too late,” the girl said to the room and to herself. “If what you say’s true, he’s run the armies to their breaking point. Past it. And the priests have already begun to schism.”
“Have they?” Clara asked.
“Seen one already,” the mercenary captain—Wester—said. “Came in ready to lead King Tracian in glorious war against your Basrahip and Antea. Light of the truth, voice of the goddess. All the same hairwash, but pointed the other way.”
“Is he still at issue?” Clara asked.
“He’s a char mark on the pavement,” the captain said. “But there’ll be more like him. And faster, once your son’s army falls.”
“Does the one lead to the other?” Clara asked.
It was the Tralgu that answered. Yardem Hane, he’d been introduced as. He had a low, rolling voice that was beautiful in its way. “Retreats always invite a certain amount of chaos, ma’am. Gives the impression that no one’s in control. Takes time for things to calm back down.”