Free The Dragon's Path by Daniel Abraham Page A

am so happy to see you.”
    “Yes, Phelia,” Clara said. “I’m sorry that we only ever seem to visit one another when our boys have been misbehaving.”
    “Osterling,” Feldin Maas said, using Dawson’s more formal title.
    “Ebbinbaugh,” Dawson replied, bowing. Feldin retuned the bow with a stiffness that said the pain of his new cut still bothered him.
    “Oh stop it, both of you,” Clara said at the same moment Feldin’s wife said, “Sit down and have some wine.”
    The men did as they were told. After a few minutes of chatter, Feldin leaned over, speaking low.
    “I hadn’t heard whether you were joining the king’s tourney.”
    “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
    “I thought you might be leaving some glory for your sons, old friend,” Feldin said. “That’s all. No offense intended. I don’t think I can afford much more of your offense. At least not until I’ve healed.”
    “Perhaps next time we should duel with words. Insulting couplets at ten paces.”
    “Oh, blades will be fine. Your couplets do permanent damage. People still call Sir Lauren the Rabbit Knight because of you.”
    “Me? No. I could never have done it without his teeth and that ridiculous helmet of his. I know they were supposed to be wings, but by God they looked like ears to me,” Dawson said and took a drink. “You acquitted yourself well today, my boy. Not as well as I did, but you’re a fighter and no doubt.”
    Clara rewarded him with a smile. She was right; it wasn’t so hard being magnanimous. There was even a kind of warmth in it. The wine was rich, and the servants brought in a plate of dry cheese and pickled sausages. Clara and her cousin gossiped and touched each other’s arms and hands at every chance, like children flirting. It was much the same thing, he supposed. First insult, then violence, and reassurance afterward. It was women like theirs who kept the kingdom from bursting apart in a war of ego and manliness.
    “We are lucky men,” Dawson said, “to have wives like these.”
    Feldin Maas startled, considered the two women deep in conversation about the difficulty of maintaining householdsin Camnipol and their family holdings both, and gave a rough half-smile.
    “I suppose we are,” he said. “How long are you staying in Camnipol?”
    “Until the tourney, and then another week or two. I want to get home again before the snows.”
    “Yes. Nothing like the Kingspire in winter for catching every breath of wind off the plain. It’s like his majesty had a sailmaker for an architect. I’ve heard the king’s thinking of touring the reaches just so he can spend some time in a warm house.”
    “It’s the hunting,” Dawson said. “Ever since we were boys, he’s loved the winter hunts in the reaches.”
    “Still, he’s getting old for it, don’t you think?”
    “No. I don’t.”
    “I bow to your opinion,” Feldin said, but his smile was thin and smug. Dawson felt a tug of anger, and Clara must have seen it. Part of peacekeeping, it appeared, was to know how to stop playing at friends before the illusion faded. She called for the servants, gathered a gift of violets for her cousin, and they walked together to the entry hall to say their farewells. Just before he turned away, Feldin Maas frowned and raised a finger.
    “I forget, my lord. Do you have family in the Free Cities?”
    “No,” Dawson said. “Well, I think Clara has some obscure relations in Gilea.”
    “Through marriage,” Clara said. “Not blood.”
    “Nothing in Maccia, then. That’s good,” Feldin Maas said.
    Dawson’s spine stiffened.
    “Maccia? No,” he said. “Why? What’s in Maccia.”
    “Apparently the Grand Doge there has decided to throw in with Vanai against his majesty. ‘Unity in the face of aggression’ or some such.”
    Feldin knew about Vanai’s reinforcements. And if he knew, so did Sir Alan Klin. Did they know whose influence had brought Vanai its new allies, or did they only suspect? They must