The King's Blood Read online

  She lit her pipe from the stove. Abatha’s stew might be salty and bland, but she did manage to find genuinely decent tobacco. Clara sat at the stove, puffing thoughtfully for a long moment before she realized Vincen and Abatha were waiting for her to go on.

  “And then they let me go,” she said, rather gamely.

  “But what did they ask?” Abatha said. Her face looked really animated for the first time since Clara had met her.

  “Oh, that. They asked if I’d been conspiring against Geder Palliako and the crown.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That the thought hadn’t occurred to me,” she said.

  “And?” Vincen said.

  Clara raised an eyebrow.

  “And now it has.”

  Entr’acte

  Master Kit

  S

  uddupal was at first a community of cities, their buildings and structures tall and solid, and then it was a dark and monstrous hand reaching out toward them with piers for fingers, and then it was gone, and they were alone on the wide sea. Adasa Orsun could sail the little ship by herself, moving from one line to another, lifting up the sails and shifting the angle of the rudder until everything was exactly as she wished it to be. Every now and then, she would tell Marcus to help her with some task where three hands were better than two. She never asked Kit, and honestly Kit didn’t mind.

  It had been a very long time since he’d set out in a small craft over large water. He had almost forgotten the way the horizon-wide water and the open arch of sky conspired with the smallness of the boat and left him feeling overwhelmed and constrained at the same time. So much space all around him in all directions, and yet two paces this way, three in another, and a belowdecks so cramped that he couldn’t stand upright.

  His life had become that as well. After his flight from the temple and the goddess and the only life he’d known, the world had unfolded before him, every new discovery egging him on to the one after. He’d learned that many of the things he’d been taught in the temple were true: the dragons were gone from the world and their slave races had made it their own, people of all races deceived each other almost constantly, wherever there were people gathered together in large groups there would be violence and death and theft. But he’d also found just as many that were wrong: that truth guaranteed justice, that the thirteen races were doomed to hate each other, that people like Adasa Orsun—Timzinae—were a separate and lesser kind of humanity. Finding his way through the mixture of myths and lies had become not only a life’s work but a joyful one.

  He’d traveled widely and with men and women whose company he enjoyed. He’d listened to practical philosophers about the nature of the world. He had taken lovers and lost them. And in that wide, open sea of options and choice, his way had come down to this tiny boat on its way to a series of events both difficult and inevitable. In the face of the ocean, the tiny boat. In the face of freedom, only this: to save the world he’d discovered and come to love, or else die in the attempt.

  It sounded heroic and romantic. The truth was sometimes something less.

  “I ate a cockroach once,” Marcus Wester said. He was sprawled on the deck, shirtless, an arm flung across his eyes.

  “You didn’t,” Kit said.

  “I ate a mouse once.”

  “You didn’t.”

  There was a pause, and the world was only the soft wind and the lapping waves against the side of the boat.

  “I ate a worm once.”

  “Why did you do that?” Kit asked.

  Marcus grinned.

  “Lost a bet,” he said.

  Adasa Orsun rose up from belowdecks, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned a wide, deep yawn.

  “We’ve made good time,” she said, and she believed it. So probably they were.

  “How can you tell?” Marcus asked. “It’s not like there’s a road you can follow or landmarks to see.”

  “The water changes,” she said. “We’ll be to the islands in two, three more days. We have enough water and food until then.”

  “We probably will,” Kit agreed.

  “Was that in question?” Marcus asked. “I thought we’d intentionally packed enough to make it to the place we could get more. Did I misunderstand that?”

  The Timzinae woman snorted derision.

  “It’s the sea,” she said. “There’s always a question.”

  W

  hat about questions?” Marcus asked three days later as they walked down the stony streets of the island waystation. Ahead of them, Adasa Orsun was haggling with a Southling.

  “What about them?”

  “Can you have a false question?” Marcus said. “For instance, if I said something like, Isn’t Sandr full of himself? or You can’t do that, can you? They both mean something, but it’s not something that’s true, exactly, is it?”

  “You’re forgetting. It isn’t truth. It’s never truth. It’s certainty. A question is uncertain by its nature.”

  “But if I say, I don’t know …”

  “You can be certain that you’re ignorant,” Kit said.

  The Southling held up two fingers, the Timzinae three.

  “What about, I think her name is Adasa.”

  “You’re certain of that, yes.”

  “I think her name is Mycah.”

  “You aren’t certain of that. In fact, I suspect you’re certain that it isn’t. Though I wouldn’t know that based only on what you said.”

  “That’s a strange line you walk,” Marcus said as they came to a rough corner. Nothing in the waystation was straight. The roads twisted and turned, following the shape of the rock. It gave the place an inhuman feel that Kit recognized and respected. It felt like the temple from which he’d fled.

  “I think we all walk it all the time. I may be a bit more aware of it. I believe this is the place we needed. Only let me tell our captain where we’ve gone.”

  He walked over to her. The spiders in his blood were excited, dancing and tugging at him. Being around so many people caught their attention after so long with only the same two. And there might only be five or six dozen people on the island, so small was it. To go from a long voyage into a real port was a deeply unpleasant experience. But that was a problem for another day.

  “I can’t go lower than this and make enough to buy food,” the Southling man was lying.

  Kit touched Adasa Orsun’s shoulder.

  “Forgive me. I’m thinking of taking Marcus to the geographer’s shop over there. When you’re done here, will you look for us there?”

  “I can,” she said.

  “Thank you, and he can go lower and still buy food.”

  “You are a madman,” the Southling called after him. “Madman!”

  Inside the shack, an old Southling woman sat on a stool. Her wide black eyes took them in without seeming to see them. Or perhaps it was only that she passed no judgments.

  “You’ve come for a map?” she asked.

  “I hope we have,” Kit said. “I’m looking for the reliquary of Assian Bey.”

  “You and everyone else,” the woman said, amused.

  “Do you have a copy of the Silas map?”

  To the degree that a Southling’s eyes could narrow, hers did.

  “That map doesn’t exist,” she lied.

  “It does, and I am the man who is to have it,” he said. In his blood, his body, the tiny things began to stretch and flail. He felt their delight. “Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You need to show me that map.”

  “I don’t …”

  “I do,” Kit said. “It’s going to be all right.”

  The woman scowled, but then she held up a single finger.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I have to go look at something.”

  Another lie, but perhaps not too far from the truth. If she didn’t have the map herself, she at least might know where it was.

  “What’s a Silas map?” Marcus asked.

  “It’s the one that
the last people to try to reach the reliquary used,” Kit said. “It seems like the best starting place.”

  Marcus put a hand on Kit’s shoulder, turning him gently.

  “Have you just told me that you don’t know where this place is?”

  “I do. It’s on the north shore of Lyoneia,” Kit said. “Probably.”

  Marcus closed his eyes.

  “You don’t know.”

  “I could be more precise, but I think I’d be less accurate,” Kit said. “I believe there’s a word for reliquaries that are easily found and commonly known.”

  “Is the word empty?”

  “All words are empty, until a living will fills them,” Kit said. “But yes. I’d been thinking more of looted.”

  “You could have told me before.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said, and they both knew he was lying.

  Dramatis Personae

  Persons of interest and import in The King’s Blood

  IN IMPERIAL ANTEA

  The Royal Family

  King Simeon, Emperor of Antea

  Aster, his son and heir

  House Palliako

  Lehrer Palliako, Viscount of Rivenhalm

  Geder Palliako, his son. Also Baron of Ebbingbaugh and Protector of the Prince

  House Kalliam

  Dawson Kalliam, Baron of Osterling Fells

  Clara Kalliam, his wife

  Barriath

  Vicarian, and

  Jorey; their sons

  also various servants and slaves, including

  Andrash rol Estalan, door slave to House Kalliam

  Vincen Coe, huntsman in the service of House Kalliam

  Abatha Coe, his cousin

  House Skestinin

  Lord Skestinin, master of the Imperial Navy

  Lady Skestinin, his wife

  Sabiha, their somewhat disgraced daughter

  her illegitimate son

  House Annerin

  Elisia Annerin (formerly Kalliam), daughter of Clara and Dawson

  Gorman Annerin, son and heir of Lord Annerin and husband of Elisia

  Corl, their son

  House Daskellin

  Canl Daskellin, Baron of Watermarch and Ambassador to Northcoast

  Sanna, one of his daughters

  Also, various lords and members of the court, including

  Lord Ternigan, Lord Marshal to King Simeon

  Sodai Carvenallin, his secretary

  Sir Curtin Issandrian

  Sir Alan Klin

  Sir Gospey Allintot

  Sir Lauren Essian

  Sir Soluz Veren

  Sir Sesil Veren

  Fallon Broot, Baron of Suderling Heights

  Daved Broot, his son

  Lord Bannien of Estinford

  Count Odderd Mastellin

  Estin Cersillian, Earl of Masonhalm

  Mirkus Shoat, Earl of Rivencourt

  and also Houses Flor, Estinford, Faskellan, Emming, Tilliakin, Mastellin, Mecilli, Caot, and Pyrellin, among others

  The Players

  Kitap rol Keshmet, called Master Kit, apostate of the spider goddess

  Cary

  Hornet

  Smit

  Charlit Soon

  Mikel

  Sandr

  Basrahip, minister of the spider goddess and counselor to Geder Palliako

  also some dozen priests

  IN BIRANCOUR

  The Medean bank in Porte Oliva

  Cithrin bel Sarcour, voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva

  Pyk Usterhall, her notary

  Marcus Wester, her guard captain. Also the hero of Gradis and Wodford

  Yardem Hane, his second in command

  The bank’s guard, including:

  Barth

  Corisen Mout

  Ahariel Akkabrian

  Roach

  Hart

  Enen

  Iderrigo Bellind Siden, Prime Governor of Porte Oliva

  Qahuar Em, rival to the Medean bank and former lover of Cithrin

  Arinn Costallin, his business acquaintance from Herez

  Maestro Asanpur, a café owner

  Capsen Gostermak, a poet and keeper of doves

  Maceo Rinál, a pirate

  Dar Cinlama, a hunter of ancient treasures and seeker of lost places

  IN NORTHCOAST

  King Tracian

  The Medean bank in Carse

  Komme Medean, head of the Medean bank

  Lauro Medean, son of Komme

  Chana Medean, daughter of Komme

  Paerin Clark, husband of Chana

  Magister Nison, voice of the Medean bank in Carse

  IN ASTERILHOLD

  King Lechan

  Sir Darin Ashford, ambassador to Antea

  IN SUDDAPAL

  Epetchi, a cook

  Adasa Orsun, a sea captain

  THE DEAD

  Feldin Maas, formerly Baron of Ebbingbaugh, killed for treason

  Phelia Maas, his wife, dead at her husband’s hand

  Magister Imaniel, voice of the Medean bank in Vanai and protector of Cithrin

  also Cam, a housekeeper, and

  Besel, a man of convenience, burned in the razing of Vanai

  Alys, wife of Marcus Wester

  also Merian, their daughter, burned to death as a tactic of intrigue

  Lord Springmere, the Mayfly King, killed in vengeance

  Morade, the last Dragon Emperor, said to have died from wounds

  Inys, clutch-mate of Morade whose manner of death is not recorded

  Asteril, clutch-mate of Morade, maker of the Timzinae, dead of poison

  Drakkis Stormcrow, great human general of the last war of the dragons, dead of age

  An Introduction to the Taxonomy of Races

  (From a manuscript attributed to Malasin Calvah, Taxonomist to Kleron Nuasti Cau, fifth of his name)

  The ordering and arrangements of the thirteen races of humanity by blood, order of precedence, mating combination, or purpose is, by necessity, the study of a lifetime. It should occasion no concern that the finer points of the great and complex creation should seem sometimes confused and obscure. It is the intent of this essay to introduce the layman to the beautiful and fulfilling path which is taxonomy.

  I shall begin with a brief guide to which the reader may refer.

  Firstblood

  The Firstblood are the feral, near-bestial form from which all humanity arose. Had there been no dragons to form the twelve crafted races from this base clay, humanity would have been exclusively of the Firstblood. Even now, they are the most populous of the races, showing the least difficulty in procreation, and spreading throughout the known world as a weed might spread through a rose garden. I intend no offense by the comparison, but truth knows no etiquette.

  The Eastern Triad

  The oldest of the crafted races form the Eastern Triad: Jasuru, Yemmu, and Tralgu.

  The Jasuru are often assumed to be the first of the higher races. They share the rough size and shape of the Firstblood, but with the metallic scales of lesser dragons. Most likely, they were created as a rough warrior caste, overseers to control the Firstblood slaves.

  The Yemmu are clearly a later improvement. Their great size and massive tusks could only have been designed to intimidate the lesser races, but as with other examples of crafted races, the increase in size and strength has come at a cost. Of all the races, the Yemmu have the shortest natural lifespan.