The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  “But,” Regin continued, and the crowd quieted grudgingly. “There is one more thing we can do tonight, something that will rebuild Amenkor’s strength in a way that no mere stone, nor wood, nor sailing ships ever will. With the Mistress’ blessing, Master Borund and I would like you all to participate in something that has traditionally only been done within the hallowed halls of the merchants’ guild, something that has never been witnessed by those outside its halls before.” Here, Regin paused, and those closest to the platform whispered to each other, the hush in stark contrast to the distant sounds of revelry. Everyone had stilled, had pushed a little closer to the platform itself.

  Regin turned from the crowd, toward where William stood at my side, a slight smile touching the seriousness of his face, of his voice. “William Hartleton, apprentice to Master Borund, please step forward.”

  Stunned, William hesitated, then moved stiffly up to Regin’s side. Regin gave him a small nod, then turned to the other waiting apprentices on the platform. “Illum Forestead, Jack Trevain, and Walter Davvens, apprentices to Master Regin, please step forward.”

  All three of Regin’s apprentices stepped forward as well, with a mixture of shock, elation, and confusion.

  When all four were lined up before him, he said, now deadly serious, all traces of the smile gone, “As Masters of the merchants’ guild, with all of the powers that the titles ensure, and with the approval of the Guild in its entirety, and that of the Mistress of Amenkor herself, I now rescind your status as apprentices of the guild . . . and declare you Masters of the guild in your own right, with all of the privileges and duties that the title entails.”

  Silence held for a long moment as the import of Regin’s solemn words sank into the crowd . . . and then it erupted into cheers and thunderous applause. One of Regin’s apprentices—Jack—seemed on the verge of fainting. As the applause continued, Regin motioned forward one of the servants from the palace. She laid a heavy box at Regin’s feet, and Borund stepped forward. I let the net go as Regin pulled a dark blue jacket from the box and handed it to Borund. A few silver-embroidered symbols stood out on the jacket. Regin pulled out another in a dark hunter’s green with gold embroidery.

  Borund stepped up to William, both standing straight, backs stiff, faces tight. Borund held out the jacket so that William could slip his arms through the sleeves, then met William’s gaze.

  I don’t know what passed between them in that look, but I sucked in a sharp breath, held it. For a long moment, I didn’t think that William would accept the jacket. His jaw tightened, his eyes on Borund’s face, searching.

  Then his gaze dropped and he turned, pulled off the plain brown jacket he’d worn to the festival, thrust his hands through the sleeves, shrugged the new jacket onto his shoulders, and turned back. Borund dusted off the shoulders, tugged the sleeves into the correct position, scrutinized the cut, the tailoring, the embroidery.

  And then he glanced back up at William and I could see that he was on the verge of tears, that he barely held them in check.

  He suddenly grabbed William and pulled him in tight, hugging him roughly. “I’m so sorry, William,” he half sobbed, half choked into William’s tense shoulder. “I’m so sorry I abandoned you at the wharf, and I know there’s nothing I can do to change that, and I wish to all hells that there was. I wish that I could take it all back, relive the whole experience. I wish—” The rush of words caught in his throat and he pulled William in tighter, then released him, stepping back, scrubbing at the tears on his face with one hand, not able to meet William’s eyes for a long moment.

  But before William could say anything, before any of those on the platform could react, he caught William by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes. “You are the closest thing I have to a son, the closest I will ever have, and I am proud of that. I’m proud of you, William. And I will always be proud, even if you can’t find it within yourself to forgive me.”

  Then he let William go, turned toward where Regin held out a second jacket—a bright yellow with dark red embroidery. He handed it to Borund, who moved to stand before Illum, while Regin presented Walter with his own black jacket with silver edging.

  As soon as the last two shrugged into their jackets and Borund and Regin stepped back, the crowd erupted into fresh applause. When this died down, the musicians broke into a lively dance.

  All six merchants shook hands, congratulating each other, and then they broke apart, most heading toward the platters of food that had been laid out. William moved toward me.

  “Nice jacket,” I said.

  William laughed, then said accusingly, “You knew about this.”

  “I’m the Mistress,” I said mockingly, mouth quirked. “I know everything.”

  He grinned, and it suffused his face, wrinkling the skin near his eyes. The wind tousled his hair, tugged at his jacket. A few months before, I’d thought he despised me, despised what I’d done as a bodyguard for Borund. A month ago, he would have flinched if I’d reminded him I was the Mistress.

  The moment stretched. Around us, those on the platform had split up into pairs and returned to dancing. Torches were lit as the sun set completely.

  “Would you care to dance?” William said suddenly.

  I stilled, felt my carefree smile fade. “I don’t know how.”

  “Oh.” An awkward moment, and then, tentatively, “I can show you.”

  William held out his hand, his expression hopeful. To the side, I felt the other dancers swirling on the river, heard one of them cry out in delight as they were spun. The motion, the movement, drew me, even though fear roiled in the pit of my stomach.

  I hesitated, trapped. But in the end, William’s look won out.

  He led me to the edge of the ring of dancers, pointed out steps, demonstrated the position of the feet and hands. I shivered when he placed his hands on my waist, showing me a lift, and then, all of his directions still a jumble in my head, mixed with the queasy warmth that had filled my gut at his touch, he took my trembling hands and began.

  I stepped on his foot three times, tripped once. He caught me with a grin, and then I let myself relax, let myself forget that I’d never danced before, let myself sink into the river, into its flows, and suddenly it wasn’t awkward anymore. It was like the Dredge, like slipping through the crowds of people without touching anyone, all about the eddies, the movements, the patterns. I slid along the currents of the other dancers, anticipated William’s direction, let the rhythm of the dance take control.

  Through the whirling motion, I caught Marielle’s face, caught her significant look before she was spun away by Keven. Sometime later, Avrell and Eryn flashed by, Eryn laughing in delight.

  Three dances later, William slowed to a halt as the music ended and the dancers broke out into applause. A gust brought another whiff of the roasting pork, and my stomach growled.

  “I need a break,” I said, gasping and sweaty. My heart pounded in my chest, as if I’d been practicing for hours with Westen, and yet I felt exhilarated, not exhausted.

  “Very well,” William said, face flushed, eyes bright.

  We moved toward the food-laden tables. All along the wharf and on the remaining ships, lanterns and torches lit the night, the crowd spreading out into the lower city.

  William handed me a glass of water, piled some forkfuls of shredded pork and some bread onto a platter, and led me off of the platform onto the dock, moving down its length. We settled onto some crates near its end and ate in silence, watching the distant movement on the wharf. Behind, I felt the presence of a few guardsmen—my ever-present escort—but I ignored them, didn’t think William had noticed them at all.

  “Catrell told me you intend to build another wall,” William said when the platter held nothing but a few strands of meat and some crumbs, “one that surrounds the entire eastern part of the city.”

  “Yes.” It cam
e out brusque.

  William hesitated. I felt his eyes on me. “What’s wrong?”

  For a moment, I considered shrugging it aside, not willing to let the palace intrude, but then I sighed. “Avrell says it’s impossible. We don’t have the money. Not after the past winter. Not after the Chorl attack.”

  “Ah.” William lapsed into thoughtful silence, seemed almost to speak, reconsidered, then said quietly, “You have four new merchants now. Have you thought about asking them?”

  I stilled in thought, but before I could answer, before I’d even had a chance to consider it, William continued.

  “I know we haven’t had a chance to set up our own houses yet, that we’ll be starting out fresh. But typically our Masters, the merchant that we apprenticed under, will give us a gift, a portion of their own houses, something to get us started. It still won’t amount to much, but at least it’s something. Perhaps all of us together, all four of us, will have enough to help back the building of the wall.”

  I stared at William, at the mute appeal on his face, at the need in his eyes. He wanted to help, was desperate to help, but not because of the city, and not because of his new merchant house.

  He wanted to help me.

  “William,” I said, then halted.

  He shifted, set our empty plates set aside.

  Then, I leaned forward and kissed him. A light kiss, but not the sudden, unexpected kiss I’d given him before, when he’d suggested Borund build the ships in the harbor. I felt his indrawn breath a moment before we touched, felt the trembling of his body, smelled his scent—straw dust from the warehouses, sea salt—strong and rich on the river.

  Then I drew back, heard him sigh.

  Before either of us could react, a harsh, urgent clanging of bells pierced the night, coming from the walls protecting the harbor. William turned toward the sound in consternation. I leaped to my feet, two guards appearing out of the darkness at my side.

  “What is it?” I asked, tension coursing down my arms, even though I already knew.

  “A warning,” one of the guards answered roughly, already motioning to the other guardsman, who took off back toward the wharf at a run. “Unknown sails on the horizon.”

  Chapter 3

  Fear spiked on the wharf as word spread, the raucous celebration grinding to a halt. Masses of people broke away from the docks and headed up to the palace walls in a slow-moving but orderly tide as the warning bells fell silent. But just as many people scrambled to find weapons, joining the guardsmen on duty at the edge of the water, as they’d been drilled to do by Darryn. The river churned with mixed emotions—fear, despair, determination—and I felt myself harden under the tumult.

  “Is it the Chorl? Did they attack our trading ships?” William asked, moving up beside me and the guardsman who’d remained behind to protect me. Tension ran off him in tendrils. Others approached as well, almost everyone who’d been on the platform, including Westen, Avrell, Marielle, and Eryn.

  “I don’t know,” I said, but I pulled back the sleeve of my dress, ripping the fabric slightly as I exposed the sheath containing my dagger.

  “All of the citizens have headed back to the palace,” Avrell said. “For whatever good that will do. We still don’t have gates.”

  “The guard is on the way,” Westen added. “Catrell is organizing the men who remained and can fight on the docks.”

  We waited in silence, breath held, ears straining. The quiet was unnerving, the only light the torches and lanterns lining the docks and the bowls of flaming oil lighting the palace and the broken walls. Wind gusted from the ocean, tugging at my dress, my hair.

  Then new bells broke the darkness and the guardsmen all around sighed in relief.

  “Not the Chorl,” Westen said. “A foreign trading ship.” He frowned as the bells paused, new notes ringing out. “And it shows signs of damage.”

  I thought immediately of the ships we’d just sent out. Had they run into trouble already? But Westen had said the ship was foreign. And the incoming ship could have been damaged by many different things—a storm, pirates.

  Yet, somehow, I didn’t think so.

  Had they encountered our own trading ships? Had they even seen them?

  “It could be a while before the ship docks,” Avrell said. “Should we head back to the palace?”

  I hesitated. I wanted to know what had happened to the ship, and whether it threatened the trading ships that had left the port just over an hour before. But Avrell was right. It could be a full hour before the captain was ready to speak with me.

  “Spread the word that it isn’t another attack,” I said, “but keep a contingent of guardsmen here at the dock, just in case.” I caught Westen’s eye. “I want to speak to the captain as soon as he’s ready.”

  The captain of the Seekers nodded. “I’ll escort him to the palace myself.”

  * * *

  Almost two hours later, a page boy halted, breathless, in the open door of an audience chamber inside the palace.

  “The captain of the Reliant is here to see you,” he gasped a moment later.

  At my nod, he darted away, leaving me alone with William, Avrell, Eryn, and Keven. Keven stood beside the section of floor where I’d paced the last hour, a solid beacon of calm. Not as soothing as Erick’s presence would have been in the same place, but still calming. Avrell stood not far off, beside Eryn, who was seated to the side of the single table at the end of the room.

  I’d asked William to stay, had seen Avrell frown in disapproval. But I’d ignored the First. With Erick barely alive, I found William’s presence comforting.

  “The Reliant?” Eryn asked.

  Avrell frowned. “One of Lord March’s ships, from Venitte, I believe. They must have left the city close to the first day of spring to have made it here this fast.”

  “Or been traveling with little cargo.”

  Avrell raised his eyebrows at that, and I felt a surge of irritation. I didn’t understand what the comment might mean, but before I could ask, William said, “The trading ships can travel faster if they aren’t loaded down with the weight of cargo.”

  I gave him a thankful glance, tried to ease the tension in my shoulders. Even with William and Keven in the room, I felt on edge.

  Westen appeared in the doorway.

  “May I present Captain Tristan of the Venittian ship Reliant, and Brandan Vard,” Westen caught my eye, his face and voice impassive, his warning clear, “Servant of the Lord of Venitte.”

  Avrell and Eryn stiffened, Avrell’s hand tightening on the back of Eryn’s chair.

  Then Captain Tristan stepped into the room. He wore the formal jacket of a captain, like the merchant jackets, but without the heavy embroidery to signify rank. A dark blue, like William’s, it was banded with gold at the cuffs and neck, with gold buttons and red-and-gold-tasseled epaulettes on the shoulders. His mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line, the skin beneath his eyes dark with exhaustion.

  Brandan Vard entered a step behind him, his face a schooled mask that did not successfully hide the last dregs of shock and horror beneath it. Slightly older than me, he wore a simple shirt and breeches, although the material was obviously of high quality. A large circular gold pendant hung from a chain around his neck, a domed and spired building emblazoned on the front. A familiar building. I frowned a moment, then remembered.

  I’d seen the building from Cerrin’s veranda, overlooking the harbor and channels of Venitte. Cerrin had looked toward the building when Venitte had been under attack by the Chorl the first time, had intended to go there to join the other six members of the Council, until his wife and children had died. It was the seat of power in Venitte.

  My gaze shot toward Eryn and Avrell, but both were focused on Tristan, who’d moved to face Eryn. With a stiff but respectful bow, he said, “Mistress, I bring word of warning from Lord March and the
city of Venitte. Although it would appear that it comes too late.”

  An awkward silence fell, broken only by a cough by one of the guardsmen who’d entered behind Tristan and Brandan. Tristan rose, brow knit in confusion.

  I stepped forward. “I am the Mistress of Amenkor.”

  Comprehension dawned swiftly, no more than a flash across Tristan’s eyes. He turned sharply and repeated his bow to me, more stiffly this time. “I deeply apologize, Mistress. We had not received word of your ascension in Venitte at the time that we sailed.”

  “When did you sail?” Avrell asked.

  “Three weeks ago. We came directly here, without stopping.”

  Avrell glanced toward me. “I sent couriers to Venitte the moment you took the throne. They should have arrived well before the end of winter.”

  “By land or by sea?” Tristan asked.

  “Both.”

  Eryn shifted in her seat. “None of the ships made it to Venitte, I assume?”

  Tristan’s expression tightened. “None.”

  “The only ship that returned after heading south was Mathew’s ship,” William said. “He didn’t make it as far south as Venitte. He chose to stick close to the coastline, hitting numerous smaller ports, rather than going out into the main trade routes, those that the Chorl targeted.”

  Tristan grunted. “So you know of the Chorl?”

  “We know of the Chorl,” I answered, my voice dense with anger. Both Tristan and Brandan understood, however. They would have had to pass through the charred shell of the lower city to reach the palace. “They attacked Amenkor on the first day of spring.”

  “But you managed to drive them back.” It was a statement, not a question. And it held an undertone of respect.

  Avrell shifted forward. “What about the couriers I sent by land? None of them arrived either?”

  “None. We’ve had no word from Amenkor—from any port north of Bosun’s Bay—since autumn.”

  “What happened?” Westen broke in.