The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  My gaze flicked toward Lady Casari, toward Lord Boradarn. Boradarn met my gaze steadily, his lips pressed thin, but Lady Casari stared down at the desk before her, brow creased, troubled.

  I caught Lord Sorrenti’s eye. He shook his head slightly, mouth grim.

  And suddenly I thought of what Eryn had said, that they would scramble to lay blame.

  And I was their scapegoat.

  Feeling the rage burning deeper, settling into my bones, I turned back to Lord Demasque. My hand clenched on open air, the need to feel the hilt of my dagger stronger than before, but I flexed it, drew the hand into a fist, knuckles cracking at the tension, and forced the fist down to my side.

  Dipping my head, narrowing my eyes, letting Lord Demasque see the anger in them, I said in a tight voice, “I . . . apologize. For the raid, and for any . . . damage my men may have caused to your lands.”

  Lord Demasque stood silent, his own eyes narrowing, then said, “That’s not enough. You’re a danger to Venitte’s people, to the safety of its port. I want you out of the city.”

  “That’s enough,” Lord March said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “You overstep your bounds now, Lord Demasque.”

  Demasque glared at me, eyes black with intent . . . and tinted with smugness.

  He knew he’d won.

  For a blinding moment, I was reminded of Bloodmark, of the gutterscum’s viciousness, of his hatred.

  Gutterscum always recognizes gutterscum.

  I straightened, knew then that Demasque was a mark. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t Amenkor, that here in Venitte I wasn’t Mistress.

  I let my hand slide onto the hilt of my dagger, saw Demasque’s gaze flicker, saw the skin around his eyes pinch, saw the smugness falter.

  And then Lord March said, “Mistress.”

  I turned, dismissing Demasque with the gesture. But the anger and intent still burned inside me. “Lord.” Terse and clipped, on the verge of being disrespectful.

  Lord March frowned. I had not removed my hand from my dagger. “The Council will decide upon a sum for the reparations, which will be sent to you for your approval.”

  “And should I load my ships—my men and my Servants—and depart for Amenkor?”

  He stilled, and on the river I felt his own anger, his own rage, not directed toward me but toward the Council, toward Demasque and Parmati.

  Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “You may do as you wish.”

  I snorted, cast one last scathing glance around at the Lords and Ladies, saw Lady Casari flinch, saw young Dussain’s bewilderment, then I spun toward Avrell, William, Erick, and the rest of my escort.

  “We’re leaving the Council hall. Now.”

  Erick barked an order, completely unnecessary. The guards were already forming up, closing in around me protectively as I stalked out of the hall, their eyes flashing hatred and derision to either side, making it clear that anyone taking a step toward me would regret it.

  We passed through the outer room, clerks and merchants falling abruptly silent to either side, and then we reached the open air, sun glittering down on the water in the rectangular pool, banners snapping in the wind to either side.

  Ahead, General Daeriun waited by the side of the water.

  I slowed a moment, let my rage boil to the surface, then sped up. “You know Demasque lies,” I hissed. “You were there.”

  “I know,” Daeriun said, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “Then where were you? You could have confronted him in the Council.”

  Daeriun’s eyes flashed. “Lord March ordered me to stay away, and before you condemn Lord Sorrenti, Captain Tristan, and Brandan Vard, you should know he ordered them to remain silent as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Demasque already has the majority of the Council on his side. Lord March can’t do anything until we can prove that Demasque is indeed in league with the Chorl, and right now we have nothing but a string of shells and belief! We need something more!”

  I clamped my mouth shut, stared up into Daeriun’s rigid face, realized that he was furious as well, that the hand that rested on the pommel of his sword had clenched.

  I reined my rage in with effort, and stepped back a pace.

  “We don’t have much time to find it,” I said tightly. “The Chorl are already north of the city.”

  Chapter 13

  “What do you mean they’re north of the city?”

  Daeriun had gone completely still.

  “I saw them,” I said. “I saw them marching south.”

  Daeriun glanced around, and for the first time I noted the Protectors who stood off to one side, obviously accompanying Daeriun. But there were merchants and pages and clerks running to and fro as well, the pool a blur of activity.

  “Come on,” Daeriun said abruptly, motioning toward his own men. “I’ll accompany you back to your estate.”

  We descended to the carriages, Daeriun opening the door and ushering Erick, Avrell, William, and me inside, then glancing around the steps before climbing in himself.

  He waited until the carriage was in motion before speaking, his voice deadly serious, his eyes locked on mine.

  “What do you mean you saw them? How could you have seen them?”

  “I used the river.”

  Daeriun frowned in confusion, but then Avrell said, “What she means is that she used the Sight, the power that rules the thrones, that makes her a Servant.”

  Daeriun nodded, the frown fading. But not far, and I recalled what Brandan had said on the ship, that the Servants of Venitte were Protectors, but that they were merely tolerated, not accepted.

  Daeriun might be the leader of the Protectors, might even be using the Servants of Venitte in his own units, but he wasn’t comfortable with the Servants in general.

  Shifting in his seat, Daeriun asked, “What did you see?”

  For a moment, I considered not telling him, the anger over Demasque and the Council still burning deep inside me. But I shook that anger aside. I didn’t have many allies in Venitte. Daeriun might be a grudging ally, even an uneasy one, but he was still an ally.

  “I saw Atlatik—”

  “The Chorl general,” Erick put in.

  I nodded. “He’s the head of their army, the leader of the Chorl warriors. He was leading a march south toward the city. The army was being followed by a wagon train of supplies. He also had a group of Chorl Servants and priests with him.”

  “How far north were they? When will they reach the city?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. A few days, at a guess.”

  “Probably a little longer,” William said. And then, when I looked toward him with a frown, he added, “The movement of the armies is controlled by their supply wagons. Atlatik can only move as fast as his food.”

  Daeriun swore. “That’s still within our outer outposts. We’ve heard nothing from them.”

  “Perhaps they haven’t reached the outposts yet,” Avrell said.

  Daeriun shook his head. “We expected a runner from the outermost outpost last evening, and he never arrived. That’s not unusual, so we hadn’t grown concerned yet. But with this news . . .”

  He trailed off into thought, the carriage jouncing and rumbling around us.

  Then he glanced sharply toward me.

  “Can you find them again?”

  I nodded. “It requires a lot of power without the throne, though. I’d have to have help from the other Servants with me. And even then I can’t sustain it for long.” Not without a Fire to anchor me, like the one I’d placed within Eryn, and not for such a distance.

  “Good.” The carriage began to slow and he glanced out of the window, grimaced. “I need to recall as many of the Protectorate as possible from the outposts. Now, while there’s still time to get them back
to the city before the Chorl arrive. In the meantime, Lord March suggests that you and your men,” he glanced significantly at Erick, indicating the Seekers, “remain on the grounds. Lord Demasque will be looking for any excuse to push his request that you leave the city. Don’t give him one.”

  When the carriage stopped, Daeriun opened the door and left, stepping quickly across the open courtyard toward the gates, vanishing into the city streets beyond.

  “He’s kind of brusque,” Erick said, stepping out of the carriage behind me.

  I snorted.

  “Are you going to listen to Lord March’s suggestion?” Avrell asked.

  I turned a blistering glare on him, but he did not flinch. “Find Westen and Catrell,” I said.

  “What for?” Avrell asked.

  “I want to speak to Ottul. We need to find out what the Chorl are doing, and she may be able to help.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know,” Ottul said, the shape of the coastal words somehow wrong coming from her mouth, clipped and harsh, with strange inflections.

  I almost growled in frustration, glanced toward Catrell, who sat beside me in the chambers given over to the Servants and Ottul, toward Erick, William, and Avrell who stood behind us, then turned back to Ottul, Gwenn standing to one side. Marielle and Heddan were seated farther back. Westen had not been found yet, still on the streets of Venitte somewhere, watching Demasque.

  “Perhaps she truly doesn’t know,” Catrell said. “She was captured in Amenkor, before the Ochean was killed.”

  “We aren’t asking the right questions,” Avrell said. “She won’t know what the Chorl are doing now, but she might be able to tell us enough about the Chorl themselves so we can figure that out for ourselves.”

  “Like what?” I asked, impatience cutting the words short.

  Avrell frowned, thought about it for a moment, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his official First’s robes, then said, “We need to know how they’d react to the Ochean’s death. We already know that there are three components to the power structure of their society—the Ochean and her Servants, Haqtl and the male Servants, and Atlatik and the warriors. We know that those three were in relative balance with the Ochean alive. What would happen once the Ochean was killed? How would the balance of power shift?”

  Ottul had listened intently to Avrell as he spoke, but her brow was now creased in complete confusion. She looked toward me, bewildered.

  “Gwenn, can you help?”

  Gwenn sighed. “I can try.”

  She turned toward Ottul, screwed her face up in concentration for a moment, her expression so serious it brought a faint smile to Catrell’s lips, and then she began speaking to Ottul in the Chorl language.

  Everyone in the room shifted forward, almost unconsciously. Everyone except Erick. I could feel his anguish, knew that he trembled with it. Because of what Haqtl had done to him, what the Chorl had done to him. Since his return, Ottul had been kept in her rooms or at work with the male Servants and Protectors in Venitte. He’d only seen her at a distance. But now, up close, with her sitting in the same room . . .

  He wanted to kill her. I could feel him fighting the urge, could feel him trembling with it. He’d barely controlled himself when he’d entered and seen her, didn’t think he could control himself if he came any closer. I could feel the tension roiling on the river. He didn’t want to trust her, a viscerally emotional reaction, and the only thing that kept him from following that urge was the knowledge that I’d placed the White Fire inside of her, that if necessary I could claim control of her.

  I’d never seen him this close to losing control.

  Ottul asked something, Gwenn answered, and then Ottul spoke at length, watching both me and Catrell, her gaze shifting back and forth, but staying mainly on me.

  When she finally finished, Gwenn turned toward me. “She says that with the Ochean dead, the power would shift to Haqtl.”

  “Not Atlatik?” Catrell said sharply. “Not to the Chorl warriors?”

  Gwenn shook her head. “No. Haqtl would take over, because she says the Chorl warriors believe in the gods, that they believe in the Fire of Heaven. She says that Atlatik will be forced to follow Haqtl because otherwise the Chorl warriors will rebel against him. They’ll kill him and replace him.”

  “What about the female Servants? Won’t a new Ochean be chosen?”

  “Not right away. Ottul says there would be a battle.” Here Gwenn frowned. “A ginset, where the most powerful of the remaining Servants who have gained the seven rings fight to see who will be the new Ochean.”

  “I doubt Haqtl would allow a new Ochean to be chosen given these circumstances,” Avrell said.

  “No,” I agreed, thinking back to the memories I’d shared with the Ochean before her death. “The Ochean and Haqtl were struggling for power even before their homeland destroyed itself.”

  “So Haqtl is in control,” Catrell said, then caught my gaze. “If that’s true, then why wasn’t he with Atlatik and the Chorl forces moving south?”

  “Because,” I answered, “he’s already here, in Venitte. He must have been part of the forces Demasque brought into the city.”

  “But where are they?” Avrell said in frustration. “If they aren’t on Demasque’s northern estates, then where did they go?”

  I suddenly thought of Sorrenti. “I don’t know. But they have moved. Perhaps Sorrenti will be able to find them now with the Stone Throne. If they’ve moved farther into the city, if they’ve entered its influence . . .” I trailed off, then turned toward William, who straightened. He’d been silent through most of the discussion. “Perhaps you can find them, through the guild. If Demasque is hiding a force here, maybe there’s some trace of it in the guild’s records.”

  William nodded. “I can also look into what property he owns in the city, find out where he might be hiding Haqtl and a Chorl force of significant size.”

  Catrell shifted, catching everyone’s attention. “You realize that if Haqtl is in the city, with a Chorl force to support him, that it represents a fundamental change in the Chorl’s tactics. They’re no longer being as direct as they were at Amenkor.”

  “What does that mean?” Avrell asked.

  “It means we won’t be able to predict their strategy as easily,” Erick answered tightly.

  The room fell silent, the tension breaking a moment later when Steward Alonse knocked on the door and entered. His gaze flickered over everyone in the room before settling on me. “Mistress, Brandan Vard has arrived with a trunk from Lord Sorrenti. Should I allow him in?”

  William stiffened, but I ignored him and nodded to Alonse.

  Brandan entered a moment later, followed by two Venittian men carrying a large, heavy trunk made of a pale wood banded with metal. He paused a moment, nodded toward Avrell and Catrell, then motioned for the men to set the trunk down.

  “Mistress,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

  “We were just finishing, Brandan.”

  “I see. Well, Lord Sorrenti asked that I deliver this.” He reached down to open the trunk as he spoke. “It contains the costumes you’ll need for the Fete.” Pulling out some of the contents, he added, “Here’s your mask. And here’s your costume.”

  He held up a blue dress—deep blue, like the ocean—and a white mask fringed with white feathers on top, glittering waves of blue spreading from the corner of the eyes to the edge of the mask.

  I frowned, then stood and took the mask in hand and turned it over, noted the cord used to tie it in place around my head, then shoved it back into Brandan’s hand.

  “I don’t wear dresses,” I said flatly.

  “What’s wrong?” Brandan muttered, mortified. “Is it the color?”

  Avrell sighed and shook his head. “It’s nothing personal, Brandan.”

  Heddan and Gwenn had both
risen and moved toward the trunk. They started rummaging through the contents. Even Marielle’s interest had been piqued. Gwenn squealed with delight, sliding a beaked black mask over her head. A ruff of feather floated in the air as Heddan tied the mask in back. Her face was completely covered, nothing but her eyes visible, and even those were mostly in shadow.

  With the black costume on that went with the mask, you’d never know it was Gwenn.

  I frowned, watching Gwenn, thinking about the Chorl, about masks, about Haqtl and blue skin, then turned back to Erick, to Catrell, William, and Avrell, catching their gazes.

  “I know when the Chorl are going to attack,” I said grimly.

  * * *

  “During the Fete,” Lord March said, his voice flat.

  “Actually,” Avrell responded, glancing toward General Daeriun and Lord Sorrenti, standing to either side of Lord March on the stone balcony inside March’s estate, “during the Masquerade on the last day of the Fete.”

  From this vantage, I could see the back of the domed building where the Council of Eight met, the College where the Servants of Venitte studied barely visible to one side.

  “It’s perfect,” Sorrenti said after a moment. “They’re wearing costumes and masks to cover their skin, to hide the fact that they’re Chorl. Which means they can move about the city freely, without attracting attention, because everyone else in the city will be in costume, most of them wearing masks. Even if the mask slips and someone catches a glimpse underneath, sees blue skin—”

  “They’ll assume the person is wearing face paint,” General Daeriun growled. “Catrell is right. The Chorl have changed their strategy.”

  “Demasque’s influence, no doubt,” Lord March said.

  “And Lady Parmati’s.” When I turned a questioning look on Sorrenti, he shrugged. “The masks, the costumes—that came from Parmati. She’s always loved the theater.”

  “So what can we do to stop them?” Lord March asked.

  “Cancel the Fete,” I said.

  General Daeriun snorted, then fell silent when he realized I was serious. Sorrenti’s face was utterly blank, but I could sense his amusement on the river. He leaned back and stared out toward the Council chambers, squinting at the harsh glare of the sunlight on its white-gray stone.