The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Darsy gave an awkward move that Leesha took as a seated curtsy. “Got local gatherers making rounds throughout the county. Volunteers gather in town squares to help the injured build their strength walking, stretching, and lifting weights.” She thrust her chin at Rojer and Hary. “Jongleurs been touring, keeping spirits high as folk struggle to rebuild.”

  Rojer nodded. “More than touring. Teaching. Town squares are more than just rehabilitation for the injured. Starting kids playing as soon as they can hold a bow or pluck a string.”

  “We’ve sent for instrument makers from Angiers,” Rojer began tentatively, taking a sheet of parchment from his leather case. “The cost …”

  “I’ll take that, Master Halfgrip,” Arther said, reaching for the paper. Rojer had been promoted to master by the Jongleurs’ Guild with the last Messenger, but the title still sounded fresh to Leesha’s ears. The lord scanned the contents, passing it to the count with a frown.

  Even Thamos gave a profound sigh as he read the numbers. “You’re quick to claim the Jongleurs as your own and not subject to me, Master Halfgrip, until you need coin. If you would reconsider your position as royal herald of the Hollow, it would be easier to secure funds for you.”

  Rojer pursed his lips. He had refused the count when he first made the offer, months ago, but Leesha felt his resolve weakening as it became more and more likely that she would soon be countess. Rojer had a stubborn streak, though, and didn’t care to answer to anyone. Thamos pushing like this was only going to strengthen his resolve.

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, we’re not asking for luxuries,” Rojer said. “Those instruments will save as many lives as your horses and spears.”

  Thamos’ nostrils flared, as did the pain in Leesha’s temple. She wondered if Rojer would be a good herald in any event. He had a knack for saying the wrong things.

  “How many of your Jongleurs died on Waning, Master Halfgrip?” Thamos asked quietly. They both knew the answer. None. It wasn’t a fair comparison, but Thamos wasn’t always fair.

  Hary cleared his throat. “We’re working with what we’ve got in the meantime, Your Highness. Everyone’s got a voice, and most can be taught to carry a tune. Not every barony has a Holy House yet, but they’ve all got choirs. Master Rojer and his, ah, wives have seen to that. On Seventhday you can hear the Song of Waning for miles around. Enough to hold an entire copse of wood demons at bay.

  “Master Rojer even wrote a lullaby version,” Hary went on. “One that can protect a parent and child even as it soothes the babe’s cries.” Thamos looked unconvinced, but he let the matter drop.

  “Amanvah and Sikvah have been giving sharusahk lessons, as well,” Rojer added. “Simple sharukin to help the healing stretch muscles and scars back to full flexibility.” The Hollowers might still look askance at the Krasians in their midst, but they had all taken to sharusahk. Arlen had begun to teach the Cutters, but now it was a craze that spread throughout Hollow County.

  “Krasian songs in the Holy Houses,” Inquisitor Hayes griped. “Krasian exercises in the town square. Bad enough we have a heathen priestess teaching choirs of the Creator, but now we must corrupt our people further by teaching them to murder in the fashion of the desert rats?”

  “Ay!” Gared said. “Lot of Cutters alive who wouldn’t be without Rojer’s music and Krasian fighting moves. Don’t like the desert rats any more’n you, but we’re forgettin’ the real enemy if we turn noses up at what’s keeping folk strong in the night.”

  Leesha blinked. Wisdom from the baron. Wonders never ceased.

  “It’s not just that,” Hayes amended. “What of the silks this Shamavah is selling? Women are parading about like harlots, forgetting all decency and putting sin in the minds of men.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Leesha snapped, lifting a silk kerchief she had purchased just last week. Abban’s First Wife Shamavah had come to the Hollow with her, and set up a Krasian restaurant in town that never had an empty seat. She had set up a pavilion out back, selling southern goods at shockingly low prices, and a steady stream of supply carts had come from Everam’s Bounty since with much-needed trade.

  “If all it takes to put sin in the minds of men is women flashing a bit of silk,” Leesha said, “perhaps the problem is with your sermons, Inquisitor, and not the Krasians.”

  “Still got a point,” Smitt cut in. “Shamavah’s selling on the cheap to cut into my business, but she’s making up for it in the back waving gold in workers’ faces then paying them klats. Getting folk dependent on our enemies for things we can do without or make here in the Hollow.”

  “I think you’ve gotten too used to being the only store in town, Smitt Inn,” Leesha said. Indeed, the Speaker of the Hollow had many connections with the Merchants’ Guild in Angiers, and had grown steadily wealthier even as those around him suffered the depredations of the last year. “I’ve seen what you charge hungry folk for a loaf of bread. A little competition will do you good.”

  “Enough,” Thamos cut in. “We’re in no position to refuse the trade right now, but as of today there will be an import tax on all goods from the Krasian lands.”

  Smitt and Hayes broke into wide grins at that, but the count checked them with a finger. “But you’re both going to have to get used to a little silk and competition in exchange. Don’t make a habit of wasting my time with these petty complaints.”

  Leesha held back her own smile as the curve fell from the other men’s lips.

  “I trust the new cathedral is not a petty matter?” Hayes said testily.

  “Not at all, Inquisitor,” Thamos said. “In fact, it vexes Arther daily when he prepares the tallies. You’ve barely broken ground, and by all accounts already exceeded your yearly budget and every line of credit available.”

  “There are no braver men or women in all Thesa than the Hollowers, Your Highness, but they are woodsmen,” Hayes said, the derision in his tone almost undetectable. “Canon—and wisdom—demand a Holy House be built in stone. In Angiers, where stoneworkers are more common, the cost would be a third as much.”

  Smitt coughed. He was one of the many creditors waiting on the Inquisitor for payment.

  “You have something to add, Speaker?” Thamos asked.

  “Begging Your Highness’ pardon, and no disrespect to the Inquisitor,” Smitt said, “but that just ent true. Demons did most of our quarrying for us at new moon. Stone is cheap in the Hollow, and so is muscle. Wasn’t our idea to make this the first building in history in the shape of a ripping greatward.”

  “Ent the whole barony a greatward?” Gared asked.

  “Even the baron agrees it’s a redundant waste,” Smitt said.

  Gared’s face took on the strained look it did when someone said something he didn’t understand. “A what?”

  Child Franq ignored him, glaring at Smitt. “How dare you question the Inquisitor? Hollow Cathedral will be the last refuge if the corelings take the county, as they nearly did at new moon.”

  “A project that will take decades to finish properly,” Erny said, “and leave you with irregularly shaped rooms with vastly wasted footage. A basic wardwall would be cheaper and far more efficient.”

  “Demons make it all the way into the center of the Hollow,” Gared said, “ent no wall or ward gonna stop ’em. Better to use the place to pray for the Deliverer to return.”

  “Mr. Bales himself denies he is the Deliverer,” Hayes reminded him. “By his own words. We must continue to look to the Creator for true succor.”

  Gared’s hands curled into fists at the words. He had become more pious of late, but it was due to his belief—shared by tens of thousands across Thesa—that Arlen Bales was the Deliverer, sent by the Creator to lead humanity against the corelings.

  The Inquisitor had been sent to the Hollow by the Tenders of the Creator in Angiers to study these claims, preferably disproving them and outing Arlen as an imposter. But the Inquisitor was no fool. A public stance against Arlen would turn the entire Hollo
w against him.

  “With all due respect, Inquisitor,” Leesha said, “Arlen Bales never said any such thing. He denies he is the Deliverer, true, but it was one another he told us to look to.”

  Gared’s fists thumped the table, rattling goblets and making papers jump. All eyes in the room turned to his dark glare. “He is the Deliverer. Don’t understand why we’re still talking like he ent.”

  Inquisitor Hayes shook his head. “There is no proof …”

  “Proof?!” Gared boomed. “He saved us when we’d all have been et. Gave us back the power to save ourselves. Ent none can deny that. You all saw him floating in the sky, throwing lighting from his rippin’ hands, and you still want rippin’ proof? How about how there wan’t a mind demon attack last Waning?”

  He looked to the count. “You heard him during the fight. ‘You’re my last piece of business before I take the fight to the Core,’ he told Jardir.”

  “Demons still come every night, Baron,” Thamos said. “Homes burn. Warriors bleed. Innocent people die. I’ll not deny what Mr. Bales has done, but neither do I feel ‘delivered.’ ”

  Gared shrugged. “Maybe he did the hard part, and we’ve the rest to do ourselves. Maybe it’s gonna get hard again, an’ he just bought us time to grow strong. Ent no Tender. Don’t pretend to know the Creator’s whole plan. But I know one part, sure as the sun rises. Creator sent Arlen Bales to deliver the fighting wards back to us and show us how to fight.”

  He looked back at the Inquisitor. “Rest we’ll see when we get down the road. Maybe we’ll be worthy an’ win back the night, and maybe our sins’ll weigh us an’ we’ll fail.”

  Hayes blinked, caught for a reply. Leesha could see the man warring within himself, trying to reconcile Arlen’s “miracles” with the desire of his order to hold on to power.

  “So we are supposed to bow down to Arlen Bales?” Thamos demanded, giving the thought voice. “All the Tenders and Shepherds—I and my brother and Euchor of Miln? All of us voluntarily abdicate power to him?”

  “Abdi-what?” Gared asked. “Course not. You’ve met him. Mr. Bales dun’t care about thrones and papers. Dun’t think the Deliverer cares about anythin’ ’cept keepin’ us safe in the night. So where’s the harm in givin’ him credit for what he’s done, ’specially now when he’s gone on to the Core itself for us?”

  “We have only his word on that, Baron,” Child Franq noted.

  Gared turned a cold glare at him. “You callin’ him a liar?”

  The Child shrank back, clearing his throat. “Of course not, I, ah …”

  Hayes laid a hand on his arm. “The Child will be silent.” Immediately, a look of relief crossed Franq’s face, and he dropped his eyes, withdrawing from the debate.

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” Leesha cut in. Gared glared at her, but she met his gaze coolly. “If Arlen had wanted to be called the Deliverer, he wouldn’t have spent his every other breath denying it. Whether he is or isn’t, he thinks folk won’t put their backs into the fight if they’re waiting to be saved.”

  The Inquisitor nodded, perhaps too eagerly. Leesha turned to him next. “As for your plans, Inquisitor, I’m afraid I must agree with my father, Speaker Smitt, and the baron. They are impractical and wasteful.”

  “That is not for you to decide, Gatherer,” Hayes snapped.

  “No, but it is for me to decide how it will be paid for.” Thamos’ voice had taken on the quiet tone that showed his patience was at an end and folk should listen well.

  All eyes returned to the count. “If you insist on continuing the cathedral in this fashion, Inquisitor, the Tenders are welcome to shoulder the cost. There will be no more talk of royal funds until you change plans to something more sensible.”

  Hayes gave Thamos a cold look, but he dipped a shallow bow. “As you wish, Highness.”

  “As for the matter of Arlen Bales,” the count said, “I can assure you, Baron, this will be a topic addressed during your visit to court. You’ll have the opportunity to make your case to Shepherd Pether and the duke in person.”

  The zealous look on Gared’s face melted away. “Ent no Speaker, Highness. Plenty others got better words’n me on the topic. Tender Jona …”

  “Has been questioned at length on the matter,” Thamos said. “But my brothers remain unconvinced. You have witnessed his rise firsthand. If you truly believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer, you will speak for him. If you haven’t the courage, it will say even more than your words.”

  Gared’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Deliverer told me life ent always fair. If the weight’s on me, I’ll carry it and more besides.”

  The meeting went on for some time, each councilor in turn asking the count for funds to pay for one project or another. Leesha rubbed her temple as she tried to follow each councilor’s accounting, and calculate the true numbers they sought to hide. Even when she disagreed with his choices, she didn’t envy Thamos in having to make them. She wished she were at the other end of the table by his side, so she could touch him and whisper advice only he would hear.

  She was surprised at how strongly the image resonated with her. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to be countess.

  She took her time gathering her papers when the session ended and the other councilors began to file out. She hoped to steal another moment with Thamos before heading to the hospit, but the Inquisitor moved over to him, stealing the opportunity.

  Leesha left the room slowly, passing as close to them as possible, ears open.

  “Your mother and brother will hear of this,” the Inquisitor warned.

  “I’ll tell them myself,” Thamos snapped back. “And that you’re being a ripping fool.”

  “How dare you, boy,” the Inquisitor growled.

  Thamos raised a finger. “I’m not beneath your cane anymore, Tender. Try to swing it at me again and I’ll break it over my knee and send you on the next coach back to Angiers.”

  Leesha clutched her papers, smiling as she left the room.

  Smitt was lingering outside, speaking to his wife, Stefny, and their youngest son, Keet. The Speaker looked at her, bowing. “My apologies if I offended you earlier, mistress.”

  “The council chamber is meant for debate,” Leesha said. “I hope you know that the Hollow owes you a great debt for your service as Speaker in these difficult times.”

  Smitt nodded, slapping Keet on the shoulder. “Just telling the boy here to see if we can’t lower the price of bread, like you asked. If there’s a way, he’ll find it. Good head for numbers, just like his da.”

  Out of his line of sight, Stefny rolled her eyes at Leesha. They both knew the boy was not really Smitt’s son, but the illegitimate son of the Hollow’s late Tender, Michel.

  Both Leesha and Bruna had used the knowledge like a lash against Stefny when the woman was out of line, but now, with an illegitimate child of her own growing in her belly, Leesha knew she had been wrong to do so.

  “A word,” she said to Stefny, as the two men walked off.

  “Ay?” the woman asked. They had never been anything approaching close, but both had faced down corelings for the sake of wounded Hollowers, and there was respect between them now.

  “I owe you an apology,” Leesha said. “I’ve threatened you with Keet before, but I want you to know I would never have done it, to Smitt or to the boy.”

  “Nor Bruna, whatever the witch might have said,” Stefny agreed. “I may not agree with everything you do, girl, but you keep your Gatherer’s oath. You can keep your apology with it.”

  She tilted her head at Smitt and the boy. “Even if you hadn’t, Smitt never would have believed you.” She shook her head. “Funny thing about children. People see in them what they wish to see.”

  Rojer smiled to see Amanvah’s coach waiting in the courtyard of Thamos’ keep. Heavily warded and powered with hora, the princess’ coach was as safe as any building in the Hollow.

  Pulled by four brilliant white mares with golden tra
ces, the coach was painted to match. The white and gold was typical of austere Krasian artisans, but in the North, where a typical Jongleur’s Wagon looked like the vomit of a rainbow and every two-klat Messenger had his own colors, the stark white was louder than even Thamos’ royal coach.

  Inside, it was a Jongleur’s paradise, with multicolored silks and velvet on almost every surface. Rojer called it the motley coach, and he loved it so.

  The driver was Coliv, the Krevakh Watcher Jardir had sent to escort Leesha’s entourage back to the Hollow. The man was a cold and efficient killer, and like the other Sharum, had looked at Rojer like a bug they were waiting for the order to squash.

  But they had shed blood together at new moon, and that seemed to change everything. There were not friends—the Watcher gave new depths to the word taciturn—but Rojer now received a nod of respect when he saw the warrior, and it made all the difference.

  “They inside?” he asked.

  The Watcher shook his head. “Sharusahk in the Alagai Graveyard.” His words were even, but Rojer could sense the tension in them. Since the death of Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido, Coliv had appointed himself to the role, and never let Amanvah out of shouting distance, save at her direct command. Rojer was not convinced the man ever slept or even took a piss.

  Maybe he wears a sheep’s bladder under those loose pants. Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, giving no sign of his amusement. “Let’s go see them.”

  He could sense Coliv’s relief. He was cracking the reins before Rojer had even closed the door behind him. He was thrown into the pillows as the coach started with a jerk. He inhaled his wives’ perfume and sighed, missing them already.

  Had he been anywhere else, Sikvah at least would have been waiting inside to greet him in her colored silks. But some fine point of Krasian honor kept them from coming within a mile of the count’s keep without a formal invitation—which happened all too infrequently for Amanvah’s satisfaction. They were blood of the Shar’Dama Ka, after all.