The Vacant Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  “You cannot simply let this go,” I spat.

  Lord March’s eyes narrowed. “This is not your city, Mistress.” His voice was dangerous, almost a warning.

  “No, it is not,” I said, and met his gaze squarely. “But if the Chorl seize Venitte, it is not just your city that will be affected. The entire Frigean coast will suffer. Every city, every village, every inlet. Including Amenkor.” I felt Avrell still beside me, felt his approval. But for the moment, there was no one else in the room except me and Lord March, nothing but his cold, dark eyes. Tristan, Brandan, Sorrenti, and Avrell had faded into the background, become gray. “Don’t pretend that I’m not part of this fight, Lord March. There is more at stake here than the Council of Eight, more than even the loss of Venitte.”

  Lord March frowned at the harshness of my tone. “What do you suggest?”

  I turned toward Sorrenti, who straightened. “You can find the Chorl. You can verify that they are at that estate.”

  He held my gaze a long moment, knew what I was asking. He had access to the Stone Throne, could use it to see the city, as I’d used the Skewed Throne to search for the person responsible for stealing food from the warehouses this past winter.

  But Tristan was in the room, had already frowned, brow furrowed. Not everyone in the room knew of the throne, knew that Sorrenti controlled it.

  Sorrenti bowed his head slightly, chose his words carefully, his voice laced with warning. “I’m sorry to say that my . . . influence does not extend that far, Mistress. Venitte is a much larger city than Amenkor. My reach is limited.”

  “I see.”

  I hesitated, then turned toward Lord March. “Then raid Lord Demasque’s estate over the channel. Find the Chorl. Drag them before the Council of Eight and make your accusation then.”

  Lord March considered this in silence for a long moment, then laughed, the sound short and sharp, the grin that followed twisted. “I can’t, Mistress.”

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t Amenkor. Unlike you, I am not the absolute power here. I can’t order the Protectorate to raid a Council member’s estate without at least a majority of the Council’s approval.”

  “Then get it.”

  “Getting such approval isn’t easy,” Lord March said, voice rising. “I barely got them to agree to the existence of the Chorl, to allow the use of the Protectorate and the general guard to defend against them.”

  “Do it without their approval.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You are the Lord of this city,” I insisted. “You need to do something to stop this!”

  Lord March’s palm slammed down onto his desk, ink bottles and ledgers rattling at the force of this blow. “This is not Amenkor! I don’t have that power!”

  Everyone in the room grew still. In the silence following Lord March’s declaration, everyone looked anywhere but at him, at me.

  Jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tensed, Lord March took a moment to collect himself. In a tightly controlled voice, he said, “I cannot use the Protectorate in such a fashion. Not against one of the Council members. It would destroy me.”

  And then Avrell, silent until now, stepped forward. “Then don’t use the Protectorate.”

  Both Lord March and I frowned.

  “What do you mean?” Lord March asked.

  “Don’t use the Protectorate—or the general guard—for the raid. You have Amenkor guardsmen at your disposal. We aren’t under the Council of Eight’s authority. We can raid Lord Demasque’s estates without the Council’s approval.”

  I nodded, my hand wrapping around the hilt of my dagger.

  Lord March’s frown deepened. “The Council would never allow it. They would never believe it. They would claim that you brought the Chorl with you, as you did with Ottul, your Chorl Servant, that you placed them on Demasque’s estates to implicate him.”

  “Not,” Lord Sorrenti said, taking a single step forward, “if there were representatives of the Council there to witness the raid. Brandan could represent my interests.”

  March shook his head, but the tension had drained from his stance. “The Council is aware of our ties, Lord Sorrenti. We would need someone else from the Council, someone not so closely allied to me.”

  Sorrenti nodded, hand raised to stroke his beard as he thought. “What about Lady Casari and Lord Boradarn? Their word would carry weight with the other Lords and Ladies of the Council. And everyone knows that Lady Casari and I . . . have had our differences.”

  Lord March grunted, shoved away from the desk. He strode back and forth, considering.

  After a long pause, he turned back. “Very well. But General Daeriun will have to approve of it, and will very likely wish to send his own observer. When do you plan on attempting this raid?”

  “It will have to be soon,” Tristan said. “We don’t want to give Lord Demasque a chance to learn of the raid, nor the chance to bring in more Chorl. And we should do it before the influx of people for the Fete begins in earnest.”

  “What Fete?” I asked.

  Everyone halted in consternation. Sorrenti broke the silence. “It’s a five-day carnival. It culminates in a Masquerade in the Stone Garden, Venitte’s central square, on midsummer’s night. People from all along the coast come to celebrate it. They will begin arriving in caravans and on ships from regions all along the coast in another week. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

  I shook my head. “I grew up on the Dredge.”

  Avrell sighed. “I’m afraid that in our haste to depart, we did not come prepared for the Fete.”

  “I’ll have Brandan put together what’s necessary for your group.”

  “In the meantime,” Lord March said, and all eyes turned toward him, “coordinate the raid with Daeriun.”

  “The formations look good, General Daeriun.”

  Daeriun turned from his position at the top of the wooden tower overlooking the training fields of the Protectorate inside Deranian’s Wall to see who had spoken. Distracted, his brow creased in concentration, he acknowledged Lord Sorrenti with a nod before turning toward me. Surrounded by guardsmen in the blood-red-and -gold regalia of the Protectorate, he grunted and motioned one of the runners closer. “Tell Captain Farel that his flank is falling behind. They need to move into position faster.” As soon as the boy took off, he barked to the rest of the men on the platform, “Signal a reset. I want these men to move!”

  Flags were raised, guardsmen waving them steadily back and forth, and on the field below—where at least four units were spread out between the barracks on one side and Lord March’s personal estate on the other, including a group from Amenkor led by Captain Catrell—men broke and began marching back into their initial positions, dust from the trampled field rising into the air. General Daeriun motioned for Lord Sorrenti and me to join him at the railing of the tower.

  “It’s going better than expected,” Daeriun said, almost grudgingly. “Captain Catrell has been helpful. He’s explained the tactics used by the Chorl in the attack on Amenkor, in particular how they used their Servants to push through the armies to the city walls. And the Chorl Servant you captured has been invaluable.”

  On the field below, I saw Catrell pull the Amenkor guardsmen back, noticed that Marielle, Gwenn, Heddan, and Ottul were among the ranks.

  “You’re using the Servants in the training.”

  Daeriun looked toward me, then back to the field. “It was Catrell’s idea. And Lord Sorrenti’s.” He motioned to the field. “At the moment, the Amenkor unit is acting as the Chorl attackers. Your Servants are using their Sight to aid in the Chorl’s advance, as they did in the attack on Amenkor, or so I’m told.” He nodded toward the Venittian men. “I’ve incorporated some of the Venittian Servants into our own units in an attempt to counter the attack.”

  “While you were on the Reliant, chasing after the Squall,” Sorrenti added, “I had your Servants meet with those here in Venitte, to explain how the Chorl Servants operat
e. It was . . . informative.”

  “What about Ottul?” I asked, watching her closely on the field below. It was easy to pick out her blue skin and black hair among all of the rest of the Amenkor guardsmen. “Has she cooperated?”

  “More than I expected. More than your other Servants expected as well. But they say that since the last few days on the Defiant, Ottul’s attitude has completely changed.”

  Since I placed the White Fire inside her. Queotl.

  I saw again the reverent expression on her face—the sheer awe—and frowned.

  “In our first few trials,” Sorrenti continued, his mouth twisting into a self-derogatory grin, “she laughed at our attempts to mimic the Chorl. Apparently, we weren’t being vicious enough.”

  “No,” Daeriun said. “It isn’t viciousness. It’s directness. According to what Catrell has told me—and your Chorl Servant has verified—the Chorl move directly toward their objective. There is no strategy involved. No attempts to outmaneuver the opposing forces, no subterfuge at all. They have a goal, and they move directly on that goal, using whatever advantage they have available.”

  On the training field, all of the units were once again in place. A horn blew, and everyone on the tower platform tensed, moved to the railing to watch, their muted conversations cut off. The first horn fell silent. Orders were barked on the field below, banners raised, men fidgeting. Marielle and Gwenn stood near the front of their ranks, near Catrell, with Ottul and Heddan farther out on either side. After a moment, I could pick out Sorrenti’s Servants mixed among the Venittian ranks. Their uniforms were slightly different, the surplices longer, and they seemed to wear less armor. They also kept close to the front.

  And then a second horn blew, a longer note this time, and Catrell’s force surged forward, the men screaming. I gave a start, then realized they were mimicking the battle cries of the Chorl, their strange high-pitched ululations, and I smiled. I could see Catrell’s sword raised as he charged, saw Marielle moving alongside him.

  On the far side of the field, the Protectorate closed in, the central unit moving forward, the two to either side holding back slightly. They didn’t charge, didn’t break their ranks, the men moving in tight formation. Those in the forefront held their shields at the ready.

  Catrell’s advance was chaotic in comparison.

  A moment before the two forces met, Marielle and Gwenn unleashed a rain of fire toward the central Venittian unit. I felt the gathered force release, fire arcing up over the battlefield, and felt a visceral twist in my gut as the attack on Amenkor flashed before my eyes, as I tasted the bitter moment when the first tower exploded, followed closely by the second. My hand fell to my dagger as the fire began to descend onto the Venittian ranks, as it dropped from the heights—

  And then, to my side, I heard Sorrenti grunt.

  The fire struck a shield, one that I had not felt form, but whose edges became apparent as the fire was shunted off to the side, out of harm’s way. But the Venittian ranks beneath the shield faltered as the flames crackled above them, some men continuing the organized march forward, but many hesitating. A few raised their own shields up over their heads to keep the fire away, or to block off the heat that radiated down through the invisible shield the Venittian Servants had formed to protect them. Enough of them that the forward momentum of the Venittian army halted.

  I could taste the army’s fear, like blood in my mouth.

  On one side, Daeriun spat curses as the Venittian force halted, its initial precision crumbling.

  The left and right flanks began to close in as Catrell’s men hit the forefront of the Venittian’s central unit. The front ranks collapsed, and Marielle and Gwenn shifted the focus of the fire toward the incoming support, joined by Ottul and Heddan on either side.

  Daeriun bit off another curse, motioned harshly toward the other captains on the tower, and another horn blew, calling the battle off.

  “Fools!” Daeriun spat, leaning heavily onto the railing as the battle scene below ground to a halt. “They know that the fires will be shielded by the Servants, and yet they still cower in fear!”

  “Not all of them,” I said.

  Daeriun turned to me with a dark look. “Enough to destroy the order of the unit.”

  I thought about what Brandan had told me in Amenkor, about how the Servants in Venitte were ostracized by the rest of the Protectorate. “It’s because the regular Venittian guardsmen don’t trust them.”

  “The Servants have never been integrated into the fighting force,” Sorrenti added. “Not like this. They’ve always been kept . . . distant, sent to the College for research, left to train amongst themselves. You can’t expect the army to welcome them with open arms when you yourself, and the captains of the Protectorate, isolated them.”

  Daeriun’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t answer, turning his black gaze out onto the field. The river roiled, the silence on the tower suddenly cold. “What is it that you want?”

  I looked toward Lord Sorrenti, who shifted forward. Ignoring the tension, voice carefully neutral, he said, “Lord March would like your approval of a raid on Lord Demasque’s northern estates. A raid to be conducted by the Amenkor forces, with a few representatives from the Council as witnesses.”

  Daeriun caught Sorrenti’s gaze, straightened, giving him his full attention. “Why?”

  “Because Demasque is working with the Chorl,” Sorrenti said. “He has them hidden on his estate, and Lord March cannot risk sending the Protectorate onto a council member’s personal estates.”

  “So he’s sending Amenkor instead.” Daeriun’s gaze settled on me and I felt myself stiffen. “You realize the risk he’s taking by sending you? If the Chorl are not there, if this is a mistake, he will not be able to support you. He will lose some of his support and control in the Council.”

  “I know.”

  Daeriun snorted, as if he didn’t believe me. But he turned back to Sorrenti. “When do you plan on sending this raid to the estate?”

  “Tomorrow night. Lady Casari, Lord Boradarn, and I will send representatives with the Mistress. Would you like to send your own representative?”

  Turning his back to both of us in dismissal, gazing down on the training field, Daeriun said, “Oh, no. I’ll be coming along myself.”

  “There it is.”

  I looked to where General Daeriun pointed, across a moonlit stretch of wheat fields, the stalks waving in a faint breeze, silver and gray. A road cut up through the field toward a low wall, an arched gate, three buildings behind—a small manse, a stable, and a larger storage building. The wall cut off a small section of land near the cliff face, ending abruptly at the edge.

  There were lanterns lit within the manse in at least two windows. As we watched, someone carrying a torch moved from the manse to the stable. A servant.

  I frowned. There should be more light, more activity. The manse was too quiet.

  Daeriun turned toward the group of guardsmen coming up behind us, led by Westen and Catrell. All of them came from Amenkor except for five—Daeriun, Brandan, Tristan, a man named Thad representing Lady Casari, and a woman, Sarra, from Lord Boradarn. The last two wore frowns.

  “Are you certain this is the estate?” Thad muttered.

  My hand kneaded the hilt of my dagger. His voice had a faint whine, and he hadn’t shut up since we’d left Venitte.

  “Yes,” I said, tightly.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here except servants,” Sarra said. Her tone was clipped, as if she hated being here, had been ordered here against her wishes.

  I cast Westen and Catrell a worried, irritated look. Westen shrugged. Catrell didn’t respond at all.

  I turned to look at the expectant guardsmen behind me, at their pale faces, nothing more than blurs in the moonlight, at the Skewed Throne symbol stitched onto their chests—red for the Seekers, gold for the regular guard—then back to the manse.

  A prickling sensation coursed up my arms.

  “Something
’s not right,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Thad said sharply.

  I shook my head.

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t enter the estates,” Thad said, even though I hadn’t responded. “Perhaps we should return to the Merchant Quarter. This entire enterprise is a mistake.”

  My hand tightened on my dagger, and I turned to Thad, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when he stepped back a pace. “You’re here to represent Lady Casari, at Lord March’s request, not as a commentator. I’d advise you to shut up.”

  Thad snorted, but didn’t answer, grumbling something inaudible under his breath, his eyes cold with anger.

  Sarra frowned, but relaxed slightly when General Daeriun said, “Let’s get on with this.”

  I met his gaze in the moonlight, saw the challenge there, could feel it pulsing on the river. He didn’t trust us, didn’t trust me. But he’d come himself, because he wanted to see Catrell and Amenkor’s men in action, wanted to see how they fought, how they worked as a group, in real battle, not on the training fields. And he wanted to watch me. Lord March had accepted me as Mistress; Daeriun had not. He’d reserved judgment.

  And he wanted to see the Chorl for himself.

  “Very well.” I motioned to Westen and Catrell, both of them stepping forward sharply. They’d seen General Daeriun watching as well.

  “Mistress,” Catrell said. Westen simply nodded.

  “Westen, you and the Seekers go in first. Subdue the servants if you can. If there’s any sign of the Chorl Servants or priests, come back immediately. Brandan and I will have to be at the forefront if they have Servants with them. Otherwise, we’ll give you twenty minutes, then I’ll send in Catrell and the rest.”

  Westen motioned to the other three Seekers and within moments they were gone, lost among the shadows in the wheat fields.

  General Daeriun’s frown deepened as he tried to pick them out in the darkness. He stepped up to take Westen’s place, Brandan and the other two observers hanging back.

  “There will be at least twelve servants in an estate of this size. Are four Seekers enough to subdue them all in such a short amount of time?”