The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  The empty buildings reminded me of the Dredge. This is what the Dredge must have once looked like—its buildings intact, its streets full of merchants and shoppers. But now this street was beginning to decay, beginning to fade. The empty stores were simply the first outward sign. My frown deepened.

  “There’s nothing for sale in those shops,” I said.

  I meant the empty buildings, but William didn’t seem to notice them, didn’t even seem to see them. He smiled without looking down at me. “Ah, but that’s the thing. Amenkor is the crossroads of the Frigean coast, the gateway to the nations in the east, on the far side of the mountains. Everything’s for sale in these shops. You just have to know the right person.”

  I didn’t answer, uneasiness settling into my stomach.

  Up ahead, we were approaching another gate and the second wall. William turned away from the shops toward the wall. “And this is the middle circle. All the guild halls are in here. We’ll find Charls at the merchants’ guild, no doubt.” His voice darkened when he mentioned Charls. “That’s where most of the actual business of trading and selling takes place.”

  We passed through the second gate into a large, open, square marketplace with huge stone buildings on all sides, broken up by various streets. The marketplace was crowded, but there were fewer hawkers than on the wharf. They stuck mainly near the center of the square, around the towering fountain. I paused to stare at the three stone horses that reared toward the sky, a spit of water pouring out of the top, three more spouts of water emerging from the horses’ mouths. The water collected in a giant pool at the base.

  Cobbler’s Fountain seemed suddenly small and insignificant, almost childish.

  William and Borund continued across the square, toward the largest of the stone buildings, its front riddled with carved statues of men and women, lying down on stone benches, standing and reaching for the sky, most wearing nothing at all. Some appeared to move until we got closer and I realized there were birds in the crevices of the carvings. There were birds everywhere, on the cobbled square itself, lining the stone steps leading up to the doorway that seemed small in comparison to the rest of the building. They fluttered out of the way of passersby, muttering soft, throaty coos of protest.

  I followed Borund and William numbly, but we didn’t approach the steps. Instead, we moved toward a side street, passing beneath an arch and along a narrow until it opened up into a courtyard where men practiced with swords and boys rushed, running errands. As soon as Borund and William appeared and dismounted, two boys stepped forward and led the horses away.

  Borund motioned to William as we entered the merchants’ guild through a side door and began climbing stairs. “He’ll be in the Great Hall now,” he said, glancing back quickly toward me. His mud-brown eyes were hooded and dangerous, but not like Erick’s had been. Erick’s eyes had been cold, purposeful, casual. Borund’s were heated and intense, angry.

  We passed through a low-arched doorway and into the Great Hall and I tensed, the hackles on the back of my neck rising. I resisted the urge to crouch, to draw my dagger and slip back through the doorway. I couldn’t stop a harsh hiss of warning, like a pissed-off cat.

  In the swirling gray world of the river, almost everyone in the room was red. A shroud fell over me, covered me like a blanket, pushed me down with its weight. All of the awe over the size of the room—over the fountain and the buildings and the walls outside as well—died, replaced by the instincts of the Dredge.

  “What is it?” someone murmured, the voice muffled by the pressure I felt from the river. Then someone touched my arm.

  William. I could feel him, smell him. Borund, as well. But I didn’t turn to look at them. Instead, I kept my gaze focused on the room, on the people milling about, on the soft background noise of their conversations.

  “What is it, Varis?” Borund asked, his voice a little more commanding than William’s.

  “Everyone here is dangerous,” I said.

  He grunted. “How can you tell?”

  “I can see it,” I answered without thought. “They’re all red.”

  A long, heavy silence followed, but I was too distracted by the pressure to notice until Borund spoke again, his voice tight. “I’m only interested in one of them today, and I don’t see him. Do you?”

  I drew a deep breath and tried to concentrate more. As I submerged myself deeper, the reds shifted into various shades, some darker, like blood, others more vibrant.

  I focused on those like blood, pushed the others into the background. There were fewer of them, and one of them was Charls.

  He wasn’t a mix of red and gray now, but a deep red. Even when I shifted the focus of the river back to myself briefly.

  “There,” I said, and pointed.

  Borund laid a hand gently on mine and lowered it slowly. “Don’t draw attention. Just nod in the right direction. We don’t want anyone here to know the real reason we came.”

  I frowned, then realized it was like the Dredge, like standing at the edge of a narrow, looking for a mark.

  Borund wanted us to be gray.

  I nodded in the direction of Charls, and with a swift look at William, Borund began to move through the room. I kept my attention fixed on Charls and the few other washes of blood red. Borund paused occasionally to speak with other merchants, some dressed like Borund in long coats of differing colors with gold embroidery. Most had less gold than Borund, and after a quick scan of each, I dismissed them as harmless.

  We edged closer to Charls, moving in a wide arc.

  “Borund!”

  I turned to see a dark blue-coated merchant approaching, arms held wide. He had a plain face, a wide grin, hazel eyes, dimples. His hair hung down to his shoulders and had been tied back into a ponytail. He had no trace of red to him at all.

  Borund smiled as they grasped arms at the elbows and clapped each other on the back. “Marcus, it’s good to see you! How’s Marlett?”

  A bitter expression crossed Marcus’ face and he scowled. “The city’s hurting. Not enough wares to be found. And what we can find is becoming too expensive to buy.”

  “Not much better here in Amenkor, I’m afraid.”

  Marcus turned serious. “I heard about the tavern.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Good you had a bodyguard, eh?”

  There was a hint of something more behind Marcus’ voice and Borund fell silent. I gave Marcus a dark stare. Unconsciously, he shifted away.

  “Yes. My bodyguard.”

  After a moment, Marcus cleared his throat. “I also hear you have some grain in storage?”

  “You shouldn’t always listen to rumor, Marcus. Now spice! I have plenty of spice!”

  “I don’t need spice,” Marcus protested darkly, and the two began bargaining, just like any hawker and his victim on the Dredge or wharf. I let the conversation fall into the background and turned back to Charls.

  He’d shifted, moved to the edge of the room, toward one of the walls covered in tapestries. Most of the room was empty of furniture, the polished stone floor bare, but near some of the walls sat a few chairs. Light streamed through tall, thin windows, slanting across the floor at an angle, but Charls stood in the most shadowed corner of the room now.

  He spoke with someone I could barely see. Someone as blood red as himself. Another merchant.

  I stepped back from Borund, Marcus, and William and focused.

  He wore a dark yellow coat, like mustard, covered with gold thread. Ruffles filled the neck, puffed out of the sleeves. His face was narrow, but not thin, his nose long. He had a mustache, neatly trimmed. His brown hair was streaked heavily with gray and hung down his back in a ponytail longer than Marcus’.

  He seemed somehow vaguely familiar.

  I felt William step up beside me and realized that Borund had broken away from Marcus and moved on.
I turned back to Charls, drew breath to ask William who Charls was speaking to, but the mustard-coated merchant had vanished.

  Charls had moved back out into the light when Borund finally approached him. He smiled graciously.

  “Master Borund,” he said, his voice deep and somehow slick, like the dead fish on the wharf.

  “Master Charls,” Borund murmured. None of the danger I’d seen in his eyes touched him as he reached out and grasped Charls’ arm at the elbow, as he’d done with Marcus, the contact brief.

  Deep inside, I felt the Fire stir, a shiver running down the backs of my arms. I shifted slightly forward.

  “Rough crowd down at the Broken Mast Tavern, so I hear,” Charls said.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Borund grinned. “That’s why I like the docks. Always something . . . unexpected.”

  Charls’ eyes flicked toward me, absorbed me with one quick, careful, considering glance, then stole away, back to Borund. “Yes. Something ‘unexpected’ always seems to intervene when you least expect it.” There was a tinge of sourness to the words. But then Charls shifted. “But Amenkor has become desperate. Roughness is to be expected, just to survive. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Borund?”

  “No,” Borund said shortly. And now he let the anger inside darken his eyes, blatant and targeted. “No. And it won’t be tolerated either. The Mistress will see to that.”

  Charls seemed surprised, but then his smile widened.

  The tendril of Fire inside surged higher and my hand stole toward my dagger. William sensed the movement and shifted farther away.

  “Ah, Borund,” Charls murmured, his voice soft. “I think you place too much faith in the Mistress. I don’t think she rules the city anymore. Haven’t you heard? The Mistress has gone insane.”

  Borund snorted. “And now you deal in rumor?” An edge entered Borund’s voice. “Beware of what you play at, Charls. There is more at stake here than just business. You’re dealing with the life of the city. The Mistress will hear about the attack last night.”

  Charls chuckled. “Yes, yes. Tell the Mistress, if you can reach her. She doesn’t grant audience to anyone anymore. To even get into the palace you have to get through Captain Baill and his guards. And then your chances of seeing Avrell, let alone the Mistress, are slim. The Mistress has never been this hard to reach in the past. I wonder why? And as for the city . . .” Charls leaned forward, his eyes going dark and tight. The Fire inside flared and I stepped forward, stepped between the two, near Borund’s shoulder, my hand on the dagger hidden at my side.

  Charls didn’t flinch, his eyes fixed firmly on Borund.

  “You would be wise to leave the city alone, Master Borund. Powers are shifting, have been shifting since the Fire scoured its way across Amenkor. You slipped through the net once; I wouldn’t wait around to see if it happens again.”

  Charls backed off, smiled thinly and reached to brush nonexistent lint off of Borund’s shoulder. I halted him with a look and a slight shift in weight.

  His smile faltered.

  Then he moved away, engaged another merchant in conversation, his laugh echoing loudly over the conversations in the hall at something the merchant said. The merchant looked confused, but Charls put his hand on the merchant’s back and guided him away, head bent close.

  He glanced back once, smile tight and self-satisfied.

  Then he was lost among the crowd.

  At my back, Borund trembled with suppressed rage.

  The Palace

  My heart had barely begun to calm, back still pressed against what had once been a granite wall outside the archer’s niche, when there were sudden hurried footsteps from the corridor on the other side of the little window.

  I slid down close to the opening and peered into the hallway just in time to see the two guardsmen I’d noted before jerk to rigid attention on either side of the doorway they guarded. They’d barely managed to compose themselves when another guard appeared, approaching fast, almost at a run.

  I saw him just before he reached the two guards and shuddered, drawing back from the old window.

  Captain Baill.

  Beside the archer’s window, I cursed, then slid back to watch, eyes narrowed in anger and suspicion. What was Baill doing here now? He should be safely occupied elsewhere. In the city, on the walls, at home in bed—anywhere but in the inner sanctum of the palace.

  Unless someone had warned him, had alerted him to my presence. But who?

  Captain Baill wore all the armor of his rank, was moving swiftly, his eyes darkened with intense irritation and something close to hatred. His bald head gleamed in the torchlight, his face covered in scars. Old scars. Earned scars. They surrounded dark eyes that shifted restlessly even as he walked—calculating eyes that saw everything, and remembered.

  He moved toward the two guardsmen with purpose, barked, “Has anyone passed by here in the last hour?”

  “No one, Captain.”

  “Fuck!”

  The two guards glanced at each other, startled. Baill stared at the stone floor a moment, one hand rising to rub across his bald head.

  Then he glanced up, scarred face hard.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  One of the guards began to protest, motioning toward the door they guarded.

  “It’s a fucking audience chamber!” Baill roared. “There’s nothing in there! We’ve got bigger problems.”

  And he began moving away, fast. Toward the main entrance to the inner sanctum, the doorway that had once been an outer gate.

  The two guards hesitated a moment, then followed.

  Then they were gone.

  * * *

  I dropped back from the archer’s window, heart suddenly pounding. Did Baill know I was here? Had he been warned?

  The fear twisted into anger, the taste of sickness on my tongue now bitter, like ash.

  Had Avrell had a change of heart and warned them? Had he betrayed me?

  It seemed unlikely. He was the one who’d hired me. He’d been the one arguing so fervently with Nathem to convince him that the Mistress’ death was essential.

  But who else could it have been? No one else knew I was here tonight except Avrell. He’d seen me in the meeting room, knew exactly where I was. . . .

  A sudden flood of relief washed over me. It had been Avrell. But he hadn’t warned Baill to betray me. He’d done it to help. Avrell knew the plan, knew I’d been in the meeting room, knew that I was behind schedule. He must have assumed I’d miss the changing of the guard.

  So he’d provided the guardsmen with a distraction.

  My hand tightened on my dagger in determination and I spun back to the archer’s window, gauged the narrow opening. It didn’t matter if Avrell had warned Baill to help me, or if someone else had warned Baill to stop me. Whatever the case, this might be my only chance to get past the outer perimeter of palace guardsmen. And I had to reach the Mistress tonight. There was no more time left, not if the city was to survive the winter.

  Placing one hand at the top of the opening, reaching through with the other, I shoved my head and shoulders through. If I’d had anything in the way of breasts, I’d have been fucked. It was the only reason I’d been passable as a page boy, and one of the only reasons the plan to get me into the inner sanctum of the palace would work.

  I exhaled sharply, pushing all the air out of my lungs in one hard gasp, and wedged my chest through next. Pausing to get a better grip on the granite, I drew in a gulp of air, the window crushing me. Too tight. I couldn’t draw in a full breath. Pain shot up through my lungs. I gasped, began breathing in short huffs, exhaled all the air again and shoved, the window’s edge scraping down to my hips.

  For a heartrending moment, I thought the opening was too small, my frame too big. I panicked. Sweat broke out in the pits of my arms, slicked my palms. I shoved again, strai
ned against the granite, felt it grinding into my pelvic bones—

  And then, with a sharp, stinging pain, my hips scraped through and I collapsed into the archer’s niche on the far side with a hiss, legs still dangling out the other side, into the linen closet. I pulled them through, lances of pain shooting up my sides, but I shoved that pain away and crouched in the niche.

  In both directions, the corridor was empty. But I could hear voices now, shouts, heavy boots running in my direction.

  I darted across the corridor to the door of the audience chamber. The unguarded door opened without a sound, but slowly, the solid wood heavy. I ducked inside, pulled it closed behind me and turned.

  I was inside the palace’s inner sanctum.

  And all hell had apparently broken loose.

  Chapter 10

  William thrust open the door to Borund’s office with such force it cracked against the wall and almost rebounded back into his face. I’d moved halfway across the room without making a sound, dagger drawn, before I recognized him. Even after two months guarding Borund, I still hadn’t relaxed when in his manse. Some habits from the Dredge were hard to break.

  William stood in the doorway, mouth opening and closing, staring at Borund.

  “What is it?” Borund said, rising from his seat behind his desk. His voice was steady, but since I’d been guarding him, I’d learned to read the undertones. They were touched with dread, as if he already knew the news, or already suspected.

  William must have noticed as well, for he sagged slightly and drew in a breath. “Marcus is dead.”

  I frowned down at the floor, raced through all of the merchants I’d met. I’d accompanied Borund everywhere for the last two months—on excursions to the warehouses, to the docks to meet the ships, to the local taverns and the guild hall for meetings with merchants and captains and sources of information. I’d met dozens of merchants, some from the cities along the Frigean coast, others from more distant places, like Warawi, a city in the southern islands.

  At first the outings had been tense, Borund expecting another attack. He’d gone to the palace to complain to Avrell but had been met by the palace guard instead. They’d sent for Baill, refused to send a message to Avrell or even the Second, Nathem, until we’d spoken to the captain.