The Broken Throne

by Christopher Nuttall

  She caught Cat’s eye. “Did Hansel ever go to war?”

  “Nothing more challenging than hunting bandits.” Cat sounded grimly amused. “There’s no sense he’s an actual coward, so I’m guessing his father didn’t let him go to war.”

  Emily nodded. It wasn’t uncommon for an aristocrat’s firstborn son to be treated with extreme care, as if he were made of fragile china, although it had always struck her as absurd. King Randor had certainly gone to war almost as soon as he was old enough to don armor and carry a sword, even if he’d had an older officer standing by to offer advice and forceful suggestions. But Hansel? It didn’t look as though Tobias had gone to war either. An experienced officer would have seen the cracks in the defenses and done something about them.

  If he can, she thought, as they rode up to the gates. The houses on each side of the walls looked expensive. They were right next to the very seat of power, after all. Emily doubted they were anything like as costly as houses in Alexis – a garret along the Royal Mile could cost as much as a mansion in Cockatrice or Swanhaven – but whoever lived there would be a big fish in a very small pond. Perhaps they can’t knock them down, or even turn them into strongpoints.

  The gates opened. Emily looked from side to side as the horses cantered up the driveway and stopped in front of the manor. A small army of servants were already waiting for them. Their leader – a tall, grey-haired man who looked as if the slightest breeze would blow him away – looked nervous. Emily suspected he wasn’t anything like as old as he looked, but dealing with Hansel – she thought – was more than enough to prematurely age anyone. He bowed, deeply, as Hansel jumped off his horse and landed neatly on the cobblestones. Emily remembered Sergeant Miles lecturing his students about showboating and smiled. It was a good way to get injured – or killed – for nothing. Hansel didn’t have a healer to put a broken ankle back together with a click of the fingers.

  “Welcome home, My Lord.” The grey-haired man glanced at Emily, then looked back at Hansel. “All remains as you left it.”

  “I had no doubt of it, Saran,” Hansel said. “I trust that we are ready to receive guests?”

  “Your message was received, My Lord,” Saran said, with another bow. “I have prepared two guest rooms, as you specified.”

  “Take our noble guests” – Hansel indicated Emily and Cat – “to their rooms, then have their escorts assigned places in the barracks. They can join us for dinner when they’ve had a chance to freshen up.”

  Emily looked at Cat, who shrugged and exchanged a few brief words with Sergeant Rotherham before climbing off his horse and handing the reins to a stable boy. Emily lowered herself down a little more gingerly, feeling her body aching – again – as she touched the ground. Four days of hard riding had made her a little more accustomed to the sensation, but she still felt as if she’d been beaten half to death. Hansel – damn the man – didn’t seem to suffer at all. She felt sorry for his poor horse.

  “I welcome you to my lord’s house,” Saran said. Up close, it was easy to see the strain on his face. He was old enough, Emily thought, to have been the castellan to Hansel’s father. It couldn’t be easy taking orders from men you’d known as babes in arms. “Please treat it as your own.”

  Emily reached out with her senses as Saran led them through the doors and into the manor, trying to determine what – if any – magical defenses the building had. There were a handful of wards – one that prevented scrying, one that preventing teleporting, several more than didn’t seem to have any practical purpose – but very little else. It looked as though Hansel and his brother had simply hired a magician to put the wards in place, then dismissed him immediately. There was no sense that anyone was controlling the wards, let alone reinforcing them. Emily had no doubt she could break through the wards within seconds, if necessary. It was a curious gap in his defenses.

  She put the thought aside for later consideration and looked around. The interior of the manor was odd, as if the designer couldn’t decide if it was meant to be a luxury home or a warehouse. There were paintings and statues and pieces of artwork everywhere, ranging from a copy of King Randor’s official portrait to a dramatic painting showing the Royal Wedding. Alassa lay on the ground, face-down in a pool of her own blood, while He-Man and She-Ra tried desperately to save her life... Emily flushed as she heard Cat snicker delightedly. She supposed He-Man and She-Ra were meant to be Jade and herself, but... she shook her head in disbelief. Whoever had painted the picture clearly hadn’t been at the wedding, nor had they met anyone they’d tried to paint. Emily looked nothing like She-Ra and she knew it. Even the hair color was wrong.

  Cat elbowed her. “Do you think he’d sell us the painting if we asked?”

  “Only for burning,” Emily muttered back.

  Saran led them up a flight of stairs and stopped in front of a wooden door. “Lady Emily, this is your suite,” he said. “The maids have already prepared it for you, but please don’t hesitate to ring the bell if you require anything. Your personal maid will attend to you. Lord Cat will be in the next suite, just down the corridor” – he pointed – “and dinner will be served in one hour. Do you require anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Emily said. She took a coin from her pocket and held it out to him. “For you?”

  Saran made the coin vanish with practiced ease, then opened the door for her. Emily stepped through, noting – in passing – that there was no lock. It wasn’t entirely uncommon, in a world where everyone who was anyone had personal servants, but it still grated. Her bedroom back on Earth hadn’t had a lock either, no matter how many times she’d asked for one. It made her feel vulnerable.

  I can ward the room, once I’ve checked it out, she thought, as she closed the door behind her and looked around. And that should make life difficult for any spies.

  She took a long breath and surveyed the room. It was massive, easily large enough to house three or four beds. A single, large bed sat in the centre of the room, flanked by a pair of giant wardrobes. It looked as though there was more storage space than she’d ever have to use, but she’d seen how many clothes Alassa and her fellow noblewomen had carried from place to place. Hansel might actually have given her less storage space than a clotheshorse would need. Emily wondered, as she glanced into the bathroom, if it was intended as a subtle insult to her. Or maybe she was just over-thinking it. Hansel was a very minor nobleman compared with Alassa and the Barons. His guests might not need quite so many wardrobes.

  And besides, he knows I was on horseback, Emily thought. She’d packed a bag, but it wasn’t particularly large. He knows I didn’t bring that much with me.

  There was a tap on the door. A footman stood there, carrying her bag. Emily took it, tipped him and then placed it on the floor. The man hesitated, as if he wanted to say or do something, then bowed and retreated into the distance. Emily closed the door, then checked the wards on the bag. It looked as if no one had tried to open the bag during transit. Her lips quirked, humorlessly. Opening a sorceress’s bag was de jure suicide on the Nameless World.

  She put a locking spell on the door – there wasn’t even a bolt, to her amused horror – and sat down on the bed, carefully reaching out with her senses. If there was any active spellware within the suite, save for her own protective wards and the locking spell, she couldn’t sense it. She checked twice, just to be sure. There were ways to conceal a surveillance spell – or simply emplace it quite some distance from the target – but there was nothing. Hansel didn’t seem inclined to use magic to spy on his guests.

  Emily smiled, then started to search the room. She’d seen enough peepholes to guess where they might be hidden, particularly if there were servant passageways on the other side of the suite. It took her twenty minutes to find the first peephole; the second and third, the latter in the bathroom, were considerably easier to find. Emily rolled her eyes in disgust. She’d seen enough peepholes to know what they were used to do. She cast a handful of spells to ensure th
at any peepers would see nothing – it was tempting to add a hex that would make any peepers go blind – and a ward to alert her if someone tried to peer into the room. Hansel would be a social pariah if he or his staff were caught peeking on high-ranking guests – no one cared about the maids – but Emily suspected he wouldn’t care.

  And he’ll probably want to search my bag, Emily thought, as she walked into the bathroom and undressed. Her body was covered in fading bruises. He’ll want to know what I’ve brought here.

  The bathtub, to her surprise, had cold water on tap. Someone must have refitted the manor when hot and cold running water became fashionable, although they clearly hadn’t bothered to establish a link to the boiler. That was a far more complex piece of work. Emily filled the bath with cold water anyway, used a spell to warm it and then climbed into the tub. A long soak was just what the doctor ordered. It was a shame she couldn’t stay in the tub for long.

  There were a handful of taps at the door, beating out a pattern. Emily stood, muttered a spell to dry herself and then headed back into the bedroom. It had to be Cat on the other side. No one else knew the pattern. She grabbed a robe from her bag and pulled it on, then opened the door. Cat stood there, looking disgustingly clean and healthy. Emily felt a flicker of amused envy. Men seemed to be able to undress, wash and dress within minutes.

  “Dinner will be served in five minutes, apparently,” Cat said. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “Are you ready to go down?”

  Emily shook her head as she searched through the bag. Alassa had insisted she pack a handful of dresses, as well as shirts and trousers, but she honestly wasn’t sure what she should wear. She had never been particularly concerned about fashion, yet she knew she had to make a good impression... for Alassa’s sake, if not her own. She eventually settled on the long blue dress and changed into it, ignoring Cat’s hints that there was something else she could be doing. By the time Saran materialized, his face longer than ever, she was ready.

  “This way, My Lord, My Lady,” Saran said.

  They followed him down the stairs and into a large dining hall. It was smaller than King Randor’s Great Hall, Emily noted, but somehow it managed to look just as large. Row after row of tables, utterly groaning under the weight of food... Viscount Hansel had thrown a colossal spread for his guests. Emily looked around and felt her heart sink. It looked as though Hansel had invited every nobleman, wealthy merchant and military officer in the barony. They were eating and drinking like pigs.

  She tried to hide her shudder as Saran led her past a row of tables and up to the high table, where Hansel and his brother were sitting. They rose to greet Emily and Cat as they approached, offering a short speech to make it clear that the newcomers were honored guests. Emily groaned, inwardly, as the speech came to an end. Hansel had managed to suggest that she, the famed Necromancer’s Bane, was on his side. There was no way to keep her presence a secret now. She took the seat she was offered, on Hansel’s right side, and surveyed the crowd, wondering which one would betray them. Hansel was hardly the sort of man to inspire loyalty, even in his closest friends.

  “Try some roast boar,” Hansel said. He filled her glass with wine, personally. “Or would you rather chicken or beef or...?”

  “Chicken would be fine,” Emily said. The last time she’d eaten roast boar, at one of King Randor’s feasts, she’d been treated to a story about how the beast had been tracked and killed. She had no qualms about eating meat, but she took no pleasure in hunting either. It wasn’t her favorite sport. “I’m sure it will be tasty.”

  “Indeed it will,” Hansel said. He splashed more wine into her glass, even though she hadn’t touched it. “And tomorrow you can get to work.”

  Emily resisted the urge to groan. It was going to be a very long evening.

  Chapter Twelve

  IF ANYTHING, THE EVENING WAS WORSE than Emily feared.

  There was much eating, drinking, singing and pinching of the serving girls, who responded with fixed smiles that didn’t show in their eyes. It made Emily’s blood boil to watch them be harassed, time and time again, and yet be unable to do anything about it. She’d seen better-behaved men – aristocrats and commoners – during the preparations for war against a necromancer. Hansel seemed blind to the sheer level of hatred he was provoking. Emily made a silent bet with herself that it wouldn’t be long before one of his maids put a knife through his heart.

  And then she’d be executed for killing a nobleman, Emily thought. Unless someone smuggles her out of the manor first.

  It was a relief to walk back upstairs to her suite, write a short message for Alassa on the chat parchment and collapse into bed. Cat stayed behind, apparently to take part in a drinking contest. Emily had been tempted to drag him upstairs, but she knew that would have reflected badly on both of them. Thankfully, she hadn’t been expected to join. For once, the casual sexism of the Nameless World worked in her favor. She just hoped Cat had the sense to use a spell to stave off drunkenness.

  He was looking surprisingly fit and healthy the following morning, as breakfast was served in Emily’s suite. The maid, a frightened little girl who didn’t dare say even a single word to her, wheeled it in, then vanished before Emily could give her a tip. Emily wondered what that meant, although she was sure it was nothing good. By now, the staff probably knew that Emily and Cat were good tippers. The maid’s superior would be expecting a cut of any tips – and woe betide the poor girl if she didn’t have any. Perhaps it was a kind of passive resistance. She couldn’t give her mistress any money if she didn’t have any money.

  “I cheated,” Cat said. It took Emily a moment to realize he was talking about the drinking competition. He speared a piece of meat with his fork, dipped it in gravy and ate it with apparent gusto. “But Hansel didn’t cheat and he came very close to winning. I’ve never seen anyone drink so much without keeling over.”

  “How... impressive,” Emily said, disgustedly. “Do we know where we are going today?”

  “Tobias was supposed to set up the meeting,” Cat said. “I suspect he’s probably in charge of running his brother’s surveillance network. He didn’t doubt it was possible.”

  “We’ll see,” Emily predicted. Tobias had always struck her as lost in his brother’s shadow, a common fate for second-born sons. They couldn’t be allowed to overshadow the older child, the one who would inherit everything. “Why didn’t they wipe them out?”

  “I don’t know,” Cat said. “It isn’t as if they don’t have the mercenaries to crush the Levellers in the streets.”

  Emily considered it. The mercenaries might find themselves caught in a riot if they tried to arrest the Levellers. Mercenaries were so unpopular that the townspeople might turn on them even if they were arresting people everyone hated. Maybe Hansel – or Tobias – wasn’t as blind to their failings as she’d assumed. They had to know they were in a pretty weak position. No wonder they’d risked making open contact with Alassa.

  “We have to move fast,” she said, as she finished her breakfast. It sat uneasily in her stomach. The meat had tasted fine, but there had been something thick and unpleasant about the thick gravy. “That fool told the whole world and his wife that I was here.”

  “It may have been a ploy to let the Levellers know you were here,” Cat said. “But yes, you’re right. Lord Burrows will know within a day or two, if he doesn’t know already.”

  Emily nodded. A man like Viscount Hansel practically begged to be assigned a covert watchdog. King Randor probably had a small army of spies within the manor. Emily wondered, vaguely, just who it might be, then dismissed the thought. They had to assume anything said publicly would be spread right across the kingdom within the week.

  And then Lord Burrows will have to do something about it, Emily thought, as she washed and changed into her trousers. A small glamour would ensure that most people who looked at her saw a man, as long as they didn’t look too closely. How long will it take for him to put together
a force to capture Eagle’s Rest?

  Cat stood, brushed down his shirt and trousers, then headed for the door. Emily followed him, altering the wards to allow the maid to remove the remainder of the food without getting hexed. There was nothing in the room she needed to conceal, save perhaps for the handful of chat parchments. She cast a spell to hide them from prying eyes, pushed her bag under the bed and followed Cat down the stairs. The manor was quiet. She guessed that the revellers were still sleeping it off.

  Tobias met them in the lobby, looking as if he hadn’t been drinking at all. Emily’s eyebrows arched upwards. Had he been cheating too? She reached out with her senses, trying to determine if he was a magician, but he appeared to have no magic at all. If he was a magician masking his power, he was a very good one. She kept a wary eye on him as he exchanged a few brief words with Cat, then led them outside. Sergeant Rotherham was waiting, smoking a pipe of herbal weed. He stubbed it out on his tunic and saluted when he saw them. Emily couldn’t help thinking that he’d had a better evening than either of them.

  “My Lady, My Lord,” Sergeant Rotherham said. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes,” Tobias said. “The meeting has already been arranged.”

  He led them through the side gates and out onto the streets. The air was warm, without a hint of rain, but there were few civilians within eyeshot until they were well away from the manor house. Emily looked from side to side, careful to keep one hand on her sword. Eagle’s Rest didn’t feel any better, now they were on foot. It was going to be harder to get away from an angry mob, unless they teleported. They might not have any other choice. The streets grew darker as Tobias led them into a maze of passageways and alleys, some lined with homeless sleeping rough. Emily felt her heart clench in sympathy. She’d managed to do something for the poor and downtrodden in Cockatrice.