The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  Things had changed in the palace as well. A small stock of food had been kept inside the palace walls for use in the palace itself. The rest had been sent into the city. I’d insisted, despite protests from Avrell and Erick, who argued that the palace had to remain visibly stable and that the guards needed to be well fed to be effective. I’d relented somewhat regarding the guardsmen, but if the city was going to starve, then so would everyone in the palace.

  I’d lived on the Dredge. I knew what it was to be hungry, knew that I would survive. Avrell and the others would learn they could survive on very little as well.

  “Would you like to take a closer look?” Avrell asked, breaking into my thoughts. I glanced toward him, saw the look of appeal in his eyes, hidden behind his administrator’s blank mask.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Avrell grinned, then led us into the open space, pointing out piles of stone and stacked lumber as we moved. “This is the largest building that was lost. You can see the outline of the original foundation here and here. Nathem and I decided to start with that building first, then move on to the others later, since we can use this one’s walls for supports for the others if necessary. We salvaged enough stone to get the entire building built, and I’ve got carpenters and masons from the guilds planning how to repair and relay the foundation, starting within the week.”

  Avrell’s voice fell into the background as we continued, relating all the plans. The farther afield we moved, the more I began to orient myself, using the surrounding streets and the outlines of the lost buildings as reference points. A warm hand of dread began to close over my heart as I realized we were approaching the alley where I’d been ambushed by Alendor’s son, Cristoph.

  I halted in the spot where the alley had stood, kicked at the blackened dirt and the stone of the cobbles. All trace of the walls that had trapped me—of the crates that had hemmed me in and hampered my movements as Cristoph and his men surrounded me and beat me—were gone, cleared away by the fire and the workers.

  Alendor had led me here, let me follow him and his own bodyguards from the tavern called the Splintered Bow so that his son and henchmen could trap me in the alley. All because Cristoph had tried to kill me earlier on the wharf and I’d managed to turn the blade against him and his friend instead. Cristoph had survived the encounter. His friend hadn’t.

  I glanced toward Erick, saw the grim expression on his face. He recognized the alley as well. I’d only survived the ambush because Erick had arrived and intervened. He’d almost died here, trying to save me.

  I could see the same thought echoed in his eyes.

  “Is there something wrong?” Avrell asked.

  I suddenly realized his constant stream of information about the reconstruction had halted minutes before, and I turned toward him with a tight smile. “No. I was here once before. Before the fire. This is where Alendor’s son ambushed me.”

  Avrell glanced down solemnly at the scuffed and fire-cracked cobbles. “I see.”

  We lapsed into an awkward silence, broken by a sharp yelp of pain and the sounds of a scuffle from the nearest line of men loading up the carts.

  All three of us turned. The escort of guardsmen closed in around me, but I pushed forward, Erick and Avrell falling into step as we came up on the group of men. The gathering parted as soon as they saw us coming, revealing two men grappling with each other on the ground, cursing, dirt and dust flying. One of them was younger, leaner, only a boy, body writhing like a snake as the other, heavier man tried to force him to the ground.

  “Bloody cursed gutterscum,” the older man growled. Then he landed a sharp punch to the other’s gut, the boy doubling over with a whoof of pain followed by a hiss of pure fury.

  The heavier man thrust the boy to the ground, then staggered upright, panting heavily, eyes dark. He wiped a hand across his mouth, spat blood, lip curling up in a snarl. “This will teach ya.”

  He drew his foot back to kick the boy in the gut while he was down.

  Rage flared inside me, hard and sharp, and without thought I lashed out, punching the heavyset man in the chest with the river.

  The man staggered backward, eyes going wide in surprise, breath gushing from his lungs. The punch had come from nowhere, been landed by nothing that he could see. The ring of spectators caught him before he fell, as surprised as he was, then set him roughly on the ground as he tried to catch his breath.

  The boy had dragged himself into a defensive crouch, watched me now with a feral, hateful gaze as I stepped forward between the two men. I could see the Dredge on the boy, like a dark cloak hanging over his shoulders. He was maybe fourteen years old, with sharp dark brown eyes and blond hair made muddy by layers of dirt and soot and sweat.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, voice hard as stone. I glared at the heavyset man where he sat, legs still weak from my punch, breath still short. When he didn’t answer, I turned my gaze on the rest of those gathered.

  They shuffled where they stood, eyes not rising to meet mine. They’d recognized me, knew me as the Mistress.

  I grunted with contempt, then turned to the boy.

  He shifted backward, the movement hauntingly familiar. He was gutterscum, just like me. I could guess which way he’d bolt, could see the careful balance of options in his eyes.

  The fact that he hadn’t bolted already told me how desperate he was.

  “What happened?” I asked, voice still hard. He wouldn’t respond to anything else.

  His gaze darted to the heavyset man, then returned. “He kicked me.”

  “Lying, filthy, fucking shit!” the man spat, face turning red as he tried to regain his feet. But I could read the truth in the men around him, the way they shifted away from the man, the way their eyes couldn’t meet mine.

  The boy scowled, and I could see him on the edge of fleeing. Back to the Dredge, back to the life he knew. His despair was clear: he’d taken a chance on the rumors of food for work, had risked coming out of the Dredge to find out if it were true, and this is what he’d found, what he’d expected to find.

  It was more than I had risked at his age.

  I shifted and the heavyset man halted where he’d struggled to his feet, eyes fearful.

  I turned back to the boy. “Why did he kick you?”

  Disbelief clouded the boy’s eyes briefly as he realized I believed him, then he shot the man a deadly glare. “Because I’m gutterscum.”

  Another man stepped forward, and the guardsmen behind me tensed. Erick motioned for them to wait as the man ducked his head.

  “The boy’s right. Hant’s been after him all day, makin comments, flickin him with stones when he wasna lookin. I wouldna taken it as long as the boy did.”

  Behind, Avrell shifted closer and murmured, “The boy’s one of the few we’ve had come to work for us from the Dredge.”

  Avrell’s words were bland, but the meaning was clear. He expected this type of condescension for those that came from the Dredge to continue.

  Unless something were done now. Something significant.

  I turned to Hant. The heavyset man was now uncertain. He could feel the shift in attitude among the men around him, could feel the blade now balanced against him.

  “Erick,” I said, and felt Erick step up beside me, motions precise and formal.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  The boy gasped as he realized who I was. A low murmur ran through the gathered men as well. What they’d suspected had been confirmed.

  “This kind of attitude can’t continue. It will not continue.” I pitched my voice loud enough so that all of those around us could hear. “No one in this city is better than any of the others. If those on the Dredge want to help us rebuild the warehouses, then they are welcome, and they will be treated exactly as everyone else is treated. There is only one city here: Amenkor.” I turned back to Hant with pure contempt
. “I want him punished. Do whatever you feel is necessary.”

  Avrell stepped forward, as if he’d been waiting for the opening. “I would suggest a public whipping.”

  I frowned, glanced toward Erick, who nodded minutely. “Do it,” I said.

  With a simple motion of his hand, Erick had the escorting guardsmen seize Hant and drag him, kicking, to one side. The rest of the workers stood silently, some with open shock, others with satisfaction or sympathy. I ignored them, turning to the man who’d stepped forward to defend the boy. “What’s your name?”

  The man seemed distracted by the scuffle Hant was raising behind me, but managed to say, “Danel, Mistress.”

  “And what do you do?”

  Danel’s attention began to focus more on me. “I’m a cobbler, Mistress.”

  I nodded, shot a questioning look toward Avrell.

  The First must have read my intent on my face, for he said, “I believe we’ve been wasting your talents here hauling stone, Danel. We are always in need of people who can organize and lead the workers. Would you be interested?”

  Danel nodded, too stunned to speak.

  “Good,” Avrell said. “Report to Nathem, the Second of the Mistress, tomorrow at the Priem warehouse in the upper city. He’ll inform you as to what to do.”

  Danel nodded again, then stepped hesitantly back, where a few friends patted him on the back, eyes alight and excited.

  I turned to the boy with a heavy frown, took in his relaxed stance—or as relaxed as anyone who lived on the Dredge ever got. “And your name?”

  The boy frowned, the reaction automatic, then caught himself. Straightening slightly, burying his fear deep, so that most people wouldn’t see it, he said defiantly, “Evander.”

  I waited until his defiance faltered slightly. “Tell those on the Dredge that if they’re willing to work, we can feed them. Not much, but more than they’re likely to find on the Dredge this winter.”

  Then I turned away, retreating with Avrell, Erick, and the two remaining guardsmen who weren’t dealing with Hant.

  “You handled that well,” Erick said, voice low enough only Avrell and I could hear.

  I grunted. I wasn’t so certain.

  But Evander had done one thing: he’d reminded me of myself, of what the Dredge had been like.

  “Do you think he’ll spread the word on the Dredge?” Avrell asked. “Do you think he’ll be believed?”

  Memories churning up from the depths, I said with utter certainty, “He’ll be believed. And he’ll be more effective than the guardsmen.”

  “Why?”

  I cast Avrell a knowing look. “Because gutterscum always recognizes gutterscum. Evander didn’t see me as the Mistress. He saw me as Varis, from the Dredge.”

  I let Avrell think about that for a moment, then asked, “What about the kitchen and warehouse on the Dredge?”

  “A shipment of food is being taken down there today. We’re to meet up with Baill and the guards escorting the shipment near the bridge over the River.”

  Behind us, there was a sharp slap and a barked scream.

  Someone had found a whip.

  * * *

  We reached the bridge where the Dredge crossed the River and found Baill and the guardsmen already waiting, restless. Each of the three wagonloads of food was surrounded by twenty guardsmen, all with their hands on the hilts of their swords, all sweating nervously. They knew what had happened the last time we’d come to the Dredge. Only Baill seemed unconcerned, his bald head shining in the sunlight, his face fixed into a permanent frown.

  “They know we’re coming,” the captain of the guard said as I approached. “We’ve seen at least three watching from the alleys and windows.”

  Which meant that there had probably been twenty. The entire slum would know by now.

  “Are your men ready?” I asked. Baill grunted and nodded. “Then let’s go.”

  He barked out an order and the first wagon lurched forward, two guardsmen in the seat. Avrell and Erick fell in beside me behind the first wagon, my escort staying close, drawing in tight, the other two wagons behind us. Baill remained in the lead.

  As we passed over the arch of the bridge, the River flowing dark and smooth beneath us, I felt a niggling touch of the overwhelming dread I’d felt when we’d come the first time. But when the buildings closed in around us, the clean stone of the real Amenkor falling away to the decayed grit of the slums, that niggling sensation faded. Evander had helped me remember what I had been, and that I’d taken a chance and escaped.

  Perhaps this winter, some of the others willing to take a chance could escape as well.

  We were almost to the warehouse where Eryn had hidden the stores she’d smuggled into the city when Erick said suddenly, “Something’s wrong.”

  “What?” Avrell asked.

  I jerked out of my thoughts of Evander, of my old life, my hand settling onto my dagger. I glanced around in consternation, trying to pick up on what Erick had felt, then dove beneath the river. . . .

  And felt it, too.

  The Dredge was quiet.

  But it wasn’t empty.

  I spun, tasting terror in the back of my throat as I darted forward past startled palace guardsmen, past the wagon, knowing even as I picked up speed that I was too late.

  Behind, I heard Erick shout in warning, then curse under his breath as he started to follow. Ahead—

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Baill demanded, his voice loud, ringing out in the silence.

  Too late, too late.

  I rounded the front of the wagon, saw the street ahead blocked by a throng of men. No, not men. These were the dregs of the slums, the animals that hid in the deepest depths, that preyed on the gutterscum that were only trying to survive. Their grizzled faces, marked by scars and pockmarks and disease, were harsh in the sunlight, their mouths twisted into feral grins, their eyes insane with rage and death.

  No wonder the Dredge was empty.

  “We’ve come to take what’s ours,” the leader said.

  And then a stone shot out of the crowd and found its mark, slamming into Baill’s forehead with a sickening thud, and as he fell, as the scent of blood flooded the river, bitter and warm, the mob broke into a scream and roared forward.

  The palace guardsmen surged forward to meet them. At my side, the horse pulling the first wagon screamed and reared up onto its hind legs, its eyes white with terror.

  And then the mob collided with the guardsmen, and the world broke into a crush of bodies and sweat, of flickering blades and a hail of stone. I felt the initial impact of the two forces on the river, a pulsing wave rippling outward.

  And then I was overwhelmed, men suddenly on all sides, the rearing horse thudding down into the mass of bodies with a sickening crunch. The scent of blood on the river became so thick I almost gagged.

  “Varis!”

  I spun, Erick’s shout was almost lost in the tumult. Men crowded close on all sides, and my dagger was out, already blooded, although I didn’t remember using it. A few palace guardsmen held my back for a moment, desperately trying to protect the wagonloads of food, before the thrust of the mob shoved them away and they were lost. The denizens of the slums closed in from all sides, coming from the alleys, from the narrows, crawling through the vacant windows of the buildings, through the darknesses that I’d always thought of as escapes. Through the press of bodies, I saw Erick lash out with his own dagger, saw a man scream in pain, blood flying, saw another lurch back before Erick’s dagger took him in the throat. Thrusting the body aside, Erick stepped forward. But there were still too many men between us, all screaming, all intent on overwhelming the guards, on the food. Some had already reached the wagon, were smashing into the crates and barrels, clutching potatoes and squash and sacks of grain to their chests before leaping back into the mob. A sack of r
ice split and grains of white rained down, a few flicking my face, catching in my hair.

  Rage enveloped me, sudden and intense, and pushing deep beneath the river, breath rushing out through flaring nostrils, I pushed, grunting with the effort.

  Before me, men went flying, lifted forcibly up into the air and thrust away, and suddenly there was a clear path between Erick and me. Startled, he hesitated, then leaped into the opening, grabbing my arm.

  “We have to get out of here!” he shouted.

  I gave him a scathing, sarcastic glare and shot back, “Avrell! We have to find Avrell!”

  He swore under his breath, scanned the mob, ducked as a piece of mudbrick shot past his head, then used his grip on my arm to shove me in a new direction. “This way!”

  I stumbled forward, using my dagger and the river to force a path through the mob, Erick a steady presence at my back. As we angled away from the wagons, the press of bodies slackened.

  And then suddenly we broke free, into the depths of an alley. Gasping, Erick drew up close to the wall, back brushing against the slick mud-brick. I settled into a crouch, breath harsh in my throat, heart thudding in my chest so hard it hurt, then jerked as someone else broke through the mob, streaking past us without a glance, a loaf of bread crushed to his chest, his expression ravenous.

  I sucked in a haggard breath, then asked hoarsely, “Do you see Avrell?”

  Erick shook his head. “No. Nor Baill. The mob’s taken over all of the wagons now. The guardsmen have retreated to the kitchen. I don’t think they can get into the warehouse. It’s still warded. But I think they have Baill.”

  The roar of the mob was suddenly broken by a piercing animalistic scream.

  Erick’s face turned grim. “They must be running out of food on the wagons. They’re after the horses now.”

  I stood up from my crouch, glanced over the seething morass of people, felt the wave of darkness it generated on the river and felt sick. “We have to find Avrell.”

  “I have him.”

  Both Erick and I spun, daggers raised, our movements almost exactly the same.