The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Ardent's lips thinned. She did see a need, yes. The reports she had read on the tavern fiasco, the disaster in the underground and the assaults on the smuggling coves all pointed to the Crimson captain in residence, and she admitted to being impressed. The Crimson occupation of Illane was a slapdash affair but this captain had made himself a credible threat.

  Her preference was assassination: cut off the head and let the body die. The fact that the captain seemed to know it—seemed to court it—amused her. She'd been watching from the shadows beyond the jail cell, finger itching on her crossbow's trigger as he turned his red-coated back.

  But she had too many questions to be so rash.

  “We have no evidence that the Crimson General intends to strike again,” she said. “And we have this captain's word that his intentions are only against my people. We can work around that. Go deeper underground, if you insist that we retain our presence, or limit ourselves to supply-drops by request.”

  “This captain has no backing,” said the Lord Governor, stabbing a finger at the company's writ of purpose. It was pinned in the center of the table by small weights, its precise lettering and understated signature exposed to view. “It is sealed by his own hand. If the Crimson General had not told me this company would be assigned here, I would consider them squatters in the garrison, or even a renegade force. I think it likely this man has simply been dumped on us and is taking action as a religious fanatic, not an Imperial officer.”

  “A dangerous assumption,” said Ardent. “Fanatics aren't given to compromise. Illane has already been pacified, Lord Governor—some parts more violently than others. If you wish to start an uprising, you should think on Savinnor and Fellen, not this one small company. You should think about the General, not this captain.”

  “We have more allies than Savinnor or Fellen. You, your goblins and elementals—“

  “Those are business partners. If it is not in their interest to fight, they will not.”

  “The collapse of the Shadowland harmed them too!”

  Ardent shook her head. “Their undercity is seated too deep for the assault to touch; I've been told a few transit tunnels were breached, nothing more. The goblins have little interest in the daylit world beside what goods it can provide, and the metal elementals don't care at all. They don't even breathe. If trouble doesn't come to them, they won't seek it.”

  “You must incite their ire, then!” said the Lord Governor, red with frustration. “Surely they will rise up when they know the threat the Empire poses.”

  “Do you think the Empire would be so mad as to try to dig them out? I don't, and I won't argue it. This is not the place to stage a war, Lord Governor. Kanrodi, yes, but—“

  “Your Padrastan sympathies are showing. You took over from Shan Cayer, a native Bahlaeran, and now you wish to let our city rot under the Empire's yoke?”

  Personal attacks, she could weather. Bureaucratic idiocy, spear-rattling city-state pride—fine. But to impugn her loyalty to the Kheri... “I speak as granddaughter of Kherus Morgwi,” she said tightly, feeling the shadows in the room rustle with her ire. “I speak as representative of the Shadow Regency and agent of the Office of Enforcement. We are not interested in starting a war for you. It is not what we do. Any action we take on your behalf will be done mercenarily—bought and paid for—or as a courtesy only if you can convince me of our debt. Do not make demands. You will not like our response.”

  The Lord Governor blanched and practically fell back into his seat. Beside him, the Garrison Commander went rigid, clutching at the hilt of his useless uniform sword; on the other side, the High Guildsman's eyes flicked back and forth between the various shadows as if he could see the creatures swarming beyond them. Even Madam Lirayen, the city's Mother Matriarch, looked strained, her hands clenching white-knuckled on the edge of the table.

  With some difficulty, Ardent eased back. The blood of shadow ran strong in her, but that was not an excuse to abuse her influence.

  “We should not attack the Crimsons,” she said, “but we can undermine them. Possibly turn them.”

  “Not that captain,” said the Lord Governor. The fear had deflated him, and he looked tired and fretful—an old man on a crumbling ledge, unsure where to go. “Stiff-necked, he is. I tried to buy him on his first time through, but he just looked at me as if assessing a bounty.”

  “You twinkled your rings at him,” grumbled Commander Tonner. “You didn't actually make an offer.”

  “I know a purchasable man when I see one, and he wasn't. His men, though...” The Lord Governor looked thoughtful. “He has quite a few non-Imperials. Have the Shadows any agents among the Crimson?”

  “Some, but not here,” said Ardent. According to Cayer, it had been a while since their Army moles' last reports, and he believed that they had been taken. “We have sympathizers close to them, though. Shopkeepers, brothel staff...”

  “Ah yes, whores. Soldiers love whores.”

  Madam Lirayen cleared her throat testily, and the Lord Governor mouthed an apology for his language. “We also have contacts among the working women,” she said primly, “and the medic at the garrison is one of ours. We will do our part.”

  “No need to endanger your women,” the Lord Governor huffed. “I'm sure the Shadow Folk will—“

  “Mekhos. Dear. Women are practically all Bahlaer has now. We will do our part.”

  Her tone brooked no argument, and though the Lord Governor's face passed through several shades of pale and vermillion, he held his tongue.

  Ardent suppressed a smile. She'd never worked much with the Trifolders, but the Kheri respected them for a reason. “So we will turn the captain's troops,” she said. “Stall him, distract him. Keep things quiet. With luck, we can wear down his loyalty until he has no choice, and then you can have him in your pocket like the Houndmaster.”

  The Lord Governor seemed pleased by that, but the High Guildsman raised a manicured hand. “What about the mentalist woman?”

  A priority target, thought Ardent. She had little understanding of magic; it harmed the very fabric of the Shadow Realm and thus the Kheri avoided it at all costs. Mentalism was said to be different from the other disciplines, but she did not know how, only that mentalists had the ability to detect and adjust thoughts. If the woman found and manipulated one of their turncoats... “I would recommend abducting or assassinating her, unless you think she can be bought.”

  The men traded glances. Madam Lirayen said, “We do not condone assassination.”

  But you condone war. You approve of sending my people to shed blood on your behalf.

  “Abduction, then,” said Ardent. “Easier for you than me. You've got hireling mages, yes?”

  The Lord Governor nodded. “And if we secure the Imperials, the Shadow Folk stay?”

  “For now. I can't see the future. No matter how I look at it, this company's situation is odd, so we need to be cautious in our approach. Watchful. Do you all understand?” Ardent aimed her last words at Commander Tonner, who had sat throughout the discussion with a thunderous expression on his face.

  His eyes caught at her like hooks. “Those were my men who died, torn apart in the dark by your beasts. Your folk and the captain's both owe me blood.”

  “We paid you in gold,” said Ardent flatly. “I agree that there is a debt between us, but we are not Nemesites. We do not seek revenge for its own sake, nor do we take up knives on others' behalf.”

  “Gold is not enough!” the Commander roared, suddenly furious, and slammed his gauntleted hand on the table as he stood. All on his side flinched. By the look on his face, Ardent could guess who had put the two militia survivors up to the task of attacking the Crimson captain. “Gold could not return my men, and gold will not solve this problem. We must kill them—all of them!”

  “Tonner, please,” said Madam Lirayen, making a soothing gesture that in no way reached him. “Vengeance will not help. Perhaps we should summon the Hammer...”

  “It was you
women who advised peace last time,” spat the Commander, “and see what that has gained us? Our city made a whore for the Crimson Claw, a quarter of our people fled or in chains...”

  “I believe it was Cayer who advised you then,” said Ardent flatly.

  The High Guildsman lifted his hand in the background as if to say 'me too'.

  Commander Tonner rounded on Ardent, who did not stir, not about to be intimidated across a solid inkwood table. “Women and skirt-clingers,” he spat, jabbing a finger in her direction. “We could have fought them then. They were weary from smiting Savinnor and strung across the plains. We could have attacked from the roofs and the sewers, broken their lancers on our twisting streets, gutted their whole campaign. Even last winter, we could have risen up while Fellen rioted—cast off our shackles and split their attention between the Fellenites and us, so that their fight would not have been in vain. But no. We sat and bargained and waited while the Crimson Army conscripted our young men and enslaved the rest. While they grew fat off our land and filled their pockets with our earnings. Our city is dying because you people have no sense of community, and Lirayen's people are devout cowards, and everyone else seems to think that 'wait and hope' is a valid strategy against a tyrant.”

  “You are a mercantile city-state,” said Ardent, unimpressed. “You never had a standing army, not even compulsory training. Most of your private security is mercenaries from Gejara and Jernizan. How many Bahlaerans know how to wield a sword, or even a crossbow? How many would have been willing last summer or last winter? Do you think the outcome of fighting would be any better than what you have now?”

  The commander bared his teeth at her, yellowed from years of smoke. “We have fire in us, girl. If you think—“

  “Stop.”

  Tonner hesitated, then opened his mouth with a sneer, and Ardent planted her palms on the table and stood to stare him down. “You will address me as Enforcer, or Ardent if you must. No diminutives, no 'girl'. I am your representative from the Kheri no less than Shan Cayer was, and in all the shadows of Bahlaer my word is now law. I am not here to amend or belabor the past; I am here to see that Bahlaer's remaining Kheri weather this storm, and the city along with them—if feasible. If your attitude convinces me that you are headed to self-destruction, I will remove all of my personnel and all of our supplies immediately. We are not your hired swords. We answer only to our father, and our father dictates nonviolence insofar as we can manage.”

  Commander Tonner gritted his teeth and, with an obvious effort of will, bit back harsh words. “Shan Cayer would help me,” he grated.

  “Perhaps that is why I am here instead.”

  “Is he well?” said Madam Lirayen, interrupting the stare-down. Her hands were knotted white in her dark shawl. “I had heard he escaped the disaster, but...”

  Ardent made a mental note to find out who had leaked that information. “He is alive and recuperating elsewhere. Madam, you said something about a hammer."

  “A— Oh, yes.” The Trifolder's grip eased slightly, the furrows of worry smoothing. “The Hammer of Brancir, the High Justiciar. He has been sighted recently in one of his guises. Perhaps it would be wise to call on him...”

  “I thought you were against fighting.”

  “Oh, he's not a fighter. Not that he can't or won't, but he serves the Forge Matron Brancir in her capacity as the Lady of Judgment—a bearer of the gavel rather than the sword. Perhaps he could reason with these Crimsons.”

  “Reason,” Commander Tonner spat.

  Madam Lirayen gave him a sharp look. “Yes, reason. Captain Sarovy is not a monster. He seems to respect rules and authority when they are not waved about like weapons. If he cannot be bribed, perhaps he can be convinced to turn away from his blinding Light and toward a more peaceful, equitable one.”

  “Absolute rubbish.”

  “Oh, you're one to talk. Your wife is a part of my charity group, and your sisters—“

  “Idiotic rubbish!” Tonner proclaimed, then sank back in his seat to stew.

  “Don't mind him, dear,” said Lirayen to Ardent. “He's always wanted to be in a war, but the Jernizen never raided this far south, and he was too old to be recruited when the Crimsons went after them.”

  Ardent bit back a dozen comments and just smiled noncommittally. “So. The Hammer.”

  “Yes, that would be ideal,” said the Lord Governor, just as eager to get back on topic. “My Houndmaster tells me that many of the soldiers are abominations—which I must have him explain to you, Enforcer, if you do not know—but he says he can dominate most of them. If not all.” He grinned. “The most foolish thing the Crimsons ever did was send Chelaith to me.”

  Ardent raised a brow, but she had been briefed on Houndmaster Chelaith. Some kind of Imperial-made monstrosity who could not feel pain and commanded other, lesser monstrosities. According to Cayer, the Lord Governor paid a fortune in coin, food and flesh to keep him and his hounds under control.

  “He wishes you to think that,” grumbled Tonner. “I trust him no further than I can spit.”

  “Nor should we expect him to be typical of all abominations,” said Madam Lirayen. “We've seen precious few here, thank the Goddess, but the one who fought the Guardian beast in the tavern—I've heard he was frightful. It is unfortunate how little we knew at the time.”

  That brought up another thought. “Your faith is proof against them, isn't it?” Ardent prompted Lirayen. “And you can brew up poisons of some sort. I'm told Bah-kai has used them.”

  The Mother Matriarch looked uncomfortable. “Not poisons, my dear. Our salves are meant to heal.”

  “But they harm the abominations.”

  “Evidently.”

  “And your protective marks, they work against the abominations as well?”

  “Yes, they seem to. Though they are not absolute proof against the greater ones.”

  “Then perhaps...” Ardent paused, realizing she was trying to design a trap she had already argued not to spring. “I will keep it in mind, thank you. I believe we have our assignments then. The brothels, the Hammer, your man Chelaith. And I shall continue to have my people dissuade the rioters.”

  “You won't pull out?” said the Lord Governor.

  “Not for now. We'll see how this goes.”

  The Lord Governor rose to clasp her hand, beaming, and after a moment the Commander did so as well, though the thundercloud had not left his face. She traded nods with the High Guildsman and the Mother Matriarch, and then she stepped away to the folding-screen set up in the corner, to escape through the shadows she'd come in by.

  “Void's Teeth,” she muttered to her waiting Enforcers, a five-member detail she had left lurking in case of trouble. They fell in at her heels as she strode down the white path, two behind and three on the flip-side as usual.

  “So we continue surveillance, nothing more?” said her right-hand woman Zhahri, disappointed. Thin-blooded and driven, she had been one of those Ardent poached from Taradzur-kai upon her exit. “There hasn't been much to see.”

  “Scouts coming and going, acting like they're invisible,” said her left-hand man Ticuo. He was not her usual third, but she had pulled him from her main Enforcement squad because he'd been born in Bahlaer and knew most of its Kheri in person.

  “We're not fighting,” she told them. “Not yet. I'd like to make some mischief though, see how they respond. Crates of manure and the like.”

  “Not crates of eiyets?” said Zhahri.

  “We don't want to kill them. The name of the game is containment. Until we see what the other bait fishes up, we're just here to keep our people safe. Understood?”

  “Yes ma'am.”

  “Now let's give them some exercise.”

  *****

  The anonymous tip about a Shadow depot came at the end of the midday meal. Sarovy, in the mess-hall, set his fork down as a scout rushed over waving a map. He had barely picked at his food anyway, not much of an appetite these days.

  “Wh
at is it?” he said, trying to recall the scout's name. They all blended together in his mind, no matter that they came from all points of the Empire and represented all sizes, all builds.

  “A target, sir.” The scout flattened the map beside him, black bracer peeking out from beneath his orange-and-green sleeve. If not for the Crimson medallion he had pulled out from under his garish tunic, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the colorblind citizenry. “The fellow would barely answer a question, but I ghosted over to spy on it, make sure it wasn't fake, and it looks like there's stuff there. Lots of stuff. Not sure who it belongs to, though.”

  Sarovy peered at the parchment, childishly hand-drawn but with landmarks that let him match it to his mental map. “Lower Hook...not too far. We can look into it. Roust the...” He ran the roster through his head. “Roust Arlin's platoon and find me Vrallek and the Scryer. I will be in my office. —Oh, and tell the stableman to bard my horse.”

  The scout saluted then scarpered, and Sarovy rose with the map, scanning the mess-hall for the men he needed. He had the inklings of a plan already coalescing in his head, and in short order had several ruengriin and infantrymen at his heels, still licking their fingers or scrubbing crumbs from their beards. He had them wait in the assembly hall as he took the stairs in threes.

  Comparison of map to map told him he was right: the marked building was a warehouse in Lower Hook, in the Ridgeline neighborhood near the river. Scribbles indicated a basement, and his city maps showed the area riddled with old tunnels. A fine place for smugglers.

  A fine place to get ambushed.

  “Come in,” he said to the banging on the door. He knew it was Vrallek by the heavy tread and the odor—a mix of ruengriin and ogrekin stink, like having dirty fingers stuck up his nose. A moment later he heard another man shove in, then the quiet tension of a staring match between equals. “At ease, lieutenants. We have found a target for our aggression.”