The Chorl Servant sniffed in disdain, but her eyes were uncertain. Dark eyes, almost black, like her hair. I drew in a deep breath and recalled something I’d learned a long time ago on the Dredge:
The eyes are everything.
A moment later, her gaze, holding mine with determination, flicked toward the orange I still held in my hand and the corners of my mouth twitched.
“Varis,” I said again, then held the orange up with one hand. “And this is an orange.”
She stared at the proffered orange, her chin tilting upward. Her nostrils flared, and after a moment I could see that she trembled. But not in rage.
With a quick gesture, I dug my thumb into the tough skin of the orange, the sharp tang flooding the river as sticky juice coated my fingers. I peeled the orange deftly, the scent strengthening as images of Erick surfaced in my mind, images I thought I’d forgotten: of him on the Dredge, handing me that first sack of food, his voice soft as he told me there was more where that came from if I helped him find marks in the slums; of him training me in the decrepit courtyards, barking orders or bursting out in laughter as I did something unexpected, catching him off guard. Scents had been everything on the Dredge, and I’d associated oranges with Erick. A good scent; a safe scent. Strong and thick and sweet.
Orange peel fell to the floor, and when I finished peeling it, I jabbed my thumb into the orange’s core and pulled the fruit apart, selected a piece and ate it, spitting the seeds out into my hand and setting them on the window’s ledge.
Only then did I look up at the Chorl Servant again. She watched me closely, a frown touching her lips, her head still held high, bruised neck exposed. But she was breathing deeper now, her eyes latched onto the fruit. She’d been fed only bread, cheese, and a few portions of meat for two weeks. It was better fare than most of those on the Dredge had had all winter. Even if she didn’t know what an orange was, I was betting that the scent of fruit would be familiar.
I’d learned more from Erick on the Dredge than simply how to use a dagger.
I broke another piece from the orange, the Chorl Servant’s mouth twitching, and ate it as I began to pace before the two windows. A slow pace, thoughtful and nonthreatening. “I know why the Chorl came to Amenkor,” I said, talking slowly as I ate, even though I knew she wouldn’t understand. I tried to keep the anger out of my voice, the hatred that rose so readily when I thought about the attack on Amenkor. It wasn’t easy. “The Ochean wanted the throne . . . or rather, she wanted the Fire and thought it was contained in the throne. But the Fire didn’t come from here. It came from the west.” I paused, frowned out the window at the city. “Do you know where the Fire came from? Do you know what it was, what it was meant to do?”
I turned back, caught the Chorl Servant’s expression, and sighed. “I suppose not. If the Ochean didn’t know, why should you? But it’s an interesting question. I haven’t had much time to think about it. I didn’t care much about it on the Dredge—there wasn’t a reason to care, knowing where the Fire came from couldn’t help me survive. And after I became the Mistress, there were more pressing matters. But now . . .”
I paused, took another bite of orange, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
I caught the Chorl Servant’s eye, saw her stiffen at the look. I wasn’t trying to hide the anger anymore. “You do know things I need to know, however. Such as how to combine the powers of the Servants, how to link them. And I’m betting you know something of what’s been done to Erick. So . . .” I pulled another sliver of orange from what remained in my hand and held it out to her, forcing most of the anger out of my voice with effort. “Have a piece of orange.”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. But the scent of the orange was too strong. Edging forward, she raised one hand tentatively toward the fruit.
In one quick move, she snatched it from me and retreated, scowling. For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to eat it. She glared at me instead, defiant, the orange clutched protectively in one hand.
Then her stomach growled.
She dropped all pretense and stuffed the orange into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin.
The sight sent a strange shocking ache through my chest. This is how I must have acted when Erick first brought me food. Starved, desperate, almost feral. I remembered how grateful I’d felt, and later, how ashamed, even though there had been nothing to be ashamed about.
My anger—at the Chorl, at the Ochean, at what they’d done to Erick and to the city—faltered, and I frowned. This woman wasn’t responsible for those events. She’d been trapped by circumstance, just as I’d been trapped by circumstance on the Dredge. Until Erick found me.
I didn’t move when she finished the slice of orange, then edged around behind me to take the one I’d left on the window’s edge. Instead, as she began to peel the skin as I’d done, I moved toward the door.
When I reached to open it, she spoke.
“Ottul.”
I halted, turned back.
The Chorl Servant stood between the two windows, back straight, the peeled orange held close in one hand. She held my gaze steadily for a moment, eyes blazing, and repeated, “Ottul.”
Then she faltered, her gaze dropping in uncertainty.
I opened the door, saw Eryn, Trielle, and the guardsmen shift forward out of the corner of my eye, then turned and stepped through, Eryn releasing the warding long enough to let me pass.
“Well?” Eryn asked.
Still unsettled, no longer certain how I felt but unwilling to let the anger go, I said, “I think her name is Ottul.”
* * *
I stepped into the hall of the merchant’s guild, Keven and my escort of guardsmen at my back, and felt a shudder pass through me. The room was empty, weak sunlight slanting down through the narrow windows onto the marble floor, dust drifting in the beams. The entire building smelled of age, of dryness and death.
The merchant Alendor had decimated the guild in his attempt to take over trading with his consortium, an attempt I had helped to stop. But not before he and his allies had killed off a significant portion of the merchant class itself. Of the three remaining merchants of power, one had been discovered hoarding food during the past winter and had been stoned to death in the market square by the people of Amenkor after I’d passed judgment on him. The second, Regin, had unwillingly agreed to my seizure of all of the supplies in Amenkor in order to keep the citizens of the city from starvation. And the third . . .
I scanned the murky interior of the once thriving guildhall, found William seated at a table in the far corner. My heart clenched as it always did when I saw his tousled brown hair, his white apprentice’s shirt vibrant in the beam of light that illuminated the scattered sheets of parchment he worked on. Since the battle, since I’d watched William charge into the midst of the attacking Chorl on the wharf, I’d seen William almost every day either at the palace giving a report on the cleanup in the city or the status of the dwindling supplies, or in the city at a work site, overseeing the clearing of the debris from the streets or the removal of the dead.
But I wasn’t here for a report. At least, not a report about the city.
William didn’t hear our approach until I’d halted before the table. Then he looked up with a start. He stood instantly, his chair juddering back as he lurched to his feet.
“Varis! I mean, Mistress,” he added, his gaze darting toward the guards where they’d settled into position at a distance. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t send word that I was coming.”
“I see.” His brow creased in confusion as he tried to decide whether this was a formal visit, or a friendly one. He opted for formal, his stance shifting slightly, his tone changing. “What can I do for you?”
I sighed. “I came to speak to you about Borund.”
“Ah.” His hands fell to the table
and he dropped his gaze.
“William.” When he didn’t look up, I rounded the makeshift desk and caught William’s shoulders, forced him to look at me. “William, I need to know what’s happening with him.”
“You know what happened with him,” William said, shrugging out of my grip, his voice angry. “Everyone knows! He ran on the wharf. When the Chorl ships hit the docks and the rest of us charged into their ranks, he turned and fled. He left us there to die. He left me there to die!”
The bitterness of William’s words, loud and harsh, echoed in the recesses of the room. He held my gaze a long moment, long enough so I could see the pain in his eyes, a pain he’d hidden the last few weeks, a pain he’d kept hidden even from me.
But then he spun, turned his back on me, and stalked away, toward an alcove containing a few chairs and a small table with a plant.
I hesitated, caught Keven’s questioning look, but shook my head and headed after him.
“He never meant to run,” I said to William’s back, letting my own anger tinge my words.
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
“Yes, I was.”
William’s shoulders tensed and he turned. “What do you mean?”
“I was there, inside the White Fire I placed inside of him. I was watching through his eyes when the Chorl ships hit the wharf. I watched as he dragged you down behind the barricade when they struck. I watched as the Chorl spilled down from the ships and swarmed the docks. I watched as you led the charge into their ranks, and I watched when Borund turned and fled. I saw it all. I felt everything that Borund felt.”
His eyes widened. “You did? But then, why didn’t he stay and fight? Why didn’t you make him stay and fight?”
“Because . . .” I began, but then ground to a halt. Because I could have stayed and made Borund fight. I could have seized control of his body through the Fire, could have forced him into the Chorl’s ranks. I’d wanted to, the sense of betrayal as Borund fled sharp. But I couldn’t stay. I was needed in the palace, to fight the Ochean, to stop her, whatever the cost.
But William didn’t want a rational reason. He wanted to know why Borund had betrayed him, had abandoned him.
I sighed, heavily, pushed my own anger at Borund back.
“He couldn’t stay, William. He couldn’t. His fear was too great. He tried. He honestly tried to stay and fight, but the fear overwhelmed him. I felt it overwhelm him.”
William held my gaze a long moment, the hope that I’d give him a reason fading.
When I reached for him, to touch his arm as Eryn had touched mine earlier, standing over Erick, he flinched away as I had done. I let my hand drop.
He winced at the gesture. “I’m sorry, Varis, but . . .” He lowered his head, loosened the tenseness in his shoulder with visible effort, then caught my gaze. “How’s Erick?”
I stilled, and he must have seen the answer in my eyes because he reached for me. And unlike before, with Eryn, I let him draw me in close, let him hold me. I breathed in the clean scent of his shirt, smelled the hint of fresh straw beneath on the river.
“He’s not getting any better,” I said, and was surprised at how rough my voice sounded, how thick. “And neither Eryn nor I can do anything for him.”
“What about Isaiah?”
I shook my head, rested it against his shoulder for a moment, then drew back, even though his warmth was comforting. “Isaiah’s done what he can, but he can’t help with this. The Chorl did something to him using the river.”
William’s brow creased. “And you can’t fix it?”
I gave a short, barking laugh. “I can’t even sense it.”
On the far side of the hall, a door opened and three other apprentices—two of Regin’s and one who had worked under the hoarder Yvan—stepped into the room, their voices carrying in the dusty silence. William took a step back from me, separating us. The moment of closeness broke.
When the other apprentices moved on, William asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I thought of Ottul, hesitated as I wondered whether I should tell him about her. But I’d moved her to the upper palace. Word would be spreading soon enough. “We captured a few of the Chorl in the attack, including one of the Chorl Servants. I’m hoping we can find out how to heal Erick from her.”
William’s eyes widened, but before he could begin questioning me about Ottul, I asked, “Where’s Borund?”
William snorted, his anger returning in a heartbeat. “He hasn’t left the manse since the attack, hasn’t even left his study. He isn’t working, isn’t doing much of anything. All he does is drink. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
I shuddered. Because I had. He’d done the same thing after William had been stabbed, when we weren’t certain that William would survive. Locked himself in his study, drunk himself into a stupor.
Until I’d made the offer to kill Charls for him.
I winced.
“He needs something to do,” I said. “He needs something that will give him purpose again.”
“Like what?”
I shrugged, letting some of my own anger slip free again. “I don’t know. Something that will make him active again. In the guild, in the city. We can’t afford to have the guild brought to its knees simply because he’s feeling sorry for himself. I need him. Amenkor needs him. He’s one of the few remaining people of power left in the city. But if he’s going to be of any help, I need him to be visible to the people, and I need him to be stable.”
William glanced toward his table, toward the stacks of parchment he’d been working on. “What about ships?”
“What do you mean?”
“We lost most of our trading ships to the Chorl, when they were attacking them in the trade routes and later when they struck the city. All Regin has been complaining about lately is the fact that the guild can’t operate effectively unless we have ships to trade with. We can’t rely on the roads. Shipping overland isn’t fast enough. Why not have Borund rebuild the ships we’ve lost? He can even help with the financing. I’ve seen his ledgers, I know how much he’s worth. He can probably underwrite at least five ships, perhaps more, depending on what size and scale you’re talking about. It will give him something to do other than drink. It will give him a chance to redeem himself.”
I stared at William. Then, impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed him. A light kiss, startling me as much as him.
Before either of us could react, I spun away. “Come on.”
With a start, he followed me back toward Keven, the remaining guardsmen straightening as I approached. “Where are we going?”
“To Borund’s manse.”
I felt William halt, felt the coldness radiating from him as I turned.
William shifted awkwardly under my gaze. “He ran, Varis. He left me there to die. I can’t forgive him. Not yet. Not that easily.”
I felt my jaw clench, but nodded.
Then I turned and left the merchants’ guild, Keven and my escort in tow.
* * *
“Master Borund will see you now, Mistress.”
Gerrold, Borund’s manservant, spoke the words formally, but his eyes were alight, completely ignoring Keven and the escort of guardsmen that surrounded me. He motioned us into the main corridor, leading us down a familiar hall toward Borund’s study.
I breathed in the scents of Borund’s manse as I followed Gerrold—polished wood, the dust of parchment, the faint scent of bread baking. I didn’t see Lizbeth or Gart, the two other servants Borund kept around the manse, but the rooms we passed and the halls themselves brought enough of their own internal ache from memory. I hadn’t been physically in the manse for months, for what felt like a lifetime, but I had come here in spirit using the throne when searching for the stolen food. I’d had a purpose then, hadn’t allowed myself to let
the memories affect me.
But now they came unbidden. I wanted to be harsh, didn’t want the edge I felt over Borund’s cowardice to be blunted, didn’t want his betrayal of William to be lessened, but I was suddenly assailed with the taste of butter, with images of Lizbeth dunking me beneath the water in my first real bath, of William laughing at something Borund had said and Borund grinning, casting me a furtive look to see if I was laughing as well.
And then Gerrold halted before Borund’s study. Before opening the door and allowing me in, he said, “Please, Mistress. Do something to help him.”
He stepped aside and walked away, not allowing me to respond and without announcing my arrival.
I stared through the open door, smelled the alcohol, the staleness of the room, and grimaced. It reminded me of the depths of the slums beyond the Dredge.
Without turning to Keven, I said, “Wait here.” Then I entered, closing the door behind me.
The windows were closed, the shutters drawn, faint sunlight visible at the edges. In the shadows, I could see the large desk, ledgers scattered haphazardly to one side, sheets of parchment sticking out from the edges. Various shelves and tables held more ledgers, a few plants, and other simple artifacts from locations all along the Frigean coast—an intricately carved pipe from the southern islands, fossilized leaves and shells embedded in stone, a feather-and-bead headdress from Kandish across the eastern mountains, a vial containing the blue waters of the far northern Taniecian lands. A large rug covered the floor before the fireplace; a great sword hung above the mantel.
Among all the ledgers and artifacts were empty bottles of wine. A few were tipped to one side, others contained a few fingers’ worth of liquid, but by the smell of the stagnant room, they had clearly turned.
Borund sat behind his desk, one hand clutching the stem of a glass. Another bottle sat close at hand, already half empty. He glared at me over the desk, brow furrowed, face flushed and angry. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 76
