The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  I saw a flash of movement farther down the street as someone dodged into an alley, nothing more than a flicker of a cloak. I focused, drew the river up around me, but saw no one on the street. Nostrils flaring, I dashed down to the alley, ducked around the corner and searched the darkness.

  Nothing.

  I drew a deep breath, sorted through the scents on the river. But there was nothing I could attribute to Cristoph. I didn’t remember him having a scent down on the wharf, when I’d killed his friend. But not everyone had scents.

  Not willing to give up, I searched the alley, the recessed doorways, the alcoves. All of the doors were locked, and the alley ended at the edge of an empty street.

  Shit!

  The pressure of running into other guardsmen began to assert itself. And then there was Erick.

  Would he send the guard to find me? Would he warn the sentries at the gate? He knew I’d killed someone. He’d seen the blood, heard me confess.

  The guilt stabbed again into my gut, sliced through the last of my hesitation.

  Cristoph had escaped. I’d have to deal with him later.

  I headed back toward the gates, approaching warily.

  The two sentries remained on duty. They didn’t appear to be any more alert than when I’d passed through earlier that night.

  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, wondered why Erick had not warned them, but pushed the thought aside and concentrated on getting through the gates without being seen by the sentries.

  I had to wait an hour, but eventually they were distracted long enough so I could sneak through. I headed into the outer city, back toward Borund’s manse to report.

  I did not see Erick or any other guardsmen along the way.

  The Palace

  I didn’t wait at the audience room’s door. Instead, I moved immediately across the dark room, slipping between chairs and tables in the darkness, between vases of flowers, sculptures, and plants. On the far side of the room was another door, smaller, heading deeper into the inner sanctum, leading toward the throne room and the Mistress’ chambers.

  I padded toward the door, hesitated before opening it in order to listen. I couldn’t use the river to see if anyone was on the far side since the door was blocking my view, but it was possible to pick up noises, scents. . . .

  Nothing.

  I was just about to open the door when something whispered at the edge of hearing. Stilling, I concentrated, let my breath out slowly and held it—

  And heard a soft rustling, like dry leaves scraping across cobbles. I frowned, brow creasing. I’d heard this once before when inside the palace, during one of Avrell and Borund’s meetings. But then it had only been a whisper, there and then gone. This was much louder.

  Hesitating a moment, I focused.

  The sound of leaves intensified, seemed to reach out toward me from a distance, and as it grew louder, the rustling sound began to resolve into voices . . . hundreds of voices all speaking at the same time, all clamoring for attention.

  I jerked back from the door, but the voices vanished as soon as I quit concentrating, as soon as I let the river slip away. The room was silent. Dead.

  Something clattered against the door on the other side of the room, where the guards had been posted. Without thought, heart thudding sharply in my chest, I pulled the door in front of me open and slid through, ignoring the strange voices for now. They would have to wait.

  The door led to a narrow corridor, a hall for the servants that curved slightly away out of sight. I scanned in both directions. No one was in sight.

  I bit my lower lip, took a moment to consult the mental map Avrell had given me. It wasn’t as complete as the one for the outer portion of the palace, did not include all of the servants’ passages.

  I grunted in annoyance and turned right, slipping forward without a sound, one hand brushing along the rough granite wall to my left for reference. Ten steps farther on, my outstretched hand found the edge of a door.

  I placed an ear to the wood, heard nothing on the far side.

  I moved on.

  Two doors later, the flickering light of a torch appeared at the end of the hall, around the edge of the curved corridor, followed by voices and the soft thud of a closing door.

  I crouched down immediately, felt for the latch on the door at my back.

  “What’s going on?” someone demanded, his voice tired.

  “Baill’s got the entire guard out looking,” someone else growled, “but he decided that wasn’t enough so he called out all the servants as well.” For a moment the torchlight flared, and in the brighter light I could see small bowls of oil lining the wall on either side.

  They were lighting the sconces. The entire palace would be lit within the next fifteen minutes.

  “And what in hell does he expect us to do!”

  “Help him.”

  “And then what?”

  I drew in a tight breath, then opened the door at my back and slid through it as the light of the torches and oil sconces grew, the voices getting closer. The door shut with a faint click, the wood muffling the conversation in the hall on the other side.

  I waited until I heard their voices receding down the corridor, then turned to see where I was.

  My stomach tightened.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  I’d backed myself into a storage closet with no other exit.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered under my breath, then turned back to the door. Pressing my ear to the wood, I listened intently for sounds in the corridor outside, but heard nothing. The men lighting the oil sconces in the hallway had passed by, but anyone could be out there now. The entire palace had been awakened.

  I sighed heavily, cast an angry look at the door, then slid beneath the river.

  The instant I submerged, I felt the strange whispering of leaves I’d heard in the outer room rushing forward. Only this time it was much louder, the hundreds of voices streaming out of the silence like a gale-force wind, reaching for me. I gasped, jerked back away from them, and at the same time shoved myself up and out of the river, hard, fast.

  The real world returned with a lurch. I sat back on my heels, still gasping, felt sweat prickle my chest. Reaching forward, I hugged my knees to my chest until my heart stopped racing.

  I had no idea what the leaf voices were, had no idea where they were coming from. But whatever they were, they wanted me. I’d felt them reaching for me, straining. And I’d felt the force behind them, a weight that could crush me.

  I shuddered, pushed myself back up into a kneeling position before the door. I listened, using only my ears.

  Nothing.

  I nudged the river, as if I were at its edge and had dipped my toe into its waters.

  A whisper of dead leaves, calling me.

  I shivered, then leaned my forehead against the wood of the door. Until I knew what the leaf voices were, I didn’t dare use the river.

  Which made killing the Mistress that much harder.

  I pulled myself upright, jaw clenched, then opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

  No yell of alarm. No shrieks. The hall was empty.

  But completely lit. The only places left to hide were the doorways.

  I bit off another curse at Avrell, at Baill, at life in general, and continued down the hall at a brisk but quiet trot. No use skulking now.

  I paused at the next door, heard muffled voices, and moved on quickly. The hall continued to curve, most of the doors on the left side. But, according to Avrell, they wouldn’t lead me to the Mistress’ chambers. Her rooms lay on the other side of the palace, to the right.

  I came to another door on the right and paused again. Nothing. Opening it a crack, I peered into another antechamber like the first. Only someone had been here recently. All the candles were lit.

  I clos
ed the door quietly and proceeded down the hall.

  Twenty steps farther on, I heard someone enter the hall behind me, heard the distinct sound of metal armor.

  Guardsmen.

  Without hesitation, I sprinted forward, eyes wide, heart pounding. The hall curved away, the right wall maddeningly empty, two doors, no three, passing on the left. The sounds of the guards grew louder, but I hadn’t heard a shout. They were getting closer, though. I could hear their voices.

  I’d almost decided to duck into one of the doors on the left, risk another closet, or something worse, when a door on the right appeared. The hall ended shortly after that, with one last door on the left. I darted toward the door on the right, grabbed its handle and eased it open smoothly. No time to listen for someone on the far side. The guards were too close.

  I slid through, pulled the door closed behind me as quietly as possible, and then turned and halted, heart wrenching in my chest. I let out an involuntary gasp.

  I’d entered a long, wide hall from a side entrance. To my right, four huge pillars stretched from the marbled floor to the ceiling. Another four pillars stood on the far side of the room. Shadows filled the recesses behind the pillars where I stood, and behind the pillars on the opposite side of the hall. Down the center, between the two rows of pillars, stretched a wide walkway, leading to two large wooden doors banded with metal.

  Directly ahead, at the height of a dais, I could see the side of a throne lit by torchlight, the throne facing the walkway and the double doors.

  The Skewed Throne.

  My body shuddered and I blinked in the half-light, tried to focus on the throne, my eyes refusing to settle, the air distorted somehow. After a moment, I realized that the problem wasn’t with my eyes at all, but with the throne itself.

  It was a simple stone slab with no back and four supports, one on each corner. But even as my eyes held onto this image, it seemed to waver, twisting, one leg suddenly shorter but supporting a corner that appeared higher than all the others. The throne warped, turned in upon itself, the stone slab that formed the seat was no longer flat, the edges that had appeared sharp and well defined before were now smooth and rounded. Then it shifted again, now chipped and chiseled, rough-hewn.

  The motion turned my stomach, sent a feverish heat tingling through my skin. I shuddered again and turned away from the throne, away from the dais and the three wide stone steps that led from the main walkway between the pillars up to the throne itself.

  With a deep breath, I steadied myself.

  And felt the throne at my back reach out toward me, felt it pushing against my shoulders, almost like a physical presence. The rustling of dead leaves returned, shivering through the air, growing even as the skin at the nape of my neck began to prickle. The voices emerged from the rustling sound, called to me, echoed in my ears.

  I tensed in horror. The voices came from the throne. The throne knew me, had tried to call to me earlier, was calling to me now.

  And I hadn’t touched the river since the voices had rushed me in the closet.

  I stepped back, tried to block the voices out—

  Then I heard the clatter of the guards on the other side of the door, in the hallway behind me.

  Not looking toward the throne, I darted to the right, down the long walkway, between the rows of pillars, across the half-dark room to the main entrance. I felt the throne behind me, a hot, scrabbling pressure against my back, felt it flowing from shape to shape, twisted and tormented, calling to me, the voices more urgent now, more desperate.

  I gasped as I neared the doorway, passed through and out into the empty hallway beyond with a low, moaning cry. The gasp turned into a shudder of relief as I felt the ornate oaken door thud home behind me, cutting off the voices and the sensation of hands scrabbling across my back.

  I leaned against the door a long moment, shudders running through my body. Sweat dripped down my face and I wiped it away with the back of my arm, heart thundering in my chest. I drew in deep, ragged breaths, steadied myself.

  It took longer than I expected.

  Then I straightened. I set the eerie sensation of the Throne, of the haunting voices and their immense power, aside.

  I’d reached the edge of the Mistress’ private rooms. Time to shed the page boy disguise. It was almost finished.

  My gaze hardened, face grim as I stepped down the unguarded hall to a new set of double doors, the last set of double doors, drawing my dagger as I went.

  Chapter 11

  “The mustard-coated merchant’s name is Alendor,” Borund said, and sank back into the chair he’d had moved into William’s bedroom. “Cristoph is one of his sons, the youngest. And if Alendor’s involved. . . .”

  He trailed off into silence. It was late morning, the day after I’d killed Charls, and I’d just told him what I’d heard at Charls’ manse, and that Cristoph knew what I’d done. But I hadn’t told them everything. I’d only said Cristoph had seen me leaving Charls’ manse, blood on my clothes. I hadn’t mentioned Erick at all.

  On the bed, William struggled into a sitting position, using the pillows and the headboard for support. He grimaced in pain as he moved, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead, but neither Borund nor I moved to help him, careful of his pride.

  When he’d made himself comfortable and caught his breath, he asked, “So what does he intend to do? He’s buying up all available resources, gaining others from those who have it and aren’t willing to sell by intimidating them or killing them, but for what purpose? A monopoly?”

  “Yes.” Borund nodded thoughtfully. “But a monopoly not just on a single commodity. He wants to control everything. He’s forming a consortium, a small group of people that will control all of the trade in the city, perhaps in the surrounding cities as well if he already has Tarrence working for him in Marlett.”

  William snorted, then winced, one hand moving to his side. “That’s not possible, not in Amenkor. And not anywhere else either.”

  Borund shifted forward again. “Isn’t it? Look at what he’s done so far. Besides Alendor, Charls, and the two other merchants Varis saw at Charls’ manse, who else in the city has—or had—any stock of fish? Or wheat?”

  William frowned in thought. “We do, in the warehouses on the docks. I think Darryn has some in storage as well. . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he looked toward Borund, eyes wide. “And that’s it. Alendor controls almost all of the wheat and fish.”

  Borund nodded, his voice grim. “And what about other resources, such as fruits and vegetables? Or wine? What about cattle or pigs? There haven’t been any drovers from the north since Regin purchased that herd in the spring. Since it’s now almost winter, we can’t expect to see any more herds like that for at least five months. Even non-food stocks, like cloth. We haven’t had a shipment of wool or flax from Venitte in over four months, maybe even six.”

  “Six,” William said distractedly. He’d sunk back into his pillows as Borund spoke. “And since it is almost winter, there won’t be many ships in the coming months. We’ve only got a few weeks left of decent enough weather to risk sending out more ships, maybe a month at most. What resources we’re going to have are already in the city.”

  They both fell silent.

  In one corner of the room, I shifted my stance, uncomfortable. But not from the weighted silence. In my mind, I could see Charls reaching for me, his hand grasping at air. I could see his blood, black against his skin. Then there was Erick and—

  “What about Cristoph?” I asked.

  Borund frowned. “What do you mean?”

  I straightened. “He knows that I killed Charls, knows that I killed his friend down at the wharf. He could go to the Guard.”

  Borund shook his head. “He won’t. Alendor won’t let him. It would attract too much attention to his house. Right now Alendor must be wondering whether you saw him at Charl
s’ manse, whether we even know about the consortium. He’ll want to stay out of sight until he knows for certain. Alendor will handle Cristoph for us.”

  I nodded, relaxed back against the wall.

  That still didn’t solve the problem of Erick. But he hadn’t reported me to the guard after Bloodmark’s death, hadn’t warned the sentries at the gates last night. . . .

  I sighed and closed my eyes, intent on pushing Charls’ pleading gaze out of my head.

  When I opened my eyes, I caught William watching me.

  He flinched away, turning to look down at his feet.

  My stomach clenched and I stared down at the floor, mouth pressed tight.

  Into the awkward silence, a horn blew, long and hollow and forlorn.

  Both Borund and William looked up toward the open window. It looked out onto the harbor.

  With a frown, Borund rose and moved to pull back the curtains. I followed, stood at his side. The first horn was followed by others, the sounds filling the room in a strange cacophony of noise.

  “What’s happening?” William said. I could hear the impatience in his voice. He wasn’t used to being restricted to a bed, unable to move about.

  “Something in the harbor,” Borund said.

  “But what?”

  “Wait,” Borund said, his voice lowering, his forehead creasing in confusion.

  On the slate-gray water of the harbor, ships flying the Mistress’ colors of gold and white were preparing to make way on the docks. But these weren’t the usual ships I’d seen off-loading crates and barrels. These were smaller, leaner, and somehow more dangerous, more purposeful, their sails crisp beneath the white-scudded sky.

  And more maneuverable. As we watched, they pulled away from the docks and headed straight out toward where the spits of land on either side of the bay curved in toward each other, creating an opening to the ocean beyond. They passed a large merchant ship headed toward open water without pausing.