Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.

  His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.

  But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.

  Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.

  Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.

  Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.

  He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.

  But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.

  Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.

  An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.

  And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.

  Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.

  “Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the dama’ting …”

  “I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”

  “Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His jiwah no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.

  “Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.

  “Husband, when will you return?” Sikvah called.

  “Not until late in the day,” and Rojer was through the door, closing it behind him.

  Coliv stood in a shadowed nook just outside the door to the apartments. The Watcher gave Rojer a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.

  “Post extra Sharum around the restaurant,” Rojer said. “We have enemies in the day.”

  “All men have enemies in the day,” Coliv said. “It is only in the night we become brothers.”

  “Just post the ripping men,” Rojer snapped.

  Coliv gave a slight bow. “It is already done, son of Jeph. The Holy Daughter issued these commands yesterday.”

  Rojer sighed. “Course she did.”

  Coliv tilted his head. “This man, Goldentone. He owes you a blood debt, yes?”

  Rojer kept his face blank. “Yes. But I don’t want you and my jiwah involved.”

  Coliv bowed again, deeper this time, and for two heartbeats longer. “I apologize for underestimating you, son of Jessum. You greenlanders do know something of the Sharum way. There is no honor in a man sending assassins to collect his blood debts.”

  Rojer blinked. This from the master assassin? “Then don’t get involved. Even if Amanvah commands it.”

  Coliv bowed one last time, shallow and brief. “There is no honor in assassination, master, but it is sometimes necessary. If the Holy Daughter commands I get involved, I will be involved.”

  Rojer swallowed. Part of him thrilled at the thought of Coliv putting his spear through the hearts of Jasin and his apprentices, but it wouldn’t end there. Jasin had family. Powerful family with deep ties to the ivy throne. Blood would be paid in blood.

  He took the steps three at a time, practically bouncing at the landing and out the back door to Shamavah’s stables. Krasian children in tan tended the animals, and they all hopped when they saw him, rushing to be the first to help.

  The quickest proved to be young Shalivah, Drillmaster Kaval’s granddaughter. The drillmaster, too, had died for Rojer. As had Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido. Two more names to etch into the medallion. Seven lives now, paid for his one.

  “Will master need his mottley coach?” the girl asked, her words quick and heavily accented.

  Rojer pulled a bright Jongleur’s mask over his face in an instant. She didn’t see him slip the tiny flower from his bright new bag of marvels. To her it appeared from thin air, and she gasped as he gave it to her.

  “Motley, Shalivah, not mottley. Motley means ‘colorful.’ Mottley means ‘spotted.’ Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded, and Rojer produced a sugar candy. “Say it. Motley.”

  The girl smiled, leaping for the candy. Rojer was not a tall man, but even he could keep it from the child’s reach. “Motley!” she cried. “Motley! Motley! Motley!”

  Rojer flipped her the candy. Her squeal of glee brought the attention of the other children, looking at him expectantly.

  He did not disappoint. More candies were already hidden in his hand. He gave a stage laugh to cover a heavy heart as he spun, nimbly flicking a candy unerringly into the hands of each.

  Their families bled for him, and he repaid them in candy.

  The new baron shifted uncomfortably at his great goldwood desk. His giant fist made the quill look like a hummingbird feather as he scrawled something approximating a signature to the seemingly endless stack of papers slid before him by Squire Emet, a minor Angierian lordling Thamos had appointed the baron’s secretary.

  “Rojer!” Gared cried, rising immediately to his feet as he entered the office.

  “My lord,” the secretary began.

  “Rojer’s got important business, Emet. Yu’ll have to come back later.” Gared loomed over the secretary, and Emet was wise enough to gather his papers and whisk out of the room.

  Gared closed the heavy doors, putting his back to them and blowing out a breath as if he had just escaped a reap of field demons. “Thank the Creator. Ready to throw that whole desk out the window, I had to sign one more paper.”

  Rojer’s eyes flicked to the great heavy desk and the window several feet away. If anyone alive could do it, it was Gared Cutter.

  Rojer grinned. He always felt safer around Gared. “Always happy to provide an escape from paperwork.”

  Gared grinned. “You come by around eleven each morning with a new emergency, I’ll thank you for it. Drink?”

  “Night, yes.” Rojer had drained the skin, but wine was slow. Gared had developed a taste for Angierian brandy, and kept a bottle in his office. Rojer moved to the service, pouring two glasses. He was quick, and Gared didn’t notice as he drained one and refilled it before bringing them over.

  They clicked glasses and drank. Gared took only a pull, but Rojer shot his, moving to fill a third. “Today it’s not a lie. Got an emergency, sure enough.”

  “Ay?” Gared asked. “Sun’s up and nothing’s aflame, so it can’t be too bad. Let’s have a pipe and talk about it, before we’re off to meet the duke’s herald. You think his voice really sounds as good as gold?”

  Rojer shot the next glass, filling a fourth before coming to sit on one of the chairs before the great desk. Gared took the other, packing his pipe. Gared Cutter wasn’t one to put a desk between him and anyone else.

  Rojer took the offered leaf and packed his own pipe. “You recall how I met Leesha in the hospit?”

  “Everyone knows that story,” Gared said. “Start of the tale of how you met the Deliverer.”
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  Rojer didn’t have the strength to argue. “Remember you asked who put me there?” Gared nodded.

  Rojer emptied his glass. “It was the duke’s herald with the golden voice.”

  Gared’s face darkened instantly, like a father finding his daughter with a black eye. He balled a meaty fist. “He’ll be lucky if all the Gatherers in the Hollow can stitch him back together when I’m done with him.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Rojer said. “You’re the Baron of Cutter’s Hollow, not the bouncer at Smitt’s.”

  “Can’t just let something like that lie,” Gared said.

  Rojer looked at him. “Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s herald, the representative of the ivy throne in the Hollow. “Anything you say to him, you are saying to Duke Rhinebeck himself. Anything you do to him, you do to Rhinebeck himself.”

  He gave Gared a look that set even the menacing Cutter aback. “Do you have any idea what the duke would do to you—to the Hollow—if you beat his ripping herald to death?”

  Gared’s brow furrowed. “So we should get someone else to do it?”

  Rojer closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Just let me handle it.”

  Gared looked at him doubtfully. Rojer was no fighter. “Want to handle it yurself, why you tellin’ me?”

  “I don’t want you to do anything to Jasin,” Rojer said. “But I don’t expect him to be so magnanimous.”

  Gared blinked. “Mag-what?”

  “Generous,” Rojer supplied. “He might be worried I’m going to do something, and come after me and mine. I’d sleep better if you could spare a few Cutters to keep an eye on his people.”

  Gared nodded. “Course. But Rojer …”

  “I know, I know,” Rojer said. “Can’t let it fester forever.”

  “Stinks already,” Gared said. “Wish the Deliverer were here. He could rip that skunk’s head clean off, and no one would spit.”

  Rojer nodded. That had been his plan since he’d first met Arlen Bales.

  But the Warded Man was never coming back.

  Rojer shifted in his seat. Tension was thick in the air of the count’s council chamber as they waited on Thamos and Jasin. Lord Arther and Captain Gamon were even stiffer than usual, though it was unclear if it was news from Angiers or simply the presence of the royal emissary. Inquisitor Hayes looked as if he’d just bitten a sour apple.

  Even Leesha had come out of hiding for the meeting. She hadn’t left her cottage in the fortnight since she’d fainted in her yard. The Gatherers patrolling her bedside had denied even Rojer’s visits. Even now, Darsy guarded her like Evin Cutter’s wolfhound.

  It wasn’t hard to see why. Leesha was pale, face puffy and eyes bloodshot. Not one for makeup, the thick powder on her face spoke volumes, as did the tendons stretched like tightropes on her neck.

  Was she ill? Leesha might be the most powerful healer in Thesa, but she had more on her shoulders than even Rojer, and she’d been pushing herself hard. She gave Rojer a weak smile, and he threw a bright—if completely false—one back at her.

  Beside him, Gared seemed ready to crawl out of his skin. He’d never let any harm come to Rojer, but the big Cutter had a tendency to break things he meant to fix.

  Next to the Baron, Erny Paper and Smitt had their heads together in low conversation. It was doubtful they knew half the drama in the room, but the two men could read the tension well enough to know the duke’s herald was not making a social call.

  Hary Roller put a light hand on Rojer’s arm. The old Jongleur knew more of Rojer’s history with Jasin than any present, but he had his mask on, and not even Rojer could see his true feelings.

  “He won’t start trouble if you don’t start it first.” Hary’s trained voice offered the words for the two of them alone.

  “You think he’s had his blood and everything’s sunny now?” Rojer asked.

  “Course not,” Hary said. “Secondsong never forgets a slight.”

  Secondsong. It was what the other Jongleurs called Jasin Goldentone, back when Arrick Sweetsong had been the duke’s herald. It was said he got more patrons from his uncle Janson’s connections than any gold in his voice.

  Privately, at least. No one called Jasin “Secondsong” to his face unless they were ready for a fight. Jasin’s uncle was good for more than bookings. Master Jaycob hadn’t been the first—or the last—time Jasin had gotten away with murder.

  Hary seemed to read his mind. “You’re not some two-klat street performer anymore, Rojer. Something happens to you, every spear in the Hollow will be out for justice.”

  “All bright and sunny for justice,” Rojer said, “but I’ll be just as dead.”

  Just then, Arther and Gamon scrambled to their feet, followed quickly by the rest of the councilors as Count Thamos and Jasin Goldentone swept into the room.

  Goldentone still had the same oily arrogance Rojer remembered, but service to the throne had obviously agreed with him. He had been thinner the last time Rojer saw him.

  Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, open eyes and a painted-on smile, but inside, he thought he might vomit. He could feel the weight of the knives in his forearm sheaths. There were Wooden Soldiers posted at the door, but neither they nor the officers at the table could move faster than Rojer could throw.

  But what then?

  Idiot, take your own advice, Rojer scolded himself. Maybe you deserve nothing better than a taste of vengeance and a quick death at the hands of the Wooden Soldiers, but what will happen to Amanvah and Sikvah if you kill the duke’s herald?

  Rhinebeck would probably consider Goldentone a fair trade for the excuse to arrest the Krasian princesses and hold them hostage.

  So he sat and did nothing, even as the coreling in his breast clawed and shrieked, threatening to tear him to pieces.

  Jasin’s eyes moved to meet the gaze of each council member in turn as Arther announced him. His gaze lingered a moment on Rojer, and he gave a polite smile.

  Rojer longed to cut it from his face. Instead, he smiled in return.

  When the introduction was done, Jasin made a show of opening an ornate scroll tube and breaking the wax of the royal seal that kept the paper bound. He unrolled it, his voice rising to fill the room.

  “Greetings from the ivy throne to Hollow County in this year of our Creator, 333 AR,” he began.

  “His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of All Angiers, extends his congratulations to his brother and all the leaders and people of Hollow Country for seeing to the safe return of General Gared and Royal Gatherer Leesha from Krasian lands, and the successful defense of the Hollow in the face of the greatest demon attack in centuries.

  “But with so many changes and the news from Lakton, there is still much to be done. His Highness requests and commands an immediate audience with Count Thamos and Baron Gared, as well as Mistress Leesha, Rojer Halfgrip, and the Krasian princess Amanvah.”

  The coreling inside Rojer stopped its struggle, drowning in those last words. Jasin Goldentone was a tiny subplot of the drama unfolding. Rojer, as well. All of them would go to Angiers—how could they refuse?—but Amanvah would not be coming back. She, and Rojer, would likely be held until they died, or the Krasian army broke down the city walls.

  Jasin met his eyes with another pursed smile, but this time Rojer could not muster the strength to return it.

  Rojer’s stomach churned as Jasin rolled the scroll, breaking the seal on yet another.

  “Her Grace, Duchess Mum Araine, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of All Angiers, congratulates Baron Gared Cutter on his change of status. To properly introduce him to the peerage and offer opportunity to present the visiting Princess Amanvah, she will be throwing a Bachelor’s Ball in the baron’s honor upon his arrival in Angiers.”

  “Ay, what?” Gared started, and there was laughter around the room until he balled his great fists
on the table.

  “Apologies, Baron,” Thamos said, but the laughter had not left his voice. “It means my mother is using your visit as an excuse to throw a party.”

  Gared relaxed a little. “Dun’t sound so bad.”

  “A party where she will invite every unmarried girl in Angiers with an ounce of royal blood and do her best to broker your marriage to one of them.”

  Gared’s jaw dropped.

  “There will be food, of course,” Thamos said when the baron had no reply. His eyes sparkled with the first light they’d shown in a fortnight. He was enjoying this.

  “And music,” Jasin added. “I shall perform myself,” he winked, “and let you know which maids are the best to court.”

  Gared swallowed. “What if I don’t want any of ’em?”

  “Then she’ll keep summoning you to Angiers and throwing balls until you do,” Thamos said. “I assure you, she can be relentless on this subject.”

  “And why should she not?” Inquisitor Hayes asked, looking at Gared. “Your barony needs an heir, and you a wife to tend your home and see that he is educated and raised to lead when you go to join the Creator,” he drew a ward in the air, “Creator willing, after a long life and many grandchildren.”

  “He’s right, Gared.” They were Leesha’s first words of the day, and all turned her way.

  The look Leesha gave Gared was withering, and he shrank before it. “You’ve been alone too long. Lonely folk do foolish things. Time you settled down.”

  Gared paled slightly, nodding. Rojer was amazed. He knew the two of them had a history, but this …

  Thamos cleared his throat. “Settled, then. Lord Arther will be acting count in my absence. His decisions will need to be ratified by this council. The baron and Mistress Paper will appoint representatives to speak in their place.”

  “Darsy Cutter,” Leesha said.

  Darsy looked at her, eyes pleading. “Wouldn’t Mistress Jizell be a better …”

  “Darsy Cutter,” Leesha said again, with an air of finality.

  “Yes, mistress.” Darsy nodded, but her broad shoulders slumped a bit.