The Spider's War (The Dagger and the Coin series) (8 page)

“It started before that, though,” Cithrin said. “I started being afraid in Vanai, and there weren’t any priests then. Or only the normal sort. Prayers and herbs and promises about justice after you die. Not like
them
. Not like—” She pressed her lips together, but Kit knew what she hadn’t said.

“Not like me,” he said.

“We talk about Morade’s spiders as if they were the root of all the evil, all the killing, but they aren’t, are they? Because they’ve been back in their temple long enough that no one even remembered they were real, and there have been wars and murders and cities burned all that time.”

“I understand there have been, yes,” Kit said. “It seems to
me that the source of war isn’t the dragons or magic or the spiders in the blood. I hear the histories and learn the songs, and I feel that humanity is the beginning of it all. Pain and lust and vengeance and oppression. But I also see that we are capable of tremendous compassion and hope. I think of all the cities that war has razed, and still, we’ve built more than we’ve torn down. I think of all the things of beauty that found their end in violence, but there keep being more beautiful things.” Kit gestured at the city around them. “As I see it, Morade’s spiders didn’t create a fault in us, but rather inflamed what was already there.”

“Certainty’s always brittle, and disagreement’s inevitable,” Cithrin said. “And so apostates.”

“And schisms,” Kit agreed. “The creation of enemies from those who were once allies. And I may be wrong, but it’s seemed to me that the sense of betrayal by someone who you thought of as one of your own is even more punished than simply being of a dissenting tribe. If you think of it, I am an example of what the spiders were meant to do. I believed as they did, worshipped as they did, and then I had a thought that took me from the group.”

“Only instead of running off and starting your own church to lead into battle against them, you turned into an actor,” Cithrin said.

“And yet, it seems I still find myself at the head of a kind of army fighting against the men I once called brothers. I lost faith in the goddess, and in the story we told of her. The world that brought her forth. The apostate who came to King Tracian broke with the Basrahip in Camnipol over issues of doctrine. I broke with the temple because I came to understand the words
truth
and
certainty
differently. I’m not sure the distance between my heresy and theirs is as great as I would like to pretend.” A small dog trotted past,
a length of rope in its jaws. The sounds of cartwheels clattering against stone and a woman laughing seemed to blend into each other, and the low, white sky. Kit put a hand on her shoulder. “Is something troubling you?”

“I don’t think I can win,” Cithrin said. “I’m doing as much as I can. I’ve sent the letters about the spiders and what they are all down the coast, east to Asterilhold and Borja and All-star. I’ve doubled the bounties against Antean forces and shifted what we’re paying for so that it’s bent to take on the spiders. I’ve hired all the mercenaries I could find to keep the Lord Marshal’s army from coming north and to keep the peace if he retreats the way Clara seems to expect him to. But I keep thinking that I’m fighting Antea, and then remembering that I’m really fighting the spiders. And then remembering that I’m not fighting the spiders, but the impulse toward war.”

At the common room, someone was shouting, and then two people, and then a dozen. It didn’t sound like violence so much as a shared celebration, but it might have been a brawl. It was hard to know.

“And how many swords does it take to defeat an idea?” Kit said.

T
here were an endless parade of events and feasts, rituals, and customary celebrations in the course of a season at court. When Geder was a boy, his father had taken him to many. As Lord Regent, Geder suffered through them all. Of them, many—the grand audience, the Remembrance Ball, Midsummer—occurred at set times, predictable as the fall of sand in a glass. With a few, though, there was no set schedule. First Thaw with its honey floss and candy ice came when the warm winds blew it to them. Abandon Night with its masks and smokes and dangerous sexuality came when an heir to the throne was born. And a triumph came at the end of a military campaign when the soldiers returned to camp outside the walls of Camnipol, and their commander called the disband. For those sorts of occasions, part of their joy was their uncertainty.

Geder had been a child when the rebellion in Anninfort was put down. He tied his memory of his first triumph to that, but he could have been misremembering. As he recalled it, the streets had been filled with cheering men and women of all classes—from barons and lords to beggars and pisspot boys. He remembered it as being overwhelming.

He’d seen others since. Had one of his own after his return from Vanai. The overall shapes had been the same. The conquering hero—or defender of the empire, if the campaign
hadn’t gained any new land for Antea—moved through the city to the accolades of Camnipol. The walls were decorated, sometimes in the house colors, sometimes in the king’s, sometimes just with whatever looked most festive and came to hand. Then there were feasts and parties in the houses of the most honored lords, with the commander whose men had just earned their release the most honored guest.

It seemed wrong that this particular triumph should seem so weak and vaguely foul. It was, after all, the one that marked the final battle in humanity’s war against the dragons. The apostate’s death was the dawn of the new, brighter age. The spider goddess’s power was sweeping invisibly out from the spot where her false servant had died. Basrahip had explained it all to him. Of course, it being winter, there were few lords at court. And there was more pleasure in parading down streets that didn’t have ice coating the cobblestones. There was music, but it was thinner. There were houses with open doors and plates of bread and meat and cakes, but they all opened just ahead of the procession and closed again behind it. Not that he blamed them. It was a cold, grey, miserable day. An icy wind pushed the fog from the southern plains north until it broke against the walls of the city and filled the Division with mist the color of milk. The Kingspire darkened to the color of iron against the low, grey sky. Cunning men on the street corners performed small miracles of light and fire, but no one crowded around to throw coins at their feet.

His soldiers, returned to their lives with the success of his campaign, trailed behind him. Very old and very young, thin and fat and coughing. They looked more like slaves of a fallen foe than heroes returned in glory. Geder held his chin high, but the cold made his nose run, and really he just wanted the parade over so he could go inside.

It was the greatest triumph in history, and all he felt was tired and dispirited and ashamed of himself for feeling tired and dispirited. Was he really so shallow that he couldn’t be pleased with just the truth? Did it all have to come with cloth-of-gold and flares and music to mean something?

Victory—true victory—is humble, he told himself. Just the knowledge that he had led the force that ended the dragons’ last and greatest threat against the goddess was enough. Even if it had been the biggest, most lavish celebration in Camnipol’s long history, it wouldn’t have been as glorious as the truth. There was even a beauty in this exhaustion. This wasn’t the paper-thin remnant of a third-pressing army celebrating that it had slaughtered a few dozen religious zealots in a swamp. It was the proof of how much the empire had pushed itself in the name of the Righteous Servant. All of Antea was like a warrior kneeling on the battlefield with the dead enemy all around. It was easier to see a nobility in the greyness when he thought of it that way.

At the entrance to the royal quarter, Prince Aster waited. He was dressed splendidly, and the handful of lords and nobles who’d stayed in the capital through winter stood with him. There were fewer of them, and many of the great faces he’d known growing up were missing. Either suborned and corrupted by the plots of the Timzinae or scattered to the corners of the vastly expanded empire. The few that remained stood like watchmen in a tower, a forest of servant-held torches warming the air around them and making a little circle of gold in the darkness of the city.

The prince came forward. In the time Geder had been gone, he’d grown a little fluffy peach-fuzz moustache. It made him look like a puppy. Geder could see the boy’s anxiety and knew him well enough to recognize its meaning. A dismissive comment from him now—or even a false
compliment—would devastate the prince. Geder felt a smile burgeoning and bit his cheek to force it back as he knelt.

“Lord Regent Palliako,” the prince said. “We welcome your return.”

“My prince, you honor me,” Geder said. “The enemy of the Severed Throne is defeated.”

There was a round of applause, noble palms banging together to fill the air between leafless trees and dry fountains. And above them, the Kingspire rose, higher, it seemed, than the clouds. For a moment, it reminded Geder of the green blades Basrahip and his men had carried against the apostate, as if the heavens had leaned down with one and cut the city in half, the mist rising out of the great wound of the Division like milky blood.

With the parade complete, the men scattered. One of the low halls was ready for them, ham and beer and roasted fowl, singers and cunning men and perhaps some of their families come to welcome the unlikely warriors home. Many would go, and others would scamper back to their homes—their children, their parents, their wives. Aster drew Geder to a black carriage with gold bunting and a team of pale horses. The servants helped them inside, and the carriage lurched off, wheels and hoofs clattering. Aster let himself sink back against the cushions and grin. For the first time since he’d left, Geder felt something like relief.

“You did it,” Aster said. “You found the apostate.”

“We did,” Geder said. “Killed him where he stood. It was mostly Basrahip, though.”

“You always say that,” Aster said. “This was it. It’s over now.”

“Not totally over,” Geder said. “We still have two armies in the field, after all. But yes. With the apostate gone, the dragons’ power is broken. Basrahip said it will be like light
pouring through the fabric of the world until everything’s… right.”

Geder felt a blush rising in his cheeks, called up by the admiration in Aster’s eyes. The prince swallowed and grinned. “You’ll be remembered as the greatest hero in history, Geder. You know that.”

“I probably won’t be remembered at all,” Geder said. “I didn’t really do anything that someone else wouldn’t have done in my place. I’m not special.”

“You are,” Aster said. “You know that.”

Geder let the smile he’d been holding back come through. He was back. He was home. He had Aster with him, and the carriage was warm, and he wasn’t expected to lead an army or sleep in a tent. There was pride, yes. And there was a glow that came from the young prince’s admiration. And more than anything else, there was a relief that it was all finally over.

“We’ll need to talk soon about how to prepare for your coronation,” he said. “Not right away, of course, but in the next two years. Maybe three. You’ll be old enough to take the crown. All I wanted was to keep the empire strong until it was yours. It’s got more than twice the holdings it had. The Timzinae are broken. The goddess has come back to the world and beaten her enemies. I think you’ll be the first king to rule in peace… maybe ever. You’re the one they’ll remember. Not me.”

The carriage lurched around a corner. There were tears in Aster’s eyes. “It’s not going to be right. Not without you.”

Geder pretended to wave the comment away, but in fact it left his heart feeling warmer for the first time since he’d left. And maybe in some expanse of time before that. “I won’t be gone. I only won’t be Lord Regent. No call for a regent when you have a king.”

“Still,” Aster said. Geder thought about taking the boy’s hand, then didn’t. Aster was almost a man now, and too old for taking comfort in hand-holding. So was Geder, for that.

The carriage stopped at the Fraternity of the Great Bear. The carved animal that announced the place was coated in ice, as if the weeks of winter had greyed its pelt with age and weariness. With the precedence of both prince and Lord Regent, there was no one closer to the great doors. Geder and Aster entered the great hall together. Within, the air was warm and fragrant with the smoke of pine and pipe. The silk tapestries were lit by cut-crystal lanterns. Great chains of gold and silver glittered along the walls. A servant girl in a uniform that was just revealing enough to be pleasant but not so much as to provoke offered them both mugs of wine. Aster caught Geder’s eye as if asking permission before he took it. Geder smiled. He didn’t mind. A little mulled wine never hurt anyone.

The others came in afterward, men of the great families laughing and joking. They stopped at the table Geder and Aster had claimed and paid their respects. A Dartinae woman with a viol took her place in one of the niches at the corner of the hall and began playing soft music, her glowing eyes darkening when she closed them in concentration or ecstasy. Geder found himself watching her, appreciating the beauty of her music, of her hands. Of the gentle swell of her breasts. Only that made him think of Cithrin, and he turned away. Better to be distracted than think too much of her again.

The patriarch of one of the minor houses of Asterilhold lifted to prominence by the recent tumult was reciting a lengthy poem. It appeared to be about the nobility and burdens of empire, which Geder thought was perhaps a little obvious and self-serving. He wondered what would happen
if he questioned the man about his sincerity with Basrahip present. It would be interesting to know if the old man actually meant all he said, or if he was just trying to curry favor. Or both.

Geder craned his neck. Even though the winter court was thinly attended, anyone who remained in the city was here. There were enough that the tables were filled, the halls crowded. It didn’t feel as thin now, except for the early darkness at the windows and the chill that even the fires and braziers couldn’t quite dispel. It took him some time to find Basrahip among the bodies and motion, despite the priest’s size. But yes, there he was, his head canted forward, listening to someone. To Canl Daskellin, in fact.

The Baron of Watermarch and the high priest of the goddess were in an alcove. Daskellin was gesturing as he spoke, his hands making low smoothing gestures, his head shaking in a constant, barely perceptible no. The man’s skin, usually as dark as a Timzinae’s scales, had an ashen cast. Geder felt a tightening at the back of his neck. He rose, the poet forgotten, and made his way through the crowd. Aster followed in his wake. When he was perhaps half a dozen steps away, Daskellin glanced over, and his face went greyer.

“Lord Regent,” he said, making a fast, birdlike bow. “I’m sorry to interrupt your triumph, but there’s news. From the south.”

“What is it?” Geder said. Aster stepped into the alcove’s mouth, shutting the four of them off from the rest of the fraternity.

Daskellin’s lips pressed thin as a drawn line. “The siege at Kiaria, Lord Palliako. It broke.”

“Well, about time,” Geder said. “I was starting to think the Timzinae’d be holding those walls until the end of the world, eh?”

Daskellin’s confusion passed quickly, replaced by chagrin. “No, my lord. We didn’t win. They broke the siege. Fallon Broot led a counterattack, but it failed. We don’t know if he was captured or killed. The city… Suddapal is no longer under our control.”

Geder heard the words, but couldn’t understand them. Daskellin could as well have said
The pigeons have all voted to become crabs
. It would have made as much sense. “No,” Geder said. “We put a temple in Suddapal. Once we put a temple there, it can’t fall.” He turned to Basrahip. The wide face was the perfect image of concern and sorrow. “It can’t fall. Can it?”

“It cannot be lost,” Basrahip said, “but even what is not lost can be made to suffer terribly. The blow has been struck, and even though we do not see it, the world knows. Feels within its blood and its flesh. Death throes can be violent and dangerous, even as the final end comes.”

“Oh,” Geder said. Just hours—less than hours—before, they’d been talking about how it was all already ended. How Aster was safe and all the good that Geder had managed for him, and now he couldn’t meet the boy’s eyes for fear of seeing the disappointment in them. Everything he’d said in the carriage came back like a weight. He felt as if he’d swept open the curtains to reveal a grand ball in Aster’s honor and revealed a bunch of panicked servants still setting up the tables. He felt the humiliation like putting his hand in a fire.

“The problem is not only there, my lord,” Daskellin was saying. “Mecelli has written from Inentai. The raids have grown more intense, and there are suggestions that the traditional families have regrouped in the towns of Borja. They may have been coordinating with the enemy in Elassae. He reports that letters like the ones in Asterilhold have begun appearing. And, my lord? There is the question of the farms.”

Geder shook his head, anger flaring in his throat. Daskellin was one of the great men of Antea. Advisor to the crown since before Simeon was king. You’d think he could come out with something more useful than “the question of the farms.” What question? Was he just leaving the phrase out there to make Geder ask? Or was there something so obvious that he should have known what the man meant, and they were all laughing at him on the inside for not knowing?

Geder scowled at Daskellin so fiercely his cheeks ached, and shrugged.
Are you planning to explain that?