Isaiah had raised his fist for another blow—oblivious of Keven standing behind him, hand gripping a hilt with white knuckles, two inches of steel bared—but now he paused. They both paused.
Erick heaved in another breath. Another . . .
Then he collapsed back onto the cot, no longer flailing, no longer convulsing.
Silence held. No one spoke, breaths loud and ragged, chests heaving. One of the sailors coughed, raised a hand to wipe at his mouth, wincing as he touched the darkening bruise on his cheek.
After a long, tense moment, Isaiah lowered his arm. “I think it’s over.”
A strained tension bled out of the room with an almost audible sigh. Keven’s blade slid back into place with a click, and Isaiah turned, as if he had just become aware of it. He cast Keven a derisive glare.
Keven did not seem contrite, anger still clear in his gaze. And his hand didn’t leave the hilt.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He seized.”
I drew in a breath, the fear of a moment before sliding into an anger similar to Keven’s, but I held it in, forced myself to calm. “Why?”
“He’s dying,” he said bluntly. “He’s been inactive for months. He’s been tortured, is still being tortured according to you, and his body is giving up. If he isn’t freed from this spell within the next few days, he won’t survive, no matter what we do.”
I held Isaiah’s eyes, searched their depths, even touched the river.
What I saw there made me straighten, my jaw clenched.
Then I spun on my heel, moved down the corridor and up the ladder to the deck into early evening sunlight. I searched the crew, found Captain Bullick near the prow.
“Venitte,” I said, without preamble, cutting off whatever Bullick had been saying to one of his sailors.
“Yes, Mistress?” he said, stiffening slightly in disapproval.
Only then did I realize my hand rested on my dagger.
“How long until we reach Venitte?”
“Three days.”
I shook my head. “Erick doesn’t have three days.”
“But the Chorl—”
“I don’t care,” I said, my voice deadly. I could hear it, could hear the gutterscum in it, the street rat bleeding through. I could feel power building on the river, the currents riled. “Get us to Venitte in two days, no more.”
He straightened even further, nodded formally. “Yes, Mistress.”
I turned, headed back to the hatch, to my rooms. Behind, I heard Bullick exhale sharply, then bark orders.
* * *
Two days later, the Defiant approached the docks of Venitte in the dead of night, the ancient city that I’d seen only through dreams, through the memories of others, a blaze of light spread across the port mouth and distant hills, nothing truly visible. We’d entered the northern channel that led to the port an hour before, had watched the flames of torches from the manses and estates that lined the cliff heights to either side slide past in the darkness, had glided past lantern-lit ships on the black water, answering only those hails that were necessary. The Venittians had patrol ships out, guarding the entrance to the channel, and we were held up an interminable amount of time at first, the Venittian patrols unwilling to allow the three escorting Chorl ships through, even though it was obvious there were no blue-skinned Chorl on board, only Amenkor guardsmen. But finally Tristan intervened, using whatever influence he held in Venitte to get all five ships past the blockade and on their way.
I paced the deck, everyone—crew and guardsmen alike—staying well clear. I barely saw the lights that enthralled everybody else on the ship, merely glared up at the cliffs, the anger fueled by fear still seething inside me. I willed the ship to move faster as we emerged from the northern channel and headed directly for the port. I ground my teeth as the ship slowed to come in to dock, the crew leaping prematurely from the deck to tie the ship down in haste. Bullick had ridden them hard, still rode them as they lashed it into place, barking orders like a whip, the crew leaping to action almost before he spoke.
Then, suddenly, Bullick appeared at my side, dressed in his formal captain’s jacket. “Wait here while I speak with the harbormaster and get permission to come ashore.”
He turned without waiting for a response and stood at the edge of the deck until a plank was lowered and he could disembark.
I glared at his back until he vanished, then found Isaiah. He stood over Erick, who was tied to the plank we’d used to bring him aboard. The plank reminded me viscerally of the one used to slide the shrouded bodies of the dead into the sea, but I fought the image down. Marielle, Heddan, Gwenn, William, and an escort of guardsmen surrounded Erick, ready to leave as soon as Bullick gave his permission. The Servants stood guard over Ottul, even though I could sense the White Fire inside her.
“How is he?” I asked.
Isaiah shook his head. “He’s had two minor seizures in the last four hours.”
I grimaced, shot a glance toward where Bullick had vanished, then out toward the other ships, fixing on the Reliant, pulling in to dock beside us. I narrowed my eyes. “Then he needs to be healed now,” I said.
As soon as Bullick returned, nodding from the top of the plank, we disembarked and headed directly for Tristan’s ship.
Tristan was speaking to the harbormaster when I approached. I didn’t allow him to finish.
“I don’t care what it takes,” I said, my voice slicing through their conversation like a dagger, “but you will take me to see Zachari. Now.”
Both Tristan and the harbormaster frowned. Tristan’s gaze cut toward Avrell, expressionless at my side, toward Keven and the other two guardsmen standing behind me, their faces locked into dangerous lines, then toward the others, standing around Erick’s prone form in a group at the end of the dock.
Then it shifted farther down the wharf, where a large contingent of guardsmen approached in formal lines, at least fifty men in all, banners flapping in the torchlight that blazed all along the pier.
“The Protectorate,” someone whispered, and I turned to find Brandan standing behind Tristan.
Tristan relaxed, the release of tension subtle.
“That would be Lord Zachari Sorrenti,” he said.
As he spoke, the Protectorate reached the end of the dock, broke into two groups. One surrounded the Amenkor contingent surrounding Erick. The other continued down the pier toward us. They were heavily armored, steel reflecting the fire of the torches, flickering red and orange and yellow, carrying shields, swords cinched at their sides, helmets with stunted flaring wings on the heads of those in front. The surplices the leaders wore and the front of the shields contained a sheaf of wheat in gold on a blood-red background. The same symbol adorned the long thin banners.
The sigil of the Lord of Venitte, of Lord March.
“I believe that General Daeriun is here to escort you and your party to your official estates,” Tristan continued, “where you will stay until Lord March summons you.”
I stiffened, felt the muscles at the base of my jaw tighten as I clenched my teeth. General Daeriun’s men encircled us, the general himself—broad of shoulder, nose broken at least twice, with a respectable beard trimmed neatly, dark hair, and eyes cold and severe—stepping forward.
“He’s dying,” I said flatly, but Tristan ignored me, turning toward the general and bowing. Behind him, I caught Brandan’s sympathetic look, but the Venittian Servant, the gold medallion around his neck glinting, didn’t intervene.
“General Daeriun,” Tristan said, before rising.
“Captain Tristan.” The general’s voice was deceptively soft, almost mellifluous. “I hope the voyage was uneventful.”
Tristan grimaced. “Not quite. I must report immediately to Lord March.”
“Of course. A carriage is already waiting.” He gestured, and two of the
Protectorate stepped forward crisply. “These men will escort you.”
“Very well.” Tristan glanced toward me. “May I introduce the Mistress of Amenkor.”
The general’s brow lifted in respectful surprise. He bowed, as crisp and formal as the actions of all of the men in the Protectorate. “I’m honored,” he said, rising. He was half again as tall as I was, at least twice my age. “Lord March sends his regrets that he could not be here personally to greet you. He asked that I escort you to your residence, and that he will see you as soon as possible.”
“I need to speak with Zachari—”
Avrell cleared his throat quietly.
I frowned. “—Lord Sorrenti. Tonight.”
General Daeriun’s gaze flicked toward Tristan, his lips tightening, but he said, “I will send word to Lord Sorrenti. But it is late. I am not certain he will answer immediately.”
I wanted to scream, to throttle Tristan and Brandan both, to draw my dagger and force them all to move, but I could feel Avrell’s presence beside me, could feel him willing me to cooperate.
I drew a short breath, exhaled slowly through my nostrils, none of the tension in my shoulders easing. “Very well.”
Daeriun nodded. “If you will follow me?” He motioned with one hand down the dock.
I hesitated, the urge to argue, to fight, almost overwhelming, then stalked down the dock, Avrell, Keven, and the guardsmen following.
“What’s happening?” Marielle whispered as we joined the group on the wharf, the Protectorate merging fluidly and then striking off down the wharf, leading us deeper into Venitte.
“They’re taking us to an estate,” I said, clipped and harsh.
“But Erick!”
I shook my head, didn’t answer, couldn’t bring myself to speak. Not to her, nor Isaiah.
Instead, I focused on Avrell, thought of what Eryn had said, that I should trust him, that he’d been to Venitte before, that he’d dealt with them.
“What should I do?”
He pressed his lips tightly together, his gaze focused on the general, on the Protectorate that surrounded us. “Nothing for now. They’ve made their wishes clear.” Then he turned toward me. “This is not the reception I was expecting.”
“Maybe I can do something.”
Both of us turned toward William, dressed in his merchant’s jacket.
“I’m a merchant, part of the guild,” he said, straightening under our gaze, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket. A gesture I associated with Borund. “They have to respect the rights of the guild members. They’ve left Bullick and his crew at the docks; only you and the guardsmen are being escorted to the estate. Which means I should be free as well, as a guild member. To conduct business.”
I turned a skeptical eye on Avrell, who shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to try.”
I glanced down at Erick, at his wan face, his bloodless lips.
“Go.”
William broke away from the group, spoke a few words with the Protectorate escorting us, then slid through the opening they made and vanished.
I felt a pang as he left.
“Look,” Keven said.
I turned, saw another large contingent of the Protectorate ahead. They were escorting the Amenkor guardsmen from the Chorl ships. I caught Catrell’s eye, saw his dark frown, and motioned to him to cooperate.
He nodded, the frown not lessening, and passed the order to Westen and the rest of the Amenkor ranks.
“At least they aren’t separating us,” Avrell said.
I almost growled but controlled myself. I bit my lip as worry seeped into the anger.
“He will not survive the night,” Isaiah said.
He did not need to say who. I shot him a hate-filled glance, one that the healer did not deserve, but he didn’t react.
The Protectorate led us up through the streets of Venitte, over cobbles and flagstones, through wide open intersections with fountains or statues at their center. The water glinted in the faint light, barely visible, mostly sound, the stone figures of men and women, of horses and lions and other creatures at its center, etched in harsh, flickering shadow as we passed. Most of the streets were empty, too late for most of the citizens of Venitte to be out. Those few that were stepped out of the way as we approached, watching the procession with curious frowns. Most were men, dressed in shirts and breeches but with more buckles than there would have been in Amenkor. Many of their breeches ended at the knee, with stockings below, like those that Isaiah wore. The few women seen were dressed in loose clothing, the fabric hanging in subtle folds from their shoulders, tied at the waist, with long skirts and sandals, the look similar to that worn in Amenkor, but slightly off, the cut of the cloth different. They pulled their hair back and tied it or pinned it up using what looked like thin sticks.
The buildings were different as well, made of a gray-white stone rather than the gray granite, eggshell stone, or mud-brick of Amenkor, with more columns and detailed architecture on the outside, roofs peaked but low, the buildings themselves wide and short rather than narrow and tall. Windows were tall and thin, and arched at the top and bottom. Doorways were wide and arched only at the top. Most of the buildings had stone steps rising to the width of the building’s front, many had rounded windows tucked into the peaks of the roofs.
They reminded me of the buildings in the second ward of Amenkor, like the merchants’ guild. Except here they seemed to be everywhere. And they were larger, squatting in their plazas and at the edges of the wide roads with the discernible weight of time over them. They’d been built ages before we arrived, and expected to remain ages after we departed.
I shuddered.
The Protectorate halted in front of a wall at least twice my height, before an iron-barred gate, the detail of the ironwork exquisite, curled into a pattern of vines. Through the bars, I could see another of the white-stone buildings sprawling around a small courtyard.
As someone moved to open the gates, General Daeriun approached. “These will be your formal estates while you remain in Venitte. Household servants have been provided. The barracks for your men are to the left, behind the main house, next to a small practice yard and the stables. If you need anything, please inform the Steward.”
I placed one hand on Erick’s arm. “And Lord Sorrenti?”
Daeriun’s gaze dropped to Erick’s pale face. “I’ll inform him of your request, with Lord March’s permission.”
Then he spun, the men of the Protectorate parting before the open gates.
With tight-lipped anger, I led the Amenkor entourage into the estate, moving swiftly across the circle of white stone between the gates and the stairs of the main building, noting the grass and night-shadowed gardens to either side, another path leading around the manse to the left. I could see a small group waiting at the top of the steps.
I halted before a thin man in tan robes and sandals, my hand on my dagger, my anger a shield before me. He wore a blank expression, his features dark, slightly exotic and sharp, with a narrow beard along his jaw and his hair cropped short, almost to his scalp.
He bowed. His gaze flicked once toward Ottul, then back to me. “I am Alonse, head of the household servants. For the duration of your stay in Venitte, I will serve you as your Steward in all things. Lord March has declared this manse Amenkor territory and has given it over to your use, Mistress.”
“And can we leave?”
He straightened and gave a thin, pained smile. “Not as yet, Mistress. Lord March requests that you wait until he has had the time to formally welcome you.”
It did not sound like a request.
I felt someone lean in close from behind, saw Alonse’s gaze shift toward my shoulder.
“The Protectorate has left a . . . guard at the gates,” Keven murmured.
“An honor guard, Mistress,” Alonse responded.
I narrowed my eyes. Keven had spoken softly enough that Alonse should not have overheard.
“We need a room,” I said. “One of our number is . . . wounded.”
Alonse bowed, short and succinct. “Of course. Follow me.”
He gave some unseen command to the rest of the staff behind him and they moved, some vanishing on unknown errands through the main door, others descending the steps to lead the rest of the guardsmen to the barracks. I saw Westen approaching.
“Captain Catrell is going to see that everything is in order in the barracks,” he said, “then he’ll join us in the manse.”
“Good.”
“He’s not happy.”
“I saw that on the docks.”
Nothing more was said as Alonse led the entire group into the manse. The first room, a huge, circular foyer with marbled flooring, contained three doors and two curved flights of stairs to a second floor. Alonse ascended the stairs to the left into a wide hall branching left and right with small tables, potted palms, and huge urns set against the walls. The first door to the left opened into a room with a four-posted bed draped in filmy cloth, a cushioned bench at its foot, a settee, a few chairs, a table with fruit and a pitcher, and wardrobes against the walls.
“Will this suffice?” Alonse asked.
“Yes.”
The four guardsmen carrying Erick’s pallet moved to the bed, Isaiah and Marielle hustling to help.
“Can you send word to Lord Sorrenti?” Alonse’s lips thinned and he drew breath to speak, but I cut him off in irritation. “Never mind. ‘Lord March requests,’ I’m certain.”
Alonse frowned, the first true expression he’d shown since we’d met him in front of the manse. “Was there anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“I could show you to your own rooms—”
He cut off as I turned.
“Leave.”
He bowed and left, the doors remaining open behind him. Keven immediately stationed the guardsmen that had remained with us around the door and in the corridor beyond. As he did so, Catrell arrived.
Avrell, Westen, Catrell, and Keven converged on me. Heddan and Gwenn had moved to Erick’s side with Ottul, helping Isaiah get him situated.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 99