The Skewed Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  “Ah,” he mumbled. “There’s the Varis I know.”

  My shoulder muscles tensed. “You never told me what you wanted me to do.”

  He smiled, leaned back in his chair. William had set his papers aside and was now organizing Borund’s stack.

  “I want you to protect me. It’s as simple as that. Just as you did last night at the tavern. I want you to accompany me whenever I leave the manse, follow me, like a shadow. Warn me of any dangers, protect me if you need to. But I expect you to warn me first. Is that acceptable?”

  I thought suddenly of Mari, saw Bloodmark kneeling over her, his knife cutting down sharply and deeply, heard her screaming. I saw her trying to push herself upward after Erick had knocked Bloodmark aside, saw her watching me.

  And then, abruptly, I saw the white-dusty man’s face, saw the blood splattered on his forehead and cheeks from the Skewed Throne symbol that had been carved into his chest.

  I hadn’t been able to protect them. But I hadn’t realized they needed protection, especially by someone like me. I’d always assumed they could protect themselves.

  I stared into Borund’s eyes—a dark brown, like mud—then drew myself upward and said, “I can protect you.”

  For a moment, I felt a faint curl of the Fire deep inside me rise up, sending a cold shiver through my gut. But then it died.

  “Good,” Borund said, then rose from his seat. William rose as well, putting the neat sheaf of papers to one side. Borund reached for a small pouch on the corner of the desk, lifted it, and held it out for me.

  I frowned, hesitated, then took a step forward to take the pouch.

  It held coins. More coins than I’d seen my entire time on the Dredge.

  Gutterscum didn’t deal in coins.

  I turned a confused glance toward Borund, then William.

  “Those are your wages,” Borund said quietly, his voice gruff, but undercut with a note of pleasure. “It’s what you’ll earn every month you’re in my service. I’ll provide room and board as well of course.” He smiled. “And as much butter as you want.”

  I held the pouch, not knowing what to do with it, until Borund cleared his throat.

  “I’ll have Lizbeth put that in your room for you,” he said, leaning across the desk to take the pouch back. “For now, let’s begin with a courteous visit to our dear friend Charls.”

  His voice was light and carefree, but tinged with darkness.

  We stepped out into sunlight through a polished wooden door twice my width, banded with iron. Three wide, curved, tiered steps led down to a white-cobbled path wider than the Dredge. It led straight through the garden I’d seen in the darkness last night to an open front gate. Trees rustled in the sunlight. Gerrold waited at the bottom of the steps with three horses and a young boy I didn’t know holding the three sets of reins. One of the horses stamped its foot and shook its head.

  My eyes narrowed as Borund and William moved toward the horses. I stayed on the rounded top of the stairs, by the door. On the Dredge, horses were to be avoided, unless they could be ducked under for a quick but dangerous escape. Most were larger than me, and definitely heavier.

  Borund was already seated before he realized I hadn’t moved. “I assume you haven’t ridden,” he said dryly.

  “No.”

  He frowned. “That will have to change. But not today. We’ll move slow enough you can follow.” He turned toward Gerrold. “Gerrold, you should have known she couldn’t ride.”

  The man ducked his head briefly. “My apologies. I didn’t think, sir.”

  Borund nudged the horse toward the gate.

  William mounted with smooth skill, then motioned the boy and the remaining horse along another path toward the back of the manse. He turned toward me. “The horse won’t bite,” he said. “Come and touch him.”

  Ahead, Borund had paused, had turned back in his saddle to watch, annoyed.

  I came down the steps reluctantly, halted just out of reach of the horse. He snorted, nosed forward as if trying to smell me, but William kept him in check with the reins and a soft clicking sound. The horse’s ears swiveled back at the noise, then forward as he lowered his head.

  I had to look up into his eyes, but I reached out tentatively with one hand, glancing toward William. William smiled and nodded his head, so I touched the horse on its neck.

  The horse remained still, not moving, a shudder running down the muscles in his neck. The short brown hair felt smooth and warm in the sunlight, taut with energy, ready for motion. I stroked the horse’s neck and the creature snorted again.

  I smiled and laughed, the sound strange and startling in the late morning stillness.

  When I looked up toward William, he was grinning, his face open, easy to read, his eyes bright. “I never would have thought to hear you laugh,” he said, and then he laughed himself, as if the statement were somehow absurd.

  He turned the horse, slowly, so the movement wouldn’t startle me. Farther down the path, Borund turned back to the gate. His annoyance had vanished, replaced by amused tolerance. I fell into step a few paces away from William and his horse, far enough to run if necessary, but close enough I could still smell the horse’s dark humid sweat.

  “The horse’s name is Fetlock,” William said as we caught up to Borund and entered the street, “and Borund’s mount is called Brindle, because Gart—the stableboy—thought the horse’s color was shit-brindle brown when we bought him. The name stuck.”

  Borund snorted and mumbled, “Bloody stupid name,” under his breath, shaking his head. But he was smiling. He reached forward and patted Brindle’s neck roughly, the horse nodding his head as if in agreement.

  The streets of Amenkor this close to the palace were practically empty and I gazed up at the sky as I had done on the Dredge, raising one hand to shade away the sun. There were no clouds today, the sky a pure blue. A steady breeze blew in from the harbor.

  I let my gaze drop to the water of the harbor. Borund’s manse was situated high enough up the slope that I could see down over the rooftops to the wharf, could see the masts of the ships tied at the docks. More ships sat in the harbor itself, appearing calm amid the slate gray of the waves.

  I ignored the far side of the bay to my left, across the River, where the Dredge ran. Instead, I turned my gaze in the other direction, upward, toward the palace.

  In the sunlight, the walls seemed smooth, colored like brown eggshell, with only a few windows at the lower levels. There were three layers of walls, the palace offset from the center inside the third wall, a few towers rising into the empty sky. Flags and banners flapped in the wind, too far away to be heard, their colors bright against the light brown of the palace and the sky.

  “That’s where we’re headed,” William said beside me, nodding toward the palace and the walls. “The old city. It’s where we’re most likely to find Charls this time of day.”

  I stared at what I could see of the palace between the buildings and above the walls a long moment, then turned my attention to the street. We were moving from the mostly empty streets where Borund’s manse lay into more crowded areas, and almost without thought I slid beneath the river.

  It was just like the Dredge. Or the wharf. A world of gray and red, a wash of sound in the background.

  The tension in my shoulders and back shifted, from nervousness about the horses and William and Borund, to apprehension about protecting them from Charls. I could still feel the tavern, the desperation as I’d fought through the crowded tables, searching. I glanced up to William to see if he’d noticed, but he was watching the street intently, frowning, as focused as I was. He could still feel the tavern as well. I could see it in his eyes.

  So I turned back to the street and with a subtle push on the river felt it shift, new people emerging to the fore, those that were possible threats to Borund. Those that were threats to me—the guardsmen, men with visible weapons—mostly slid into the background, a bleached red.

  I settled in to watch.
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  We emerged onto a wide, crowded street and turned into the general flow heading up toward the palace. The noise increased, people shouting, hawkers bellowing, men cursing. The crush of horses and men—many more horses than I was used to—forced me to walk closer to William and Fetlock, almost touching the horse’s side. Up ahead, I could see the first wall, an arched gateway standing open to the street. As we approached, the crush of bodies grew worse, as bad as the press of the tavern, tight and restrictive. The background noise beneath the river tripled and I felt my control beginning to slip, felt sweat break out on my back, in my armpits, felt my breathing increase.

  Then we were through the gate, past the wall, and the crowd fell back, loosened.

  I blew out a held breath, then steadied. Neither Borund nor William seemed to notice me or the crowds, continuing on up toward the second wall.

  I tried to calm myself, my heart still shuddering in my chest.

  “This is the outer circle,” William suddenly said, motioning toward the surrounding buildings, “or rather, outer oval. This is where most of the merchants live, along with a few of the highest-ranking Guard and sea captains. Those with some influence. Essentially it’s a residential area, close to the palace for when there’s a need for the merchants to speak with Avrell, the First of the Mistress—or, more rarely, the Mistress herself—about trade negotiations and how they might affect the city or our relations to the surrounding cities of the coast. It’s also close to the guild halls in the middle circle, and the wharf and the warehouse district below, on the harbor. Borund could live here if he wanted, but chose to live below, in the city. He always felt that living here would distance him from the everyday man. He was raised near the wharf, built his merchant house out of nothing but spit and hard work.” William had straightened in his saddle, watched the passing buildings with a strange hope in his eyes. Almost under his breath, he added, “I want to live here someday, though.”

  I glanced around and frowned. This close to the main street, the buildings were tight together, almost as tight as the Dredge, and each doorway had a painted sign over it, all with designs that had no meaning to me. Two crossed swords on one, a three- masted ship on another. One seemed to be three squiggled lines, like waves. Through the paned windows, I could see mostly empty rooms, the only furnishings desks and chairs and high countertops. Shelves lined the walls, packed with statues and plants like Borund’s room. A few had large sacks and barrels instead. Most had sheaves of papers scattered over the desks and on the walls. And then I noticed that here and there, almost lost among the rest of the shops, were a few empty buildings, doors closed, windows boarded up. The empty buildings sent a cold shudder across my shoulders, as if someone had just breathed against the nape of my neck.

  The empty buildings reminded me of the Dredge. This is what the Dredge must have once looked like— its buildings intact, its streets full of merchants and shoppers. But now this street was beginning to decay, beginning to fade. The empty stores were simply the first outward sign. My frown deepened.

  “There’s nothing for sale in those shops,” I said.

  I meant the empty buildings, but William didn’t seem to notice them, didn’t even seem to see them. He smiled without looking down at me. “Ah, but that’s the thing. Amenkor is the crossroads of the Frigean coast, the gateway to the nations in the east, on the far side of the mountains. Everything’s for sale in these shops. You just have to know the right person.”

  I didn’t answer, uneasiness settling into my stomach.

  Up ahead, we were approaching another gate and the second wall. William turned away from the shops toward the wall. “And this is the middle circle. All the guild halls are in here. We’ll find Charls at the merchants’ guild, no doubt.” His voice darkened when he mentioned Charls. “That’s where most of the actual business of trading and selling takes place.”

  We passed through the second gate into a large, open, square marketplace with huge stone buildings on all sides, broken up by various streets. The marketplace was crowded, but there were fewer hawkers than on the wharf. They stuck mainly near the center of the square, around the towering fountain. I paused to stare at the three stone horses that reared toward the sky, a spit of water pouring out of the top, three more spouts of water emerging from the horses’ mouths. The water collected in a giant pool at the base.

  Cobbler’s Fountain seemed suddenly small and insignificant, almost childish.

  William and Borund continued across the square, toward the largest of the stone buildings, its front riddled with carved statues of men and women, lying down on stone benches, standing and reaching for the sky, most wearing nothing at all. Some appeared to move until we got closer and I realized there were birds in the crevices of the carvings. There were birds everywhere, on the cobbled square itself, lining the stone steps leading up to the doorway that seemed small in comparison to the rest of the building. They fluttered out of the way of passersby, muttering soft, throaty coos of protest.

  I followed Borund and William numbly, but we didn’t approach the steps. Instead, we moved toward a side street, passing beneath an arch and along a narrow until it opened up into a courtyard where men practiced with swords and boys rushed, running errands. As soon as Borund and William appeared and dismounted, two boys stepped forward and led the horses away.

  Borund motioned to William as we entered the merchants’ guild through a side door and began climbing stairs. “He’ll be in the Great Hall now,” he said, glancing back quickly toward me. His mud-brown eyes were hooded and dangerous, but not like Erick’s had been. Erick’s eyes had been cold, purposeful, casual. Borund’s were heated and intense, angry.

  We passed through a low-arched doorway and into the Great Hall and I tensed, the hackles on the back of my neck rising. I resisted the urge to crouch, to draw my dagger and slip back through the doorway. I couldn’t stop a harsh hiss of warning, like a pissed-off cat.

  In the swirling gray world of the river, almost everyone in the room was red. A shroud fell over me, covered me like a blanket, pushed me down with its weight. All of the awe over the size of the room—over the fountain and the buildings and the walls outside as well—died, replaced by the instincts of the Dredge.

  “What is it?” someone murmured, the voice muffled by the pressure I felt from the river. Then someone touched my arm.

  William. I could feel him, smell him. Borund, as well. But I didn’t turn to look at them. Instead, I kept my gaze focused on the room, on the people milling about, on the soft background noise of their conversations.

  “What is it, Varis?” Borund asked, his voice a little more commanding than William’s.

  “Everyone here is dangerous,” I said.

  He grunted. “How can you tell?”

  “I can see it,” I answered without thought. “They’re all red.”

  A long, heavy silence followed, but I was too distracted by the pressure to notice until Borund spoke again, his voice tight. “I’m only interested in one of them today, and I don’t see him. Do you?”

  I drew a deep breath and tried to concentrate more. As I submerged myself deeper, the reds shifted into various shades, some darker, like blood, others more vibrant.

  I focused on those like blood, pushed the others into the background. There were fewer of them, and one of them was Charls.

  He wasn’t a mix of red and gray now, but a deep red. Even when I shifted the focus of the river back to myself briefly.

  “There,” I said, and pointed.

  Borund laid a hand gently on mine and lowered it slowly. “Don’t draw attention. Just nod in the right direction. We don’t want anyone here to know the real reason we came.”

  I frowned, then realized it was like the Dredge, like standing at the edge of a narrow, looking for a mark.

  Borund wanted us to be gray.

  I nodded in the direction of Charls, and with a swift look at William, Borund began to move through the room. I kept my attention fixed on Charls a
nd the few other washes of blood red. Borund paused occasionally to speak with other merchants, some dressed like Borund in long coats of differing colors with gold embroidery. Most had less gold than Borund, and after a quick scan of each, I dismissed them as harmless.

  We edged closer to Charls, moving in a wide arc.

  “Borund!”

  I turned to see a dark blue-coated merchant approaching, arms held wide. He had a plain face, a wide grin, hazel eyes, dimples. His hair hung down to his shoulders and had been tied back into a ponytail. He had no trace of red to him at all.

  Borund smiled as they grasped arms at the elbows and clapped each other on the back. “Marcus, it’s good to see you! How’s Marlett?”

  A bitter expression crossed Marcus’ face and he scowled. “The city’s hurting. Not enough wares to be found. And what we can find is becoming too expensive to buy.”

  “Not much better here in Amenkor, I’m afraid.”

  Marcus turned serious. “I heard about the tavern.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Good you had a bodyguard, eh?”

  There was a hint of something more behind Marcus’ voice and Borund fell silent. I gave Marcus a dark stare. Unconsciously, he shifted away.

  “Yes. My bodyguard.”

  After a moment, Marcus cleared his throat. “I also hear you have some grain in storage?”

  “You shouldn’t always listen to rumor, Marcus. Now spice! I have plenty of spice!”

  “I don’t need spice,” Marcus protested darkly, and the two began bargaining, just like any hawker and his victim on the Dredge or wharf. I let the conversation fall into the background and turned back to Charls.

  He’d shifted, moved to the edge of the room, toward one of the walls covered in tapestries. Most of the room was empty of furniture, the polished stone floor bare, but near some of the walls sat a few chairs. Light streamed through tall, thin windows, slanting across the floor at an angle, but Charls stood in the most shadowed corner of the room now.