“That went gracefully,” Jorey said, lifting a poached egg into his mouth.
“Don’t gulp, dear,” Clara said. “And yes, I suppose it did.”
“The sack was… well, those are never pleasant. I was afraid in the aftermath that holding the city would be challenging. But the spider goddess works her magic again. It shouldn’t surprise me anymore.”
“It always astonishes me,” Clara said.
“Puts a premium on Vicarian’s time, though. We lost three priests in the fighting. One burned on the ships, one at the wall, and the last took a crossbow bolt and a sword in the street-by-street work at the end. I don’t know what we’re going to do when the time comes to move on.”
Don’t ask, Clara thought. Don’t ask, and you will not be obligated to write it in a letter to anyone. Jorey shrugged and reached for a cup of coffee for himself. A finch the blue of a noonday sky sped past them as it no doubt had passed the governor of Porte Oliva when he lived. They would believe in the goddess. They would trust in her. They would follow her.
“How long do you imagine it will be before you leave the city?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
“As soon as I know which direction to march, I suppose,” Jorey said. “I want this done before we’re pulled into a second winter campaign. And there are fewer and fewer places for her to run to. Once we have this banker, I think we’ll have everything. The dragon. The Timzinae. Feldin Maas and the conspiracy in Asterilhold. It’s all connected, and that woman and her bank are at the center of it.”
“Why would you think that?” Clara asked.
Jorey frowned. “Everyone knows it, Mother.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I look at it, and I see… well, people. Humanity has been struggling for power and advantage since the last time a dragon flew. Perhaps before. I don’t see the need for a grand plot to explain what’s normal.”
“That’s not how it is, Mother,” Jorey said. “I’ve talked with Vicarian about it all the way from Camnipol, and I tried every argument. Every angle. This is the only thing that feels right.”
Oh, my boy, she thought. I should never have let you go.
The conversation moved to safer territory, to Sabiha and Annalise, to her impressions of Birancouri food, to Jorey’s continual amazement that Clara had taken it on herself to follow him. It was easier without Vicarian there. She didn’t need to watch her words, or at least not so closely. It still wouldn’t have done to let Vincen’s name slip out in too familiar a context. She was Jorey’s mother, Dawson’s widow, a woman driven perhaps a bit off center by the tragedies she’d faced. Enough so, at any rate, to forgive her the occasional flight of fancy.
Too soon, Jorey squinted up into the wide square of sky and pushed his plate away.
“My talented brother’s likely done with his priestly duties by now. I suppose I have to get back to work.”
“Does he consult on everything, then?” Clara asked, knowing it would be a sentence in the inevitable letter if he did.
“No, it’s just we’re still questioning people who knew her, and he’s a useful man for that kind of thing.”
“I remember,” Clara said. “Geder had me before a magistrate’s bench that way once myself.”
“And he found beyond all doubt that you were innocent,” Jorey said. “It works, you see?”
We are chasing an invention of our own fancy, and so I no longer believe that Palliako’s campaign can end except in an ever-broadening wave of fear and violence. Even I, who know better, find myself sometimes believing that agents of the Timzinae or the dragons or your own bank were instrumental in beginning this conflict and that Geder Palliako’s actions are understandable given those which came before them. When I remind myself of the truth it feels like waking from a dream into a nation of sleepwalkers. Even talented, intelligent, kind men like the new Lord Marshal have fallen into this dream.
I began these letters in hopes of stopping the madness that has taken my kingdom and my people. I hope you will not think less of me that I now despair.
“Clara,” Vincen said from the doorway, “we have to go now.”
“Just a moment more,” she said.
“Jorey’s already waited to call the march. He’ll have to start soon, and if we’re following along behind again, people will start thinking you prefer it there.”
“Give me a moment to finish my letter.”
He left, closing the door behind him. His footsteps did not recede. She felt better, having him standing guard this way when she was writing things that were so thoroughly dangerous for them all.
I continue my correspondence in hopes that you have some knowledge or perspective of which I am at present unaware. My hope is that you have hope. The forces of Antea are leaving Porte Oliva today and moving north along the dragon’s roads toward Sara-sur-Mar and Porte Silena. It is possible that the Lord Marshal might make the turn toward Herez and Daun, though the news that Callon Cane and his bounties are no longer welcome in Herez make this seem less likely to me. The Lord Marshal has had news that, ejected from Daun, Callon Cane has taken up his trade in Sara-sur-Mar. If, as he believes, Cane is an adventure of your bank, I must urge you to withdraw him to safety at once.
Vincen’s voice came through the door as a murmur. “The supply carts are lining up at the gate.”
“You aren’t anywhere near where you could see that,” Clara said.
“You aren’t anywhere near where you could be sure they aren’t.”
Jorey Kalliem has divided his force, leaving Porte Oliva under the protectorship of his brother, a priest of the spider goddess with all the powers and compromise that implies. A small occupying force will also remain. The majority of the army will proceed with the two remaining priests. If there is any hope of victory, it is in this: the priests are few, and their power is great. Should they be absented from the army, it is possible that Lord Marshal Kalliam might not push on. He is reluctant to conduct a second winter campaign, and should he be sufficiently slowed, the army may retreat to Porte Oliva to winter. I do not know what, if anything, can be accomplished with that time, but
New voices came, sharp and masculine. Vincen responded in kind. Clara grabbed a handful of blotting sand, cast it on the paper, folded the letter, and stuffed it down the front of her dress as the door opened and the younger son of Cyrus Mastellin came in. He had his dead uncle’s unfortunate roundness of face, but he wore it better.
“Lady Kalliam, please forgive the intrusion, but if you wish the escort of the Lord Marshal on your return journey—”
“I shall be there at once,” Clara said. “I was only tying up a few last little things.”
Mastellin nodded, but did not retreat. Jorey had apparently told the boy to come back with her in tow or with permission to leave without her. In the corridor behind him, Vincen stood quiet as a ghost, his expression too innocent to miss his meaning. Yes, you said as much, she thought. You’re very clever. And I am damned if I know how I’m to get this letter free without drawing stares.
“My lady,” Vincen said as she passed. He was enjoying himself entirely too much.
They left the gates behind before midday, Clara riding with Jorey behind the advance guard. She’d said her farewells to Vicarian at his new temple the night before, speaking carefully and pleased to have the occasion behind her. The sun was warm, and the grasslands wide and fragrant with the ripeness that came in the falling point between midsummer and harvest. The story was that she would return to Camnipol, the army acting as her escort until their paths diverged. A small group of sword-and-bows would see her safely back through the pass at Bellin and have her back in the heart of empire by the close of the season. It wasn’t what Clara wanted or hoped, but she’d had to resign herself to it. Otherwise her agreement would have been a lie.