Geder
Geder might have found it more difficult to hide his subterfuge if his failure hadn't been assumed from the start. Instead, he and his half-loyal soldiers limped back into the city, gave their thin reports, and were dismissed. Geder returned to the weak stream of his duties; enforcing taxes, arresting loyalists, and generally harassing the people of Vanai in the name of Alan Klin.
"I can't pay this," the old Timzinae said, looking up from the taxation order. "The prince had us all pay twice over before the war, and now you want as much as he did."
"It isn't me," Geder said.
"I don't see anyone else in here."
The shop squatted in a dark street. Scraps of leather lay here and there. A brass tailor's dummy wrapped in soft black hide that still smelled slightly of the tanner's yard loomed near the oilcloth window. As armor, leather that thin would be useless. Barely better than cloth, and probably worse than good quilting. As court costume, on the other hand, it would look quite impressive.
"You want it?" the Timzinae asked.
"Sorry, what?"
"The cloak. Commissioned by the Master of Canals, then he vanished in the night just before" - he held up the taxation notice in his black-scaled hand - "our liberation by the noble empire. It's not done, and I've got enough of that dye lot left I could recut it to fit you."
Geder licked his lips. He couldn't. Someone would ask where he'd gotten it, and he'd have to explain. Or lie. If he said he'd bought it on the cheap, maybe while he was on the southern roads or from one of the little caravans they'd searched...
"Could you really recut it?"
The Timzinae's smile was a marvel of cynicism.
"Could you misplace this?" he asked, nodding at the paper.
For a moment, Geder felt the echo of his pleasure riding away from the smugglers, gems and jewels hidden in his shirt. One lost tax notice. At worst it would keep Klin's coffers a little more sparse, his reports back to Camnipol a little less promising. It would keep the leatherman in his shop for another season; if the man had asked, Geder would probably have "lost" the notice even without the promise of a good cloak.
Besides which, compared to what he'd already done, the twenty silver coins lost to Klin were like a raindrop in the ocean.
"Putting an honest man out of work can't be to anyone's benefit," Geder said. "I'm sure we can work this through."
"Stand up on that stool, then," the Timzinae said. "I'll make sure the drape's best for your frame."
Winter was dry season in Vanai. The walls of the canals showed high-water marks feet above the thin ice and sluggish, dark flow. Fallen leaves skittered along the bases of walls, and trees stood bare and dead in the gardens and arbors. The icicles that hung from the wooden eaves of the houses grew thinner by the day, and new snow didn't come. The nights were bitter, the days merely cold. The city waited for the thaw, the melt, the rush of freshwater and life that came from a spring still months away. Everything was dead or sleeping. Geder walked through the street bouncing on his toes a little, his guardsmen following behind.
When he'd first returned, Geder had locked his doors, taken out the cloth pouch that he'd bought in Gilea, and spread the gems and jewels on his bed. Glittering in the dim light, they'd posed a problem. He had enough available wealth now to make his day-to-day life in Vanai more comfortable, but not as coin. He could sell them, of course, but giving them to gem merchants within the city risked someone recognizing a stone or a piece of metalwork. And if Klin or one of his favorites noticed that Geder had suddenly more coin than he should, nothing good could follow.
He'd answered the problem by sending his squire out to exchange only the most innocuous stones - three round garnets and a diamond in undistinguished silver. The purse of coins had silver and bronze, copper, and two thin rounds of gold frail enough to bend with his fingers. For his lifestyle, it was a fortune, and he carried a portion of it now in his satchel along with a book, ready for his last errand of the day.
The academy looked over a narrow square. In its greater days, it had been a center for the children of the lower nobility and the higher merchant class to hire tutors or commission speeches. The carved oaken archway that led into its great hall was marked with the names of the scholars and priests who had given lectures there over the century and a half since its founding. Within, the air smelled of wax and sandalwood, and sunlight filtered through high horizontal windows, catching motes of dust suspended in the air. Somewhere nearby, a man recited poetry in a deep, resonant voice. He breathed the air of the place.
Footsteps padded up behind him. The clerk was a thin Southling man, his huge dark eyes dominating his face. His body spoke of deference and fear.
"May I help you, my lord? There isn't a problem?"
"I wanted to find a researcher," Geder said. "My squire was told this was the place to come."
The Southling blinked his huge black eyes.
"I... That is, my lord..." The clerk shook himself. "Really?"
"Yes," Geder said.
"You haven't come to arrest someone? Or levy fines?"
"No."
"Well. Just a moment, my lord," the Southling said. "Let me find someone that might be of use. If you'll come with me?"
In the side chamber, Geder sat on a wooden bench worn smooth by decades of use. The recitation of poems went on, the voice fainter now, the words made unintelligible. Geder loosened his belt, shifting in his seat. He had the almost physical memory of waiting for his own tutors, and pushed back the irrational anxiety that he might not be able to answer the scholar's questions. The door slid open, and a Firstblood man sidled in. Geder popped to his feet.
"Good afternoon. My name is Geder Palliako."
"You're known in the city, Lord Palliako," the man said. "Tamask said something about wanting a researcher?"
"Yes," Geder said, taking the book from his side and holding it out. "I've been translating this book, only it's not very well presented. I want someone to find more like it, but different."
The scholar took the book gently, as if it were a colorful but unknown insect, and opened the pages. Geder fidgeted.
"It's about the fall of the Dragon Empire," he said. "It's couched as history, but I'm more interested in speculative essay?"
The sound of ancient pages hushing against each other competed with the distant voice and the murmur of a breeze outside the windows. The scholar leaned close to the book, frowning.
"What are you proposing, Lord Palliako?"
"I'll pay for any books you can find on the period. If they can be bought outright, I'll pay a reward. If they have to be copied, I can commission a scribe, but that means a smaller payment for the researcher. I'm looking particularly for considerations of the fall of the dragons, and especially there's a passage in there about something called the Righteous Servant? I'd like more about that."
"May I ask why, lord?"
Geder opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd never had anyone to talk with about the question, never had to explain himself.
"It's about... truth. And deceit. And I thought it was interesting," he said gamely.
"Would you also be interested in rhetorics on the subject? Asinia Secundus wrote a fine examination of the nature of truth during the Second Alfin Occupation."
"That's philosophy? I'll look at it, but I'd really rather it was an essay."
"You mentioned that. Speculative essay," the scholar said, the faintest sigh in his voice.
"Is that a problem?" Geder asked.
"Not at all, my lord," the scholar said with a forced smile. "We would be honored to help."
My contention is this: given the lack of primary documents from that time, our best practice is to examine those who later claimed the mantle of the Dragon Empire, and by considering their actions infer the nature of the examples they followed. The best example of this is the enigmatic Siege of Aastapal. Direct examination of the ruins there has failed to determine whether the destruction of the city was accomplished by the assaulting forces of the great dragon Morade or, more controversially, the occupying forces of his brother and clutch-mate, Inys.
Faced with this dearth of direct evidence, we may turn to better-known histories. As late as a thousand years after, we have the great Jasuru general Marras Toca in the fourth Holy Cleansing campaign. Also the Anthypatos of Lynnic, Hararrsin fifth of the name, at the battle of Ashen Dan. Also Queen Errathianpados at the siege of Kazhamor. In each of these cases, a wartime commander claiming lineage with the last Dragon Emperor has chosen to destroy a city as a means of denying it to the enemy. If, as I will try to prove, this was done in conscious imitation of the last great war of dragons, it implies that the destruction of Aastapal was done by Inys as a tactical gambit to keep it from Morade's control rather than the generally accepted scenario.
Geder cocked his head. The argument seemed weak. For one thing, he'd never heard of two of the three examples. And then, out of all the battles and wars and sieges since the fall of dragons, he'd think you could pick instances of any strategy or decision you wanted. The case could be made just as well in the other direction by drawing different leaders, different battles. And God knew every third tyrant claimed some sort of lineage from the dragons.
And still, all specifics aside, it was a fascinating thought. When something can't be known, when the particulars are lost forever, to look at the events that followed from it, that echoed it, and trace backwards toward the truth. Like seeing the ripples in a pond and knowing where the stone fell in. He looked up at his little room, excited. His writing desk still had a bit of ink in the well, but he'd put his pen somewhere. He laid the book open and scurried to the stack of firewood near the grate, picked up a fallen splinter, and went back to his table quickly. Rough wood dipped into the darkness, and Geder carefully marked the margin of the book. Looking at ripples to know where the stone fell.
He sat back, pleased. Now if there was just some discussion of the Righteous Servant...
"Lord Palliako," his squire said from the doorway. "Lord Klin banquet?"
Geder sighed, nodded, and tossed the blackened splinter into the fire. His thumb and forefinger were stained. He washed his hands in the basin, his mind only half involved in his task. The squire helped him into his formal tunic and new black leather cloak and almost led him to the door and out to the street beyond.
At home in Camnipol, the one great event of the winter was the anniversary of King Simeon's ascension. Whatever favored noble family the king chose might spend half its year's income on one night, the court descending upon it like crows on a battlefield. Geder had been twice, and the richness of the food and drink had left him vaguely ill both times.
In Vanai, Sir Alan Klin echoed the event with a great banquet and an enforced public celebration.
Festive lanterns hung along the narrow streets casting strange shadows. Musicians played flutes and beat drums as reedy Timzinae voices rose and fell in song. A thick-faced woman rolled a barrel along the street, wood thundering on the cobbles.
Geder passed local men and women dressed in their finest, all wearing mildly amused expressions. The chill air left all the Firstblood faces rosy and noses running. Doors stood open all along the street, light blazing within, to invite passersby in, but without the flags and fireshows of Antea. Last year, none of these men and women had known or cared when King Simeon had taken his crown. If the soldiers of Antea went home, the date would be forgotten again as quickly and as cynically as it had been adopted. The whole enterprise struck Geder as the empty shell of a real celebration. Tin passing itself for silver.
At the palace of the former prince, Klin had appropriated a long audience chamber for the nobility of Antea to celebrate. Here, warm air pressed at the mouth and nose. Traditional Antean foods crowded the tables - venison in mint, trout paste on twice-baked toast, sausage links boiled in wine. The press of voices was like a storm, shouted conversations echoing against the great bronze-colored arches above them. Competing singers wandered between the tables cadging spare coins from the Antean revelers. An old servant with the red-and-grey armband of Klin's household led Geder to one of the smallest tables, far from the great fireplace where half a tree burned and popped. Geder kept his cloak. So far from the fire, it was cold.
Geder allowed a slave girl to give him a plate of food and a wide, cut-crystal glass of yeasty-smelling dark beer. In the midst of the revel, he ate by himself, mulling over questions of truth and deception, war and history. The high table - Alan Klin, Gospey Allintot, and half a dozen of the others of Klin's favorites - was a ship on the horizon to him. He didn't notice Daved Broot being ushered to his table until the boy plopped down on a bench.
"Palliako," the younger Broot said with a nod.
"Hello," Geder said.
"Good cloak. New?"
"Recent anyway."
"Suits you."
Their conversation completed, Broot took a plate and began a campaign of systematically eating as much food as possible. He seemed to take no joy in it, but Geder felt a whisper of admiration for the boy's determination. Minutes later, when Jorey Kalliam and Sir Afend Tilliakin - two more of Klin's least favored - came to the table together, Broot had already called for a second plate.
"How does your father read the situation?" Tilliakin said as the pair took their seats.
Jorey Kalliam shook his head.
"I don't think we can draw any conclusions," he said, lifting a plate of venison and a flagon of wine out of a servant's waiting hands. "Not yet."
"Still, that little banker Imaniel won't be going free anytime soon. Lord Klin must be chewing his own guts that he didn't find that caravan, eh?"
All thought of dragons, ripples, and eating prowess fell away from Geder. He took a long drink of beer, hiding behind the glass, and tried to think how to ask what the pair were talking about without seeming obvious. Before he could come up with something clever, Broot spoke up.
"You talking about the letter from Ternigan?"
"Jorey Kalliam's father is seeing the whole thing from back home, but I can't pry details out with a crowbar."
Geder cleared his throat.
"Ternigan wrote a letter?" he said, his voice higher and more strained than he'd meant it to be. Tilliakin laughed.
"Half a book, the way I heard it," he said. "The war chests Klin's been sending home were a little light for some people's tastes. Ternigan wants to know why. The way I heard it, he's sending in one of his men to look over Klin's books, see if he's been taking more than his share."
"That's not happening," Jorey said. "At least it isn't happening yet."
Broot's eyebrows rose.
"So you have heard something," Tilliakin said. "I knew you were holding out."
Jorey smiled ruefully.
"I don't know anything certain. Father said that there's been some concern at court that the Vanai campaign hasn't done as well for the crown as expected. It's all grumbling in the court so far. The king hasn't said anything against the way Klin's managed things."
"Hasn't said anything for him either, though, has he?" Tilliakin asked.
"No," Jorey said. "No, he hasn't."
"Ternigan won't recall him," Broot said around a mouthful of sausage. "They'd both look bad."
"If he does, though, he'll do it quick. Be interesting to know who he'd put in his place, wouldn't it?" Tilliakin said, staring pointedly at Jorey.
Geder looked back and forth between the men, his mind bounding on ahead of him like a dog that has slipped its leash. Klin's steady stream of taxation demands suddenly took on more significance. Perhaps he wasn't only finding unpleasant tasks to occupy Geder's days. Those coins might be going back to Camnipol in place of the ones lost when the caravan vanished away. Klin buying back the court's good opinion.
The thought was too sweet to trust. Because if it was true, if he had put Sir Alan Klin in the bad graces of the king...
"I think Jorey would make a fine prince for Vanai," Geder said.
"God's wounds, Palliako!" Broot said. "Don't say that kind of thing where people can hear you!"
"Sorry," Geder said. "I only meant - "
A roar came from the high table. Half a dozen jugglers dressed in fool's costumes were tossing knives back and forth through the air, blades catching the firelight. The occupants of the high table had shifted, making room for the show, and Geder could see Alan Klin clearly now. Through the flurry of knives, he imagined there was an uneasiness about the man's shoulders. A false cheerfulness in his smiles and laughter. A haunted look to the bright eyes. And if it was true, then he - Geder Palliako - had put them there. And what was more, Klin would never know. Never follow back the ripples.
Geder laughed and clapped and pretended he was watching the performance.