The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  Daeriun snorted, but not in derision or contempt.

  “I already know what Sorrenti thinks. What do you think Daeriun?”

  Daeriun’s eyes narrowed. “I think . . . that you should always trust your instincts.”

  Lord March nodded. “So, Mistress . . . what is it, exactly, that you need?”

  * * *

  “There she goes.”

  I turned to Brandan Vard in the darkness of the deck of the Reliant, Captain Tristan on Brandan’s far side. Brandan looked out over the water, lit only by the lanterns of ships and the torches burning along the docks, but he wasn’t squinting.

  He didn’t need to squint. He was a Servant; he could see the ship as clearly as I could beneath the river.

  Captain Tristan could not. He lowered his spyglass, a frown touching his face. “And you were right. The Squall’s captain loaded supplies for a short voyage, perhaps enough for a week, but nothing more.” He turned toward me. If not for the river, his face would be nothing but a pale shadow in the night. “Now to see where he’s off to with so little cargo.”

  With that, he stepped away, already ordering his crew to make ready. They moved about the deck and rigging in relative silence. But they’d been expecting this since midafternoon, when the Squall had begun lifting barrels and crates into her hold.

  As the ship began to drift out into the harbor, the Squall just within sight ahead, I leaned forward on the railing, intensely aware of Brandan at my side. I hadn’t seen him since the night he and William had brought Lord Sorrenti to Erick’s room, but his presence still prickled my skin. I felt the urge to shift closer to him, could picture his light brown hair in the sunlight of the dock in Amenkor after our tour of the city, could see his smile before William and Tristan had arrived.

  “I never thanked you,” I said, trying to shrug the thoughts aside.

  “For what?”

  “For bringing Sorrenti to see Erick.”

  “Oh.” He glanced toward me once, then away, back toward the night, toward the lights of the harbor slipping past in the darkness. “It was nothing.”

  I heard the lie in his voice. “Sorrenti wasn’t pleased. He told me he wasn’t happy with the fact that I knew about the throne here in Venitte. And William told me you risked a lot to get him to come.”

  Brandan shifted. “It was nothing.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Brandan turned to stare at me for a long moment. “What did William have to say about me coming on this little trip?”

  I shrugged. “He wasn’t happy. But he was there when Lord Sorrenti insisted.”

  “And what about you?”

  I turned to face him. “It doesn’t bother me that you’re here.”

  He frowned. “I see.”

  It wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.

  I tensed, forced myself to stay at the railing and not walk away.

  “Brandan, why do you think Sorrenti sent you?”

  He didn’t answer, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

  I sighed. “You told Sorrenti everything—about me, about Amenkor. In particular, you told him I’d asked about the throne. I knew you knew more about the throne here in Venitte than you told me in Amenkor. I could sense it. You knew about the throne and were trying to keep it a secret.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when we were forming the crew for this outing, Sorrenti insisted that you come along. He insisted that you be sent to Amenkor in the first place.”

  “Yes.”

  I grunted. “You’re not just a Servant from Venitte, are you? At least, not as lowly a Servant as you made yourself out to be in Amenkor.”

  I could feel Brandan’s smile on the river, would be able to see it in the darkness if I turned slightly. “No. Sorrenti is the throne’s Master, but there are a few Servants beneath him who are aware of the throne, of its existence. I’m one of those few. I was sent to Amenkor to find out what had happened to the Skewed Throne. Sorrenti knew something had happened; he felt it. But he didn’t know what. None of the voices in the throne here knew, because it had never happened before.”

  “And why are you here on this ship? Why did he insist you be sent?”

  Brandan turned directly toward me, his attitude shifting subtly, making him more confident. He didn’t seem as young as in Amenkor, as naive. “I’m here as Sorrenti’s representative, nothing more. Anyone on the Council will be suspicious of the activities of this ship if it doesn’t have another council member’s presence on it. And I’m here as additional protection from the Chorl, in case we run into more of their Servants.”

  The shift in his attitude was a little disconcerting. “And what about Tristan?”

  “What about him?”

  I frowned. “In Amenkor, he seemed to be in charge. He seemed to lead you around.”

  Brandan smiled, and I could see a little bit of the naïveté return. Perhaps it wasn’t all a facade. “In Amenkor, he was in charge. He is Lord March’s official representative. He’s beholden to him.” He shrugged. “I didn’t lie to you. I never lied to you, about anything. I was sent . . . to give his credentials a little more weight.”

  I considered this in silence for a long time. Then: “Lord Sorrenti seems to know a lot about the time surrounding the first Fire.”

  “He’s been studying it since the second Fire passed through the city. All of the Servants in the College have.”

  “And what have you found out?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing much. Nothing that isn’t somehow brought out by the tales the street-talkers tell.”

  “Anything to indicate where the Fire came from?”

  Brandan shook his head. “No. Except from the west of course.”

  I thought about Lord Sorrenti, about his eyes as he told me of the devastation brought on by the plague and the famine after the Fire had passed Venitte the first time. “What about its source? What its purpose was?”

  “Nothing that we’ve found.”

  I didn’t respond. Because I thought Lord Sorrenti had some idea of what the Fire meant. Maybe not precisely, but he’d known something more . . . Or suspected it.

  The Reliant passed through the northern channel, the Isle and the torches at the height of its granite tower slipping by to the left, waves slapping against the rocky base of the cliffs. The ship began to shudder in the riptides, but continued steadily forward, the Squall ahead.

  Then both ships passed out through the channel’s mouth, past the line of Venittian patrol ships guarding the entrance, into the open ocean.

  “Now we see where she heads,” Tristan said. He’d rejoined us at the railing, along with Keven. A contingent of Amenkor guardsmen had joined the crew and were now scattered about the deck, mingling with a light force of Protectorate that Lord March had ordered to join us.

  We waited expectantly, eyes on the lights of Lord Demasque’s ship, just visible in the darkness ahead.

  They continued straight ahead for a long moment, then began to turn north.

  “Shouldn’t we turn to follow them?” Keven asked, when Tristan didn’t move.

  “No. We’ll let them think we’re heading farther out to sea, for the longer trade routes, the ones that reach farther up the coast. Then we’ll douse our lanterns and keep them in sight from the west. At least at night. Once it gets closer to dawn, we’ll head back out to sea and try to pick them back up once night falls again.”

  Keven grunted in understanding.

  Brandan and I kept watch on the deck for another hour, but then the initial tension bled away. I retired to my cabin, leaving Brandan on deck.

  The next day the Reliant sailed farther out to sea, and we lost sight of the Squall. Everyone on board grew grim as the sunlight shifted overhead.

  “We’re passing into the inner trading routes,” Tristan said, “where the
Chorl are.”

  He doubled the watch.

  Night fell, and the Reliant turned toward the west, angling toward the coast. Everyone not resting below or working in the rigging drifted toward the edge of the deck, eyes on the darkening horizon, searching for the Squall. An hour passed, darkness falling heavy and thick as clouds drifted by overhead, obscuring the thin moon, the stars. Tristan began pacing the deck, the corners of his eyes and mouth tight. The entire crew grew edgy, the tension prickling in the air.

  And then Brandan whispered, “There.”

  At almost the same moment, one of the lookouts above shouted down, “Lanterns to starboard!” and was immediately hushed by practically everyone on board. Tristan stepped up to the rail, spyglass out, as the crew scrambled to attention around him.

  “I believe it’s the Squall,” the captain said, lowering the glass.

  A sigh of relief whispered around the deck, but the tension didn’t slacken.

  We followed the ship through the night. Keven repeatedly suggested I get some sleep, but I ignored him, until he finally quieted. No one else seemed inclined to rest either. According to the records kept at the merchants’ guild that William had found, the Squall typically stayed out to sea for a week, which meant that they traveled at most three days up the coast before turning back.

  Which put them a little over halfway to Bosun’s Bay.

  An hour before dawn, Captain Tristan approached me. “We’ll have to turn back to sea, or they’ll spot us. And if they make landfall during the day . . .”

  “We won’t know where,” I finished.

  I turned to stare out at the faint lights, clearer on the river than with regular eyesight. Tristan had been careful to keep his distance.

  I sighed. “Do it.”

  He pressed his lips tight, turned to give the order, but one of the sailors at the railing suddenly gasped. “She’s turning!”

  Tristan’s spyglass was out instantly. “Riley, hard to starboard. We have to get close to the coast before dawn.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Won’t they see us once the sun rises?” I asked.

  Tristan grimaced. “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. The cloud cover will help.”

  I glanced toward the east, toward where the clouds were beginning to lighten.

  Tristan began to pace, taking out his spyglass to check on the ship ahead, snapping it closed to pace again.

  Keven joined us, and Brandan, both with dark circles under their eyes.

  The sky lightened, the gray clouds rushing by overhead, low, threatening rain, turning the sea the color of slate below. The coast came into view, a dark band on the horizon, and the Reliant began a slow turn northward again.

  Ahead, the lanterns on the Squall went out.

  Keven muttered a black curse.

  “Did they see us?” I asked sharply, stepping up to Tristan’s side, the urge to rip the spyglass out of his hands and look for myself almost too great to suppress.

  “Hard to tell,” he said. “It could just be light enough they aren’t necessary anymore.” He sucked in a sharp breath.

  “What?” I gripped the handle of my dagger hard, knuckles white. “What is it?”

  He lowered the spyglass, turned toward me. “They’ve turned inland. They’re headed toward an inlet.”

  “Is there anything there? A town? A village?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing on the map.”

  I scanned the distance, where Lord Demasque’s ship couldn’t be seen in the grayness, not by the naked eye, not without lanterns, and not using the river.

  I growled. “I need to get closer.”

  Tristan’s lips pressed together so tight they turned white, but all he said was, “The boats.”

  An hour later, Keven, Tristan, Brandan, and I, along with an escort of ten guardsmen from both Amenkor and Venitte, sloshed through the surf onto the sandy beach, two crew from the Reliant pulling the boats we’d used onto shore behind us, the Reliant anchored within sight.

  “The inlet shouldn’t be more than half an hour north,” Tristan said.

  I nodded, motioned the guardsmen, Tristan, and Brandan forward.

  We ran up over the edge of the dunes, sand flying, and plowed through the grass and into the trees, turning northward.

  Twenty minutes after that, sweat slathering our backs, rain hissing down in a heavy drizzle, we topped a low rise and stared down into the inlet.

  Through the windblown downpour, the Squall lay anchored, sails tied down. Men swarmed along the beach, three boats already grounded, two more in the water, one heading toward land, empty, the other heading toward the ship, fully loaded.

  Brandan gasped. Keven swore, colorful and harsh.

  Tristan turned toward me, his face utterly expressionless. “Heavens help us. They’re working with the Chorl.”

  Chapter 12

  Behind his desk, Lord March stilled, his face utterly expressionless.

  But his voice was not. It held a rumble, faint, as of distant thunder. Muted, but threatening.

  “What did you say?”

  Tristan shifted. “Lord Demasque appears to be working with the Chorl.”

  Silence, during which Lord March did not move, barely seemed to breathe.

  I glanced toward Avrell, the First’s lips pressed into a grim line, toward Brandan, who stood behind Lord Sorrenti. None of us were seated. We’d been ushered into the room as soon as we arrived, everyone else escorted out.

  “If I didn’t know you, Tristan,” Lord March finally muttered, “I would call you a liar.”

  Tristan bowed his head. “I was there, Lord March. I saw them.”

  “What, exactly, did you see?”

  “Lord Demasque’s ship, the Squall, sailed north from the channel. They followed the coast for a day and half, along the standard inner coastal shipping lanes. We trailed them at night, headed for deeper waters during the day, and picked them back up the next night. Just before dawn, they turned into a well-known inlet, south of Bosun’s Bay, near Fairview.

  “We could not follow them into the inlet without being seen, so we anchored south of the inlet and put to shore using the long-boats. The Mistress, Brandan, and I, along with an escort of guardsmen, hiked to the ridge south of the inlet.”

  Tristan took a deep breath, loath to continue, but the pause was not long.

  “The Squall had anchored in the water. Its crew was using boats to carry supplies from the shore to its hold. The Chorl lined the beach, to keep watch, and helped Lord Demasque’s crew load the boats. Then, when all of the supplies on the beach had been loaded, they began carrying the Chorl to the ship itself.”

  As Tristan spoke, Lord March’s eyes darkened. Now, the anger in his voice no longer distant, the threat no longer subtle, he asked, “How many Chorl?”

  I shifted forward. “My personal guardsman counted at least a hundred and fifty. Along with three of the Chorl Servants and two priests.”

  Tristan nodded confirmation. “That agrees with the Protectorate’s count as well. However, we did not remain long enough to see the ship sail. There may have been more.”

  “They must have been stacked on top of each other on that ship.”

  “Yes.”

  Lord March leaned forward, hands pressed flat onto his desk for support. “There’s more, or you would not look so grim, Tristan. Continue.”

  “We sprinted back to the Reliant and followed the Squall as closely as possible. They left the inlet near to dusk and we were able to follow them most of the return trip. We didn’t want to lose them, didn’t want to miss where they put the Chorl ashore.”

  “And where did they put their . . . cargo to shore?”

  Tristan tensed, then answered in a thin voice. “They didn’t.”

  “What do you mean? They must have put the
Chorl ashore, they returned to the docks with nothing in the hold.”

  Tristan swallowed. “I mean, they didn’t put the Chorl ashore before entering the channel. They passed through the patrols at the channel’s mouth—they’re one of the Council’s ships, carried Lord Demasque’s crest, so they were not searched—and the last we saw of them they were at anchor in the channel.”

  “Where?”

  “Beneath part of Lord Demasque’s outlying estates. On the northern cliff face.”

  Lord March remained quiet a long moment, his nostrils flaring as his jaw clenched.

  Finally, his breathing slowed, he met Tristan’s steady gaze and said, “The caves.”

  Tristan nodded. “I believe so, yes.”

  “What caves?” I asked.

  March’s eyes flicked toward me. Then he thrust himself back from the desk, began pacing behind its length. “The channels—both the north and the south—are riddled with caves at their bases. Mostly, those caves are useless. The tide and the currents within the channels themselves make any attempt to sail into them treacherous at best. But that doesn’t mean that desperate men—smugglers, pirates, merchants who wish to get goods into the city without paying the taxes—won’t make the attempt. A significant portion have been successful.

  “Lord Demasque must be using the caves to get the Chorl onto his estate without being noticed.”

  “They seem to have the passage timed so that they enter the channel at night,” Tristan said. “They unload the Chorl and the supplies before dawn. Then the Squall sails into the harbor—empty—and no one’s the wiser. No one has thought to ask the patrols when the Squall arrives, and as far as the patrol is concerned, the Squall is where it should be.”

  March grunted as he paced, head lowered, one hand stroking his trimmed beard, the other supporting his elbow. No one spoke.

  Until he halted, abruptly, and looked at Tristan.

  “This is a member of the Council of Eight. I cannot accuse him of treason. Not without proof. And the Council will not accept your word, Tristan. Or yours, Mistress.” Here, he nodded toward me, his mouth twisted with regret, with anger. “The Council is too fragile at the moment. Such an accusation would rip it apart.”