The Vacant Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  “So you’re saying we don’t have enough guardsmen?” I asked.

  Catrell pressed his lips tight, one hand on the table before him. His thumb circled the tip of his middle finger as he thought. “Not at the moment. Not for an all-out assault on the Chorl’s position.”

  “Then what?” Avrell asked. “We just sit here and wait for them to attack again? We need to cut them off, establish a boundary, something.”

  Catrell nodded. “But we can’t do that right now. Darryn and I are training men as fast as we can. Once the current group is finished, we’ll have doubled our numbers. And we’ve just started a new group of militia in training. We should have a formidable force in another month, an army that I wouldn’t feel guilty about sending into battle against the Chorl.” He caught Avrell’s eye, then mine, face stern. “Throwing these men against the Chorl right now would only get them killed. It would accomplish nothing.”

  Silence descended, Catrell and I squaring off. I wanted to meet the Chorl head on. I was tired of sitting in the dark, waiting for something to happen. I wanted to take the offensive. I felt frustrated, powerless—unable to help Erick, unable to have ships repaired instantly, or walls and gates built.

  The fact that I trusted Catrell, knew that he was right, didn’t help.

  “However,” Darryn said.

  The word hung in the air, caught everyone’s attention.

  “What?” I asked.

  “We don’t have enough men to send out an army . . . but we could spare enough for a scouting party. If we do intend to meet the Chorl somewhere along the way, to make a stand, then we need to know where they are. We need information. Have they taken Temall yet? Where are their forces? Where is their supply train? How do they intend to approach us—by land or sea?”

  Catrell was already nodding.

  “We could send a ship southward,” Westen said. “Land a party near Temall, see what the Chorl are up to. We know nothing about their forces—how many men, how many ships they have.”

  How many Servants, I thought grimly.

  “Do it,” I said. “Get a group together, as many as you can spare but not so large that the party will be easy to discover.” Catrell and Darryn nodded. I could see Catrell already planning, his face set, brow slightly creased. “How long will it take?”

  Catrell shrugged. “The men can be equipped and ready to go within a day. We can outfit one of the recovered Chorl ships in about the same time once the next one is ready to sail, probably another few days. But it will take about five days to reach Temall once they sail.”

  “Keven,” I said, heard him step forward, “gather an escort. Coordinate it with Catrell and Darryn.”

  “What for?”

  “Because, when the ship leaves for Temall, I want to be on it.”

  “Absolutely not!” Avrell barked, standing abruptly. Until now, he and Eryn had remained quiet. But now his face was suffused with a stubborn glare.

  The others at the table shifted.

  “What do you mean?”

  Avrell must have heard the dangerous tone in my voice, but he ignored it.

  “You can’t go on this ship. The thought is ludicrous! Not so recently after an attack on the city. Not when the people of Amenkor are drawing all of their strength, all of their perseverance, from you. In their minds, you are the only reason we survived this past winter. You are the reason we survived the attack by the Chorl. If you leave now, with the city barely in the first stages of recovery, with the throne cracked and useless, it will strike everyone in Amenkor as abandonment, no matter what you tell them. No.” He shook his head forcefully. “You can’t leave. Not now, and especially not for something as simple as a scouting party.”

  I bristled, ready to argue with him, but glanced around at the other faces and realized that everyone at the table agreed with him.

  But the need to do something, anything, burned in my arms and legs.

  “Varis,” Eryn said, and leaned forward, reached out to grip my forearm. “Avrell’s correct. Even without the throne, you are Amenkor. You became Amenkor this past winter, in the minds of its people. And you can still keep track of the scouting party using the Fire if Catrell is there.”

  I frowned, my gaze skimming over all of them one last time, looking for support, for an ally.

  I didn’t find one.

  Even without the throne, I was trapped in the city.

  “Fine,” I said, the word curt, and still dangerous.

  Keven sidled back into position behind me. An awkward silence followed, Darryn fidgeting restlessly.

  “Mistress,” Westen said, leaning forward. “Regarding the ship . . .”

  I shot him a baleful look. “What?”

  Westen’s lips twitched with a smile; he was impervious to all of my dagger-sharp looks, he’d seen them all during our practice sessions. “I believe that Catrell should stay here. He’s needed to train the guardsmen. However, I can be spared.”

  I stared at Westen a long moment. Seekers would make much better scouts than guardsmen, and could be used for other purposes once they were there.

  “Yes,” I said, and something in the tone of my voice must have changed because everyone suddenly relaxed, tension bleeding out of the room. “How many Seekers can we spare?”

  “Enough.”

  I nodded. “Catrell, work with Westen. Let me know as soon as the ship is ready to sail.”

  “So you want us—all four of us—to help you build a wall around the entire city, is that it?”

  I felt my jaw clench at the thick derision in Illum Forestead’s voice, but forced the anger down. I remembered him from the ceremony on the wharf, when he’d been raised to full Master, remembered Borund holding out the bright yellow jacket with dark red embroidery that he now wore.

  But I didn’t remember this blatant arrogance.

  Settling back into my seat in the audience chamber, I suddenly wished I’d called all four of the new merchants into attendance in the throne room. Even cracked, the throne would have lent me more weight than simply having Avrell and Keven at my side. I could feel Avrell’s anger at Illum’s temerity, a throbbing pulse of darkness on the river. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  Illum snorted. “And what do we get out of it?”

  Jack Trevain almost gasped, his look of horror only slightly more open than Walter Davvens’ and William’s.

  “Protection,” I said, before anyone else could respond. “Your assets would be protected from any further attacks if we had a wall enclosing the city. The warehouses are already protected from a sea approach; however, they are outside of the current walls. They’re vulnerable to a land attack.”

  Illum frowned. “I can protect my resources myself, if necessary. What else can you give me?”

  “Oh, stuff it, Illum,” Walter suddenly spat. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is the Mistress of Amenkor! She drove the Chorl out of Amenkor. If not for her, you wouldn’t even have any resources to protect. You wouldn’t even be a merchant!”

  “Most likely,” Avrell added tightly, “you’d be dead.”

  Utter silence. But I could see that the thought wouldn’t hold Illum for long. I could feel it.

  “If you help fund the building of a wall—one that will enclose the eastern portions of the city as well as the Dredge—I will give you a portion of the land inside that wall.”

  All four of the merchants’ interest piqued.

  Avrell stepped forward and laid a sheaf of papers out onto the table of the audience chamber. “Our engineers have studied the surrounding land and have decided that the best place to build the wall is here, with three gates leading out of the city—one for the main road to the east obviously, and two others, here and here. The wall would connect to the existing walls of the palace here, above the southern cliff face and extend around to the wall along the southern jut of land leading out to the watchtower on the harbor.”

  “What about the River?” Jack Trevain said. He usually kept silent, le
tting the others speak for him, but once the plans had been produced, he’d leaned forward intently, brow creased in thought.

  “Aside from the gates themselves, the River would be the most vulnerable part of the wall. We intend to build the wall over the River, with a metal gate that could be lowered into the River’s bed in the event of an attack.”

  Jack nodded.

  “What holdings would we get inside the wall?” Illum demanded.

  Walter shot him a disgusted glance.

  Avrell shoved the map of the wall’s plans to one side, producing another map of the city as it stood after the attack. “A significant portion of the lower city was destroyed during the attack. We’ve divided up the worst sections into four parcels, all of which have a few buildings that remain intact.”

  All four merchants, including William, leaned forward over the new map, mumbling under their breath as they traced the allotments out. Avrell stepped back, arms crossed on his chest. Jack and Walter seemed impressed, their first low mutters escalating into excited whispers. William had already seen the map, had helped Avrell and me draw it up.

  But Illum stood back after a long moment and said, “There’s nothing in the middle ward here. It’s all in the lower city.”

  Everyone in the room stilled. Jack and Walter kept their eyes on the table. Keven took a single, meaningful step forward.

  I stood, let my irritation furrow my brow as my eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the terms are not acceptable?”

  Illum hesitated, fear flashing briefly in his eyes. He brushed at his straw-colored hair, glanced once toward the other merchants, then straightened. His eyes hardened. “I’m saying that the addition of a building in the middle ward—a building to house our new operations—would make the terms acceptable.”

  No one moved. I could feel Avrell willing me to say no, could feel Keven’s disapproval like a hand pressing into my back.

  But I thought of what Catrell had said, that the army wasn’t large enough for us to meet the Chorl outside the city and expect a good outcome, that it wouldn’t be large enough for such an attack within the next few months. We needed this wall.

  And according to William, I needed the resources of all four of the new merchants’ in order to build it. If I couldn’t get Illum to agree . . .

  I let the tension in the room hold for a moment longer, then said in a dangerously flat voice, “Very well. Avrell will draw up the agreements and send them to the guild.”

  Illum nodded, a self-satisfied smirk flickering across his face as he turned toward the door. I felt the urge to draw my dagger, restrained myself with effort as Illum, Jack, and Walter filed out the door.

  William lingered.

  “You shouldn’t have given in,” Avrell said, moving to reassemble the pages scattered on the table.

  “I had no choice,” I said shortly.

  “Next time, he’ll want more.”

  “Next time,” I growled, “I need to have more options.”

  Avrell didn’t say anything, but he paused at the door. “I’ll have Nathem start the work on the agreements right away.”

  When he left, I sank back down into my chair with a heavy sigh.

  Silence reigned for a long moment, but then William stood. “Illum is an arrogant bastard.”

  I gave a short laugh, then caught William’s gaze. “He reminds me of Bloodmark. Except he doesn’t carry a knife.”

  William’s expression sobered. Not many knew of Bloodmark, the first person I’d killed in the slums because I’d wanted him dead. Because he’d killed the white-dusty man and his wife, to hurt me. He hadn’t been one of Erick’s marks.

  But he’d deserved to die.

  William looked up. “How is Erick?”

  I shook my head. “The same.”

  When William didn’t respond, I stood. I could feel William’s sympathy and grief, knew he could do nothing to soothe the same ache I felt inside myself. “In fact, I need to go see him now. Isaiah has me help feed him. I use the White Fire to get him to eat, since he can’t feed himself. And for a little while, I take away his pain.”

  As I moved toward the door, William said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “No!”

  Ottul stamped her foot where she stood looking out over the eastern portions of Amenkor, her arms folded obstinately across her chest, her back rigid, her face contorted into a fierce scowl.

  I almost growled in frustration, shot a glance toward Marielle, who stood behind me near the doorway to Ottul’s room.

  Quietly, Marielle said, “It started a few days ago. She’s refused to work with me since. All she says is ‘No!’ and then stands there rigidly, like now, or falls into that hunched over position, moaning and chanting. Praying. I don’t know what to do.”

  I frowned, turned back to Ottul.

  Four days ago, I’d informed her of the captured Chorl warriors’ deaths. It had taken a while to get her to understand, but when I placed the spine the last few warriors had used to kill themselves onto the table, she’d gasped and reached out toward it, almost involuntarily—

  Then halted. Withdrawing her hand, she’d stepped away, turned her back on the table, on me. She’d muttered a single word, “Antreul,” and then fallen silent, staring out over the city, trembling.

  On the river, her grief had been thick, but not enough to overwhelm her fear.

  Even as I tried to sort out the emotions that lay beneath the fear, she’d stepped back from the window, had curled up into the same kneeling position I’d seen before, her face already wet with tears, and started to pray. Her voice choked with phlegm, face twisted into a tortured look—like grief but not completely grief— she’d covered her head with her arms and begun to rock.

  It was a reaction I’d expected . . . and yet it wasn’t. I didn’t understand the emotions that lay beneath the grief. I didn’t understand the guilt, the self-loathing.

  Antreul.

  Now, I bit back the bitter, commanding words that leaped to my mouth, forced myself to relax, to think. She no longer cooperated with Marielle, and I needed her to cooperate. Erick needed her to cooperate. I needed to trust her enough to let her look at Erick, to see if she could help with the spell placed on him.

  But at the moment, I wanted to throttle her. I suddenly wondered if Erick had ever felt this way during the training sessions with me in the slums.

  The thought brought a faint grin to my lips.

  A gust of wind blew through the open window and Ottul closed her eyes, leaned in toward it, her long black hair fanning out behind her. She sucked in a deep breath and held it, savoring the fresh air.

  I turned suddenly, moved toward the door behind Marielle, sensing by the prickling in my neck that Ottul was watching me from behind. I opened the door to the hall and spoke a few moments with Keven and the Servant Trielle, who was guarding the wardings. Keven frowned in disapproval, but nodded. Two guardsmen were sent, and all of those that remained tensed, glances passing between them.

  I turned back to the room, to Marielle.

  Ottul watched with blatant distrust from the window. But the distrust was tinged with curiosity.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Marielle whispered.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Without closing the door, I moved back into the room, halting two steps before Ottul. She didn’t draw back. But her eyes narrowed.

  “Then what?” Marielle asked, frustration tainting her voice. “What are you doing?”

  “We,” I said, “are going to go on a little . . . excursion.”

  Ottul scowled as she tried to figure out the words.

  I smiled, even though my shoulders had tightened. Behind, I heard the arrival of the additional guardsmen Keven had sent for, felt Trielle unravel the warding to let them into the room.

  Ottul’s eyes widened, her arms coming down into a defensive posture, the river roiling as she prepared to fight. She hissed, the sound harsh with warning, like a gutterscum cat cornered a
t the end of an alley.

  I didn’t react, didn’t prepare a shield or shift my stance.

  After a moment, the guardsmen staying near the door, Ottul faltered.

  “Follow me,” I said, turning my back to her as I moved to the door. At its entrance, I glanced back, motioned her forward. “Come here.”

  She knew those words. Uncertain, she straightened from her defensive stance and shifted forward, her gaze flickering between the guardsmen to either side, to Marielle in mute question, then back to the guardsmen. She halted when one of them coughed, glared at him, then continued until she stood at Marielle’s side.

  The guardsmen closed in around us, Trielle still outside, ready to pull the warding back into place if Ottul showed any sign of attacking. Another Servant—Heddan, a young girl from the north, her straw-colored hair vibrant compared to Trielle’s darker tangles—had joined her. I gave them both a nod, saw Heddan bite her lip. Trielle was older, close to my age, her face grim, her eyes locked on Ottul’s every move. They’d all heard how hard it had been to capture and hold Ottul initially.

  Keven waited in the hall. “Are you certain this is a good idea?” he asked as we began moving down the hall, guardsmen on all sides, the two Servants behind. Ottul kept close to Marielle. She tried to see everything at once, her neck craning to peer through the guardsmen ahead and to the sides while at the same time trying to remain out of sight.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But she’s no longer cooperating, and I need to know what’s happened to Erick. We’ve run out of things to do while she’s trapped in that room.”

  “I suppose.”

  I shot Keven a dark look. “We’re taking her to the gardens where the Servants are training. If she can escape from all of us there . . .” I let the thought trail off, heard Keven grunt in agreement.

  When we reached the gardens, Eryn had the Servants paired off and scattered throughout the paths among the newly leafed trees and bushes and the spring flowers. She was moving among them, barking out orders or correcting flaws. She saw us pause at the garden’s entrance, but didn’t immediately head over.