Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “It is,” Leesha cut her off. “Told me himself. You were just an old rag to jerk his cock into while he thought of me.”

  Elona stared at her, eyes wide, and Leesha knew she’d taken it too far. Her mother never failed to bring out the worst in her.

  The silence hung in the air a moment, then Elona stood, brushing off her skirts. “You say I’m horrid, girl, but you can be mean as a demon when you want to.”

  Leesha watched sadly from the window of her coach as the Hollow passed by. It was foolishness, surely, that she felt she might be seeing it for the last time.

  When Leesha was a child, Cutter’s Hollow had been a small town of a few hundred people, barely big enough to be on the map. Its paths and structures were so familiar as to be a part of her, and everyone knew everyone else’s name. And business.

  Little remained of that childhood home, just the Holy House and a few cottages and trees. Even those bore scars from fire and demons.

  But from the charred remains had risen Hollow County, a place that would soon match—and likely exceed—the Free Cities in population. In less than two years, tens of thousands had fled here from the Krasian advance, or come from the north to answer Arlen’s call to arms against the corelings.

  The streets of Hollow County were freshly creted, but Leesha knew them every bit as intimately as the old paths. She had been there at his side as Arlen shaped a pattern of greatwards that could be expanded in ever-increasing circles until Cutter’s Hollow was the center of the warded world.

  Perhaps Gared was right. Perhaps Arlen really was the Deliverer.

  And you let him slip away. Even with her miles behind, Leesha was not free of her mother’s voice.

  “It will be a week at least till we reach Angiers,” Jizell said. “Are you two going to spend all of it staring out the window?”

  Leesha started, returning her attention to her coach companions, Jizell and Vika. Jizell needed to get back to her hospit in Fort Angiers, and Vika to visit her husband—Leesha’s childhood friend Tender Jona—held for inquisition by the Tenders of the Creator. Leesha had the duchess’ word he would not be harmed, but it was nevertheless time he returned home.

  Another thing to discuss with the Duchess Mum.

  Like Leesha, Vika had spent the last few hours staring out the window, tearing at her cuticles until they were raw.

  “I’m sorry,” Leesha said. “My thoughts were miles away.”

  “Ay,” Vika agreed.

  “Well bring them back,” Jizell said. “When’s the last time the three of us had a quiet minute together, much less a whole week? We should make the most of it.”

  “Shall we discuss work?” Leesha brightened at the thought. Work would take her out of the whirlwind of her thoughts, give her something to focus on beside a vague sense of impending doom.

  “We’ll get to it,” Jizell said, “but I don’t mean to spend a week straight working, either. I was thinking we might play a game.”

  “What kind of game?” Vika asked.

  Jizell smiled. “We’ll call it Hag Bruna’s Stick.”

  Leesha instinctively rubbed the back of her hand. It still hurt when she thought of that stick. It was thick enough for her to hang her full weight on when needed, but light, and her mistress could wield it as deftly as Ahmann did the Spear of Kaji. It was a club, knocking aside fools who stood between her and her patients, but also a whip that could crack across a girl’s hand like a shock of electricity. It never left a mark, but could sting for long minutes.

  Bruna didn’t strike Leesha often, or without cause. Each time had been a lesson. One that would have made the difference between life and death. Like a memory trick, the slaps had trained her from repeating foolish behavior, reminding her of the power and responsibility of the Gatherer’s apron. She had written of every one in her journal, but knew all the stories by heart.

  “How do we play?” Leesha asked.

  “You start,” Jizell said. “What was the first time Bruna hit you, and what did you learn?”

  “I mixed grayroot with ovara seed, thinking it would cure Merrem Butcher’s headache,” Leesha said. She smiled, clapping her hands together and raising the pitch of her voice in imitation of Bruna’s shriek. “Idiot girl! You think being blind for a week is better than a ripping headache?”

  They all laughed, an almost foreign feeling to Leesha. And for a moment, the sense of doom faded.

  “Me next!” Vika cried.

  Rojer had little desire to practice with Kendall and his wives as the slow caravan trundled over the miles. Even more pleasurable pursuits had little interest for him. There had been a hangman’s noose slack around his neck for years, but now he could feel it tightening. He sat tuning his fiddle, seeking that impossible perfect tune.

  You’ll never find it, Arrick said, but that doesn’t mean you should stop looking.

  The women sensed his mood, leaving him to his thoughts as they played Krasian board games and read Kendall passages from the Evejah. There was laughter and Rojer was glad to hear it, even if he could not share in it. There was no telling what Angiers would hold for any of them. Even Kendall, with her skill at charming corelings, would catch the duke’s attention. If he tried to make a claim on her, it would be another reason to keep them from ever leaving.

  The Hollow had grown so large that a full day’s ride from Cutter’s Hollow barely had them to the border. But there was an inn at least. The next few nights would be spent sleeping in tents, something Rojer had never cared for. Amanvah’s tent was more a pavilion, with half a dozen servants to tend their every need, but for bedding down, Rojer would trade it for a broom closet if the walls were solid and kept the sounds of corelings at bay.

  The inn had been cleared in expectation of the royal caravan, but the count took dinner in his rooms. Leesha was not invited to join him, something that spoke volumes in Angierian tea politics.

  Jasin, too, was absent from the common, though that was no surprise. He seemed to want to avoid Rojer as much as Rojer did him.

  Amanvah, too, would have been pleased to retire, but Rojer did not allow it, loudly inviting Leesha, Gared, and Wonda to join them in the common. He was learning when Krasian customs worked in his favor, for his jiwah could not refuse an invitation once made. Sikvah took over half the kitchen, cowing the staff and putting Amanvah’s dal’ting servants in charge of serving their table. Creator forbid some barmaid offend Her Highness by bowing the wrong way.

  Jizell and Vika took another table with a few apprentices, all of them more than happy to have Hollowers serve them. Coliv stood by the wall, watching everything, rigid as a hitching post. Rojer had never seen the man eat.

  “Tell us of this Duke Rhinebeck, husband,” Amanvah said between courses. “You knew him, did you not?”

  “Ay, a bit,” Rojer said. “Back when Master Arrick was royal herald. I learned to read in the palace library.”

  “That must have been wonderful,” Leesha sighed wistfully.

  Rojer shrugged. “Suppose you’d think so. For my own part, I couldn’t wait to get back to fiddling and tumbling. But Mistress Jessa insisted I learn my letters, and even Arrick agreed.”

  “Mistress Jessa was Royal Gatherer?” Leesha asked.

  “Not exactly,” Rojer said.

  Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “Weed Gatherer.” Rojer nodded.

  “What is a Weed Gatherer?” Amanvah asked.

  “You’d get along well.” Leesha did an impressive job of adding venom to her voice. She was really quite a natural. “A Weed Gatherer is the royal poisoner.”

  Amanvah nodded her understanding. “A high honor for a trusted servant.”

  “There’s no honor in poison,” Leesha said.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Rojer snapped. He caught Leesha’s eye. “And I’ll not sit and listen to you talk about Mistress Jessa like that. She was the closest thing I had to a mum after mine died. Creator knows I bite my tongue about Elona.”

  Leesha snorted.
“Fair and true.”

  “So I saw the duke here and there in the palace,” Rojer said, “usually stumbling to or from the royal brothel. He and his brothers have their own private tunnel there, so they can visit unseen.”

  “Of course they do.” Leesha sawed at the meat on her plate like she was amputating a limb.

  “This is common in Krasia as well,” Amanvah said. “Men of power must have many children.”

  “Creator, not a chance,” Rojer said. “All Jessa’s girls take pomm tea. Can’t have royal bastards running all over the city.” Leesha glared at him, and Rojer coughed.

  “They …” Amanvah paused, in that way she did when she was searching for the right word in Thesan. “These Jiwah Sen take herbs to prevent children?”

  “Disgusting,” Sikvah said. “What kind of woman would make herself kha’ting?”

  “They are not Jiwah Sen,” Leesha told Amanvah. “They are heasah.”

  Amanvah and Sikvah put their heads together at that, whispering rapidly to each other in Krasian. Rojer didn’t know the Krasian word, but he could well guess its meaning. This conversation was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

  Amanvah straightened, carved from pure dignity. “We will not discuss such matters where we break bread in Everam’s name.”

  Rojer was quick to bow. “Of course you are correct, Jiwah Ka.”

  “Tell me more of Rhinebeck’s clan,” Amanvah said. “How do they trace their blood to Kaji?”

  “They don’t,” Rojer said.

  “Then to the one-time king of your Thesa,” Amanvah waved her hand impatiently. “Our scholars have speculated that the king’s line must go back to the first Deliverer’s Northern heirs for the throne to be legitimate.”

  “Might be,” Rojer said, “though I wouldn’t go spouting such things at court. The Rhinebecks haven’t more than a touch of royal blood to them.”

  “Oh?” Leesha asked.

  “Demonshit,” Wonda said. “If Duchess Araine ent royal, no one is.”

  “Oh, Araine is royal enough,” Rojer said. “She was married to Rhinebeck the First’s son in an effort to give his coup legitimacy. But Rhinebeck the First was first minister, without an ounce of royal blood. He invented the machine to stamp klats, and it’s said he kept one in five the machines made. By the time the old duke died without a son, he was the richest man in Angiers, and every royal house vying for the throne was in his debt.”

  Amanvah smiled. “Your people are different from mine, husband, but not so different.”

  “This is Rhinebeck the Third’s problem,” Rojer said. “If he dies without an heir, there are any number of houses with as good a claim to the throne as his brothers’. They might manage to keep power, but it will cost them, and make the succession ripe for interference from the north. Klats are well and good, but Euchor can fill their enemies’ coffers with gold.”

  “That’s not all he can fill them with,” Leesha said, but she did not elaborate.

  They moved out of the Hollow proper the second day, but the road leading in was well warded, with caravan camps at regular intervals. They kept moving well after dusk, pressing on to the garrison of Wooden Soldiers at the edge of Thamos’ territory.

  Rojer was out of the coach the moment the caravan called a halt, stretching his restless limbs with his tumbler’s warm-up.

  “Gone stir-crazy?” Gared asked, swinging down from Rockslide, his massive Angierian mustang, as easily as any of Thamos’ cavalry commanders.

  “Needed the stretch,” Rojer said.

  “Ay,” Gared said. “Reckon it’s exhausting, sleeping in furs all day with three women.”

  Rojer smiled. “If that’s what you think, the duchess needs to find you a bride more desperately than we thought.”

  Gared laughed, and Rojer deftly rolled with the blow as the big Cutter accented the sound with his customary slap on the back.

  Rockslide turned their way, but Gared had a fat apple in hand. The animal snatched it with a bite that could easily take a grown man’s head and turned back, chewing quietly as Gared ran a brush against the stallion’s neck.

  Rojer shook his head. “Gared Cutter I met a year ago barely knew which end of a horse was which.”

  “A season ago, even,” Gared agreed. “I could get here to there, but I never liked the corespawned things.” He looked back at the horse, standing proud as if it were doing him a favor by allowing itself to be brushed. “But old Rocky here’s got no patience for raw wood.”

  “As fine a specimen as I’ve ever seen,” Count Thamos said. “Forgive me, Baron, but I wish every day I’d seen him first.” Rojer turned to see Jasin heeling the count like a dog. Careful to stand well out of reach.

  “Offer stands, Highness,” Gared said, holding out the reins with a smile. “You last a full minute in the saddle, and you can take him.”

  Rockslide snorted, and Thamos bowed with a laugh. “I know weighted dice when I see them, Baron. I’ll simply take heart that you ride at my command.”

  “Ay,” Gared said, only hesitating a little. With Arlen gone, he had grown increasingly dependent on the count. If the Warded Man never returned, he would soon be Thamos’ man through and through.

  “The road ahead is unwarded,” Thamos said. “My garrison commander says the increased traffic has drawn demons by the score. It will cost us additional time, but I do not think we should proceed after dusk from here out.”

  “Nonsense,” Leesha said, coming up to them. Thamos glimpsed her, and quickly averted his eyes. “We have warded weapons and skilled warriors. If your brother cannot ward his roads and keep them clear, the Hollow should offer assistance.”

  Thamos’ jaw tightened. He raised his eyes to her at last. “We have warriors, yes. We also have Herb Gatherers. Foreign dignitaries. Jongleurs. These are not people prepared to go out in the night.”

  Leesha snorted. “Rojer alone could protect the entire caravan.”

  Ay, don’t bring me into this, Rojer thought.

  “How dare you speak to His Highness like that, Gatherer,” Goldentone said. “Prince Thamos is commander of the Wooden Soldiers. He needs no military advice from you. The caravan clearings ahead are filled with beggars these days in any event. Coming in we had to send a squad ahead each day to chase them out before we made camp, and no doubt the filthy rats moved right back in after we passed.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then everyone turned their gaze to Jasin, who wilted under the combined glare. Gared balled his huge fists, and Wonda put a hand on the bow hanging from her saddle.

  Thamos’ voice was low, dangerous. “Are you telling me, Herald, that you ran peasants from their wards just before dusk each night on your way to the Hollow?”

  Jasin paled. “I was bid to come to you with all haste …”

  Thamos moved faster than Rojer would have believed of a man in armor, closing the distance and striking Jasin a sharp backhand that dropped him onto his backside.

  “Those people are under my brother’s protection!” Thamos shouted. “They are refugees driven from their homes, not beggars and bandits!”

  Jasin had been wise enough to stay down, and Thamos kicked him into a roll. “This is how you represent the crown? By sending those who come to us for aid to their deaths?”

  Jasin deftly turned the roll into a tumble that brought him to his knees before the enraged count, his hands clutched together as if in prayer. “Please, Highness. It was by the duke’s own command.”

  Everyone had gathered to watch the scene, or stuck heads from carriages. Not just the travelers, the Wooden Soldiers from the garrison were gathering as well, ready to leap to Thamos’ command. All equipped with warded weapons and armor.

  The count turned to them. “Are the Wooden Soldiers so unprepared they can’t build their own camps? They need to drive the weak out into the night?”

  The captain of the garrison came forward, dropping to one knee before Thamos. “No, Highness, we are not. But the herald s
peaks true. Duke Rhinebeck himself signed a decree that all who use royal caravan clearings without license are to be driven out.”

  Lines appeared on Thamos’ face as his jaw tightened again. “My brother doesn’t have to look peasants in the eye when he condemns them. But you men did.”

  The captain put his head down farther. “Yes, sir. And the Creator will judge.”

  “No more!” Thamos barked. His voice rose smoothly as he addressed the soldiers directly.

  “Perhaps I have not been clear enough in my expectations of your men. For that, I apologize. But listen you well now, that none claim ignorance later. Every human life in Angiers is your charge. They are yours to protect. Not to drive from the safety of their wards. Not to bully, swindle, or solicit bribes from. Not to touch their women. Am I heard?”

  “Ay, Commander!” the soldiers shouted as one.

  “AM I HEARD?” Thamos cried a second time.

  “AY, COMMANDER!” the men thundered.

  Thamos nodded. “Good. Because those who forget will be hung in Traitor’s Square as an example to others.”

  Rojer saw Leesha staring at him with tears in her eyes. When the count turned from the crowd she moved toward him, but he smoothly dodged out of her path, coming up to Gared. “General, ready the men. We’ll move on down the road after dusk, culling the demons as we go.”

  Gared punched his chest. “We’ll mow them like grass, Yur Highness.”

  Thamos turned to Rojer. “Despite Mistress Leesha’s assurance, I do not wish to see any of the duke’s guests exposed to any undue risk. Will you cast your spells to keep the demons from the carriages?”

  Rojer bowed. “Of course, Highness.”

  “You must be joking,” Jasin said. “We’re to entrust our lives to that … ?”

  Thamos leveled him a look at the edge of patience. “That what?”

  It was such a delight, seeing Goldentone squirm. Rojer began to think he might have a chance to come forward after all. Have the Jongleurs’ Guild whisper his villainy in the right ears …

  Rojer couldn’t help but twist the knife. “Fear not, Secondsong, the demons will never come near you.” He threw his most mocking smile. “Unless I want them to.”