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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “That man is their leader,” said Lirayen.

  “It does not matter.”

  “Doesn't it? They have been bottled up in that garrison ever since the others arrived, and even before that, they were not looting houses or arresting people. I believe we can ignore them. Focus our attention on the new threat and deal with those traumatized boys later.”

  Ardent reached for her teacup, aggravated. She normally agreed with Lirayen's vow of nonviolence, as it dovetailed with the overall Kheri policy of limiting bloodshed, but when it came to those piking Imperialists—especially the monster she'd put two crossbow bolts through...

  Who cared that he'd shown some remorse? It meant nothing.

  “Look, I still need some time before I feel comfortable unleashing another Dark bite,” she said. “So I'll give you that much leeway with them. Maybe a week? If you can pry them out from that shell, get them to deal with us, then maybe we won't have to kill them all. But I make no promises about the—“

  'You! Shadow bitch!'

  She sat bolt-upright at the mental voice, already reaching for the shadows. The piking mentalist had been hounding her ever since their first contact, ignoring all deals in favor of hammering at her mind for Presh's location. She thought she'd figured out the woman's shifts, but apparently—

  'No, wait. Listen.'

  “Enforcer?” said Gwydren, leaning forward with a frown. Ardent held up a quelling hand, still gathering shadows to herself. It would be an instant's work to fall in.

  What do you want? she thought.

  'No time. Take this.'

  Something hit her straight between the eyes: a swarm of visions, emotions, floor-plans and sigils, a seething tangle of conversations. Before she could struggle, the connection snapped and the surge ebbed, the churning images coalescing into a sensation like a lidded box. Something she could open or close at will.

  She took a cautious peek.

  Then another.

  Then started unpacking it.

  “Get me some parchment,” she said out loud, her eyes full of the garrison scene, her senses swimming with the mentalist's psychic annotations. These were the wards powered by a Gejaran named Voorkei, these others by an Imperial named Tanvolthene...

  These could be broken without uproar...

  A sheet slid under her left hand, a quill was pressed into her right. Brows furrowed, she pulled out more and more from the mental box, and began to build a plan.

  *****

  “This is the worst idea you've ever had,” said Tasarune.

  Arms draped through the cell bars, Jonmel Stormfollower scowled at nothing. There were no guards here, just wards on every surface, plus the irritating presence of the friends who had stupidly come to his aid. And also some others who had done something to annoy the big Imperial bosses—he knew not what.

  “It wasn't an idea,” said Setter snidely, “it was jealousy. Obviously. You've seen how he hovers around the degenerate lieutenant.”

  “Which one?” said Tasarune.

  “Both of 'em. He's obviously ridden both, he's just mad they're banging each other instead of him now.”

  “Poor Joni. Sad little lonely Joni.” They both snickered.

  “You shut your shitting mouths or I'll put my boot in 'em,” Stormfollower said dully, not bothering to look at them. This was light as banter went, and normally he would have been in on it. Normally they would have been denigrating someone else, like those goat-fucking Drixi or every single easterner ever. But no, he'd had to jump in on Lieutenant Linciard's behalf when he saw that creepy bastard Rallant getting grabby on him.

  And what had he gotten for his trouble? Punched. By the lieutenant himself.

  Now there was a whole piking mythology about how much he wanted the lieutenant's dick, because Tasarune and Setter didn't know how to shut their stupid mouths.

  The soldiers at the other cell doors gave him mixed looks of sympathy, scorn and venom. He glared back at them all. Most were members of what he considered the 'proper westerners'—the Brother Islanders, his fellow Jernizen, some of the ogre-bloods and Averognans. And the Drixi, stupid mountain-clinging scum. But they were all stuck here now because they weren't true Imperials, and something was going wrong upstairs. Even the medic was in a cell.

  Great Lion, what did we ever do to insult you? he thought bleakly. I wish I hadn't come here, even though.... Even though...

  No, he couldn't regret it. Because he'd met Dhalyar. The ex-corporal and lieutenant kept telling him she wasn't his girlfriend but what did they know? They didn't do women, and she had said she'd be his girl if he paid her. Which was no problem. Even with the fines for fighting, he had a good savings; what else did he have to use it on?

  Let her be all right. Let her still know I exist...

  “What in pike's name?”

  He looked back because the jeering had broken off, and as he did so the glow of the wards dimmed—then vanished. For a moment, he and his fellow Jernizen were staring at a bare wall, a strong slice of shadow thrown across it from the external light.

  Then the shadow opened like a door, beyond which stood a dark-skinned woman in black armor. Stormfollower's heart leapt, then sank as he realized she wasn't Dhalyar. Though there were more people behind her, stretching off into the gloom...

  “Pickup appointment for Jonmel Stormfollower and friends, care of Makoura Yrsian,” said the woman blandly. “Any of you Stormfollower?”

  Surprised, unnerved and a little bit hopeful, he raised his hand.

  The woman gestured into the darkness. “Right this way.”

  Chapter 28 – A Gathering

  “Yeh shit! Khiatat-ghreshegi! I kill yeh!”

  Weshker flinched as the spittle hit his cheek. At Sanava's side, another incensed woman made a hauking sound, ready to spit, and a second had one of those long bars they used to hold the bunkhouse doors at night. By the glitter in her eyes, she'd be pleased to use it.

  Fortunately, the scouts Weshker was with did not stop walking, and he exhaled his relief as the women's screeches faded in their wake. They knew better than to leave their area.

  “You want us to pay them a visit some time?” said a scout on his right.

  Weshker shook his head. “S'fine.”

  “Because we can.”

  “It en't worth it.”

  “How you gonna get a girlfriend now, though?” said another. “That Corvish bitch's got all the girls against you. We can mess her up for you at least.”

  “Right. Shut her whore mouth.”

  “Or give it something else to work on, heh.”

  It was hard not to flinch at that, and even harder for him to say, “I dun care. I dun go aroun' there anymore.”

  “Oh yeah, you're getting the special treatment,” said the one on the right. “Lucky piker. Those fancy-ass ladies with the Field Marshal...”

  A chorus of approval rose from the others. There were five of them, Weshker included, walking their rounds of the western Crimson camp—not a typical scout-task. In the last few weeks, mass reassignments had thrown much of the camp into chaos, with a constant outflow of slaves and freesoldiers through the portals and a balancing influx of new men from Daecia. Long-timers like these scouts had been tapped to assist the military police in their peacekeeping—not that Weshker knew what they could do if they came upon a band of rampaging ruengriin.

  So far, they hadn't seen much. It was early evening on the first of Midwinter, and all non-watch assignments were canceled so that the men could attend the temple ceremonies. With the women's quarter temporarily off-limits, the alcohol-rations cut and the streets regularly patrolled, no one was even trying to cause trouble.

  And while crows watched them from many a rooftop, Weshker was fairly sure he hallucinated those.

  “But really, you know you can count on us if you want them done for, yeah?” said a scout on his left. “Though maybe just the Corvish bitch. Field Marshal seems keen on keeping the women around, so don't want to mess with that.�
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  “Doesn't take much to get the point across,” said the first. “A little knuckle-work, a little dick-work...”

  “Little dick, that's you,” snorted a third.

  “You shut it or you'll be sucking it.”

  “Yeah? You think you're—“

  “All of you idiots, focus,” said the fourth man, their corporal. To Weshker's eyes, they were all but interchangeable, even though every detail was different. Voice, build, origin, facial hair... The moment he looked away, he lost track of those identifiers as well as their names, only the corporal's badge still sticking in his mind.

  “Yes, corporal,” the scouts chorused in falsetto. The corporal grunted.

  “But seriously, Wes, we've got your back.”

  “Uh. Thanks.”

  Warehouses passed by to either side of them. Ahead was a small stretch of standard barracks, and then the mages' dome, which buzzed with activity despite the lowering dusk. Even from several streets away, a low drone permeated the air—as much a feeling as a noise—and the chill deepened with each step closer.

  “Think we'll be getting ahergriin?” said one of the scouts. “We've got everything else, almost. Only where are we gonna keep them? They won't fit in a piking bunk.”

  “Ahergriin?” said Weshker, because if there was one thing scouts loved to do, it was gossip.

  “Big pikers,” said the scout, gesturing broadly for emphasis. “Bigger than ogres sometimes. They make 'em from the cast-off bits of the—“

  “Hoi,” said the corporal.

  “—the...er... They're big, anyhow.”

  “They eat boars?” said Weshker. “That's what the name means.”

  The scouts shared an unpleasant chuckle. “Bones and all,” said one.

  “An' they're...part of the army?”

  “Not the Crimson so far,” said the corporal, resigned. He walked in the lead to both set the pace and steer, and as they emerged into a cross-street, he glanced both ways for miscreants then quick-stepped toward the next set of barracks. “Field Marshal might import them eventually. I hear he made good use of them at the Krovichankan front. Earned his General's torc there.”

  “I remember that,” said one of the scouts. “What was it, ten years ago? Eleven? When he stole the Gold Army from that Darronwayn coward, what's his name...”

  Weshker frowned. Eleven years ago, he had been standing in the Talkur-Nent compound as it burned to the ground, his sisters lost in the smoke. Gold uniforms everywhere.

  “Piking Darronwayn,” said another. “It's their land on the line but they don't seem to care.”

  “The whole Gold territory is a shithole. I like it better here. Locals are less stabby.”

  “Man, you must not have been in Fellen.”

  “Ha! Fellen was nothing! You should've seen us pushing the Krovik border back in the '50s. Fire and blood everywhere. Not like these days.”

  “Oh yes, grandpa, tell us more.”

  Amiable punching and shoving ensued, punctuated by the corporal's sighs. Weshker kept as far out of it as possible. He wanted to ask about the wars of Corvish suppression, and the Field Marshal's role in them, but it was difficult enough to feign amusement at their malice when it was directed at strangers. If they talked about his own kin...

  He lived in a nest of snakes now. Any wrong move and they would eat him.

  “At least they're shutting down the portals for Midwinter,” said the scout who hadn't joined the roughhousing. “That should give the newbies some time to settle. We don't have to patrol during the festival, right?”

  “Haven't heard,” said the corporal.

  They emerged from the bunkhouse alley to see the great domed sanctum rising ahead, surrounded on four sides by its operators' apartments. The usual lattice of red lightning guttered up from its peak, and the inner courtyard bustled with mages—an even mix of colored robes and white. From there, the corporal turned east; it was not their job to nose around the mages' area, nor the kennels or the command-post beyond, so they would skirt both and resume patrol at the edges of the high officers' territory. At only a few yards from the mages' apartments, the air was bitterly cold, and frost clung to the plaster walls.

  “Gonna wither this whole area if they keep this up,” muttered a scout.

  “Good thing it's already a piking desert.”

  “Yeah, but if they drain the place dry, they'll take it from us next.”

  “Wait, what?” said Weshker.

  The scouts gave him pitying looks. “Ma-gic us-es en-er-gy,” said the first, as if to an idiot. “En-er-gy comes from li-ving things.”

  “Moving things,” corrected the corporal. “They draw a lot from the wind and the river.”

  The first one looked miffed. “It's still dangerous. The Crimson's been here for months. What if it's almost tapped out?”

  “Since when did you become a mage?”

  “I'm just saying...”

  “Look, they know what they're doing. It's their job.”

  “I'm telling you, though—“

  “Aw, cram it.”

  “You cram it!”

  “You both cram it!” hissed the corporal, stopping short. His attention was fixed not on the complainers but past the corner of the mages' apartments, where an access road stretched between the command-post and the dome. A crowd had gathered there: not just mages but two bands of Gold and Sapphire soldiers fronted by high officers, who stood judiciously apart like enemies at a bargaining table. Facing them, with a dozen White Flames at his back, was the Field Marshal, his grin so broad they could see it from here.

  “Shit, what's this?” said a scout. “The Generals never visit in person.”

  “I thought the Field Marshal hated Demathry,” said another.

  “Corporal... Corporal, can we listen?”

  The corporal turned a thoughtful eye on them. “We're on patrol,” he said, but it was obvious he didn't feel it. “And we certainly can't eavesdrop on our commander.”

  “No, no, of course not. We'll just...”

  “Back him up!”

  “Yes! Obviously. No one pays attention to us.”

  “Perfect reinforcements.”

  The corporal considered this, then looked to Weshker. They all did. Somehow, despite the different faces and sizes, skin-tones and rank marks, all their eyes were the same.

  He raised his hands defensively. “I'll jes' go back to the barrack, eh?”

  “That sounds wise,” said the corporal. “Dismissed.”

  He stood back and watched them go, sleek and casual as alley-cats, until he could no longer see them. Not that they weren't there; his eyes simply would not catch, and he knew that if he looked away, he'd forget where they'd been.

  For a moment he resented their easy monster-magic. Then he realized he was standing in the street alone, in the peripheral view of three Generals, and it was all he could do to mosey off instead of run.

  Once out of sight, his brain kicked in. Had he spotted Pendriel or Nerice? He wasn't sure. But those White Flames had looked like the Field Marshal's honor guard, so maybe...

  Maybe the command-post was unguarded.

  It was a ludicrous idea, but the only one he had. Even if going after the little girl was suicide, he couldn't let her languish there. Not the way Sanava languished in the women's quarters, or the way he had suffered in the slave-camp. He'd mulled over the dangers every night since his 'purification', and it had to be done.

  Tugging the black bandana off his belt, he tied it over his hair to help mask his coloring. The act reminded him of those days among his comrades, now lost; the laughter, the scuffling, the life of a careless idiot. There was nothing he could do about his eyebrows or his chin-tuft, but they were less noticeable from afar.

  As he strode past the military barracks and came in sight of the kennels, the hounds began to bay. Six such structures surrounded the command-post hill, their semicircular runs all pointed toward it, and dozens of hounds lined up along the reinforced chain
walls to slaver and snap at the links. Houndmasters lurked within the runs—ugly ruengriin no longer bothering to mask themselves—but paid Weshker no attention. Scouts' black was a free pass across most of the camp, since scouts were often used as message-runners.

  No guards lined the dirt ramp that led up to the command-post. Rain and river had both subsided, leaving the moat around the hill just an arc of mud, and he stepped across the little bridge without a squish. Above, the cabin loomed on its rock outcrop.

  It seemed too easy. Even as he started up the incline, he expected guards to pop out from under a veil. To drive him off with their pikes, or just kill him on the spot.

  But though the hounds below howled their deformed heads off, no one took interest. Halfway up, Weshker glanced east through the gaps between kennels and saw the Field Marshal's men still there at the mages' dome, engaged in their peculiar stand-off.

  At the door, he steeled his nerves, swallowed his heart, and knocked.

  Silence.

  He tried again, suddenly unsure if it could be heard through the door. There was magic in the wood; he could feel the tingle on his knuckles, and wouldn't be surprised if it was soundproofed. Perhaps only the Field Marshal could unlock it, in which case he had no chance at all.

  He tried one more time, just in case.

  To his surprise, the door jerked and, with a sound like stuck layers separating, swung open. Nerice blinked at him through the gap. “You? What are you doing here?”

  His throat clenched shut. He had been hoping blindly that the little girl would hear him, that she would open the door and he could just scoop her up and flee, but of course Nerice would be here. She was one of the Field Marshal's trusted agents—and also, apparently, his babysitter.

  “I jes'... I came to see if yeh were, uh,” he gabbled, short on persuasive lies.

  She raised a brow, then smiled slyly. “If I was taking visitors?”

  “Well...”

  “I heard you've been having problems with your lady-friend. That's such a shame. You shouldn't have come up here, though.”

  He seized on her words like a lifeline. “Well I dun even know where yeh bunk. I only ever see yeh wi' the Field Marshal, so when I din't see yeh with 'im now, I thought maybe...”