The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  “I didn’t.” When I saw his expression darken, I said, “Not for certain. But ever since the Skewed Throne was destroyed, I’ve been having dreams, memories of the Seven that I did not access while they were part of the throne, memories that I should not have. Eryn, the previous Mistress, and I thought that I might somehow be connected to the Stone Throne, that perhaps it wasn’t lost after all.

  “I had no idea that the Stone Throne was still being used until I felt you using it to heal Erick.”

  Sorrenti’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “That . . . would explain a lot. Ever since you entered the city, the Seven have been . . . agitated. The throne senses you, is aware of you, but nothing like that has ever happened before, because no Mistress has ever been able to come to Venitte. The connection isn’t strong enough to locate you, but it’s strong enough to be felt.” He paused, stared out over the water of the harbor for a long moment, then turned back.

  “The Seven believe I should trust you. I know the two thrones were connected. I felt the loss of the Skewed Throne, even here in Venitte, felt the pain when it was destroyed. If what you say about the Chorl is true, if what Tristan and Brandan report about the battle in Amenkor and on the ocean on the way here is true, then the Servants of this city will be crucial in its defense. I’d like you to help us prepare. Your captain can help General Daeriun and his men. I’d like you to help me with the Servants.”

  I straightened, stared directly into his blue eyes. “Of course, Lord Sorrenti.”

  With that, he nodded and gathered his own escort about him, vanishing into the crowds on the wharf.

  On the dock, Keven, Avrell, and I watched him go.

  “At least we now know for certain that Lord March and the others are taking the Chorl threat seriously and are preparing for it,” Keven said. Then his gaze shifted. “It looks like someone’s been waiting for our return.”

  I glanced in the direction of his gaze and saw William standing at the end of the dock, frowning.

  “Let’s see what he wants,” I said.

  * * *

  “Captain Bullick noticed it first a few days ago and brought it to my attention,” William explained as we walked down the wharf toward the dock that had been given over to Bullick and the rest of Amenkor’s ships. The throngs of people were thick enough we’d elected not to use the carriages. “Since then, he’s been keeping careful track of the trader’s activities.”

  “And what has he seen?” Avrell asked.

  “A pattern that doesn’t make any sense.” At Avrell’s irritated look, he added, “I’ll let Bullick explain.”

  We’d reached the end of the Amenkor pier. Catrell had left a contingent of guardsmen there to control access to the Defiant and the refitted Chorl ships, but we passed through the line unhindered, the captain of the force nodding and gesturing the Skewed Throne symbol over his chest as we passed, closing the line behind us.

  We found Bullick in his cabin, a sparsely decorated room, not much larger than the cabin Marielle, Trielle, and I had shared on the journey down here. Bullick sat behind a desk that could be folded up into the wall—nothing more than a board and supporting leg that fit into two notches in the floor—with a logbook before him, quill and wide-bottomed ink bottle to one side, the bottle set in a depression in the desk’s surface so it would not shift around at sea. When a sailor announced our arrival, he folded up the logbook and set it in a waiting trunk.

  As soon as he saw William, he said to the sailor, “Bring the Mistress and her guests some folding chairs, Byron.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As we waited, he said, “I assume this is about Lord Demasque’s trading ships?”

  William nodded grimly. “And what I’ve found at the merchants’ guild.”

  Byron reappeared suddenly with another crewman and they set up the chairs, Bullick retrieving a ship’s decanter and glasses from a cupboard and pouring us all a finger’s portion. It smelled like rum, something I’d only tasted once, on the trip to Venitte, and hadn’t liked.

  Handing the glasses around, Bullick took a seat. “I don’t know if this will amount to anything at all, but since we were forced to remain aboard ship when we first arrived, there wasn’t much to do except watch the coming and going of the ships.”

  “And what did you see?” I asked.

  Bullick hesitated, as if still not certain he should say anything at all. But then he took a swig of the rum and leaned forward, his face intent. “Every port has a flow to it, a rhythm, ships coming in, unloading their cargo, loading fresh cargo, departing, all in steady patterns. There are fluctuations in the pattern—ships that arrive late because of storms, things like that—but in general it’s always the same pattern: arrive, unload, load, depart.

  “But a few days ago, one of the crew—one of the lookouts actually—noticed that one of the trading ships didn’t fit the pattern. He came to see me about it. He said that about a week before, he’d noticed one of the traders pulling into berth, sitting high in the water, which means that they didn’t have any cargo. That’s unusual. Traders always have cargo. Captains don’t remain in business long unless they’re getting paid somehow. Their crews would mutiny. But this ship had no cargo. The lookout watched the ship for the next few days and nothing was unloaded during the day, and after questioning the other lookouts, nothing was unloaded at night either. However, on the last day, supplies were loaded aboard, and the next day the ship was gone. It had left during the night.”

  Bullick took another drink of the rum, set the glass aside. “My lookout shrugged it aside—this isn’t Amenkor after all; Venittian captains can ruin themselves as fast as they like as far as the crew is concerned, it improves our own business—but a few days later the same ship, the Squall, which flies the Stilt—”

  “Lord Demasque’s flag,” William interjected.

  Bullick nodded but didn’t break his story. “—eased into its berth again . . . and did not unload any cargo. This is when the lookout pointed the ship out to me. We’ve watched the ship for the last few days.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “It loaded supplies and left the same night.”

  Bullick nodded. “That’s when I contacted William. I didn’t want to come to you until I had something more concrete to report. After all, it’s Lord Demasque’s business. If he wishes to lose money by running empty ships, that’s his affair. But I thought it wise to have William look into it. And once we were allowed to roam the wharf, I had a few of my more trusted and discreet crew ask around.”

  “What did they find?”

  “That the Squall has been doing such runs since the beginning of spring, only once or twice a month at first, but in the last month the activity has picked up. Sometimes they’re gone for a few days, sometimes for a whole week or more. . . . And no one knows what they’re up to. Their crew doesn’t talk about it. In fact, their crew almost never leaves the ship when they’re in Venitte. I’ve only seen the captain off the dock where they berth, and I’ve only seen the first mate go farther than the deck to speak to the harbormaster. It’s damn strange . . . and suspicious.”

  Bullick shook his head and his gaze shifted to William, who sat forward in his seat and set his glass on Bullick’s table.

  “At Bullick’s request, I went to the merchants’ guild and looked into the ledgers. The Squall is indeed one of Lord Demasque’s ships. In fact, it’s owned by Lord Demasque, not by its captain, unlike most of the merchant ships in the harbor. Every shipment that comes in to Venitte, or leaves, must register a manifest with the guild, and that manifest is available to guild members. I looked up the Squall’s manifests for the last few months.”

  “And . . . ?” Avrell prompted.

  William shook his head. “Aside from the supplies that are loaded before each departure, the Squall isn’t carrying any cargo. As far as the guild is concerned, and from all appearances on the docks, Lord Dem
asque is trading in nothing.”

  Avrell snorted. “He’s doing something. We just haven’t found out what yet.”

  I turned to Bullick. “Can we follow the Squall somehow without being seen?”

  Bullick frowned. “No. Any attempt to follow in a ship would be obvious, especially on the ocean. Especially if we’re using Amenkor ships. We’re the only crews from Amenkor here at the moment.”

  “And we aren’t here to trade,” Avrell said. “Everyone on the docks on the night of our arrival saw us off-load guardsmen, not cargo. If we leave, Demasque will take note.”

  “Then we need someone else’s ship, someone from Venitte.”

  I glanced toward William, who grimaced.

  “The Reliant,” he said. “Captain Tristan’s ship.”

  I frowned. “I need to speak with Lord March.”

  “You have some time,” Bullick said. “The Squall left for its current run two days ago. If they follow their most recent pattern, they won’t return for at least two days, perhaps more.”

  * * *

  “What is it you wish to speak about?” Lord March asked.

  Avrell, William, and I had just been admitted into his personal study, a much smaller room than the Council chambers, but still twice as large as my own audience chambers in Amenkor. Inside the same building that housed the Council chambers, its floor was a mottled gray-blue marble, partial columns rounding out the corners, the ceiling covered in wide tiles that gave the illusion of sunlight breaking over the far horizon. Banners covered the walls to either side, bookcases and shelves against the wall behind our seats, which faced an immense oak desk, a large map spread out over the surface near me, the edges and far side covered with stacks of papers, quills, ink bottles, and wax for seals, all neatly organized.

  As Lord March motioned us to take seats in the array of chairs before him, a page boy stepped up to his side and handed him a sheet, distracting him. At least three others were waiting with their own missives, two others sitting to one side, waiting for directions. Clerks seated at their own smaller desks were working to either side of the room beneath the banners.

  Lord Sorrenti and General Daeriun leaned over the map, arguing about something in a low murmur.

  “I’m sorry,” Lord March said, the page boy darting off to one side, toward one of the waiting clerks, paper in hand. The next started to step forward, but Lord March halted him with a gesture. “As you can imagine, it’s been rather busy in the last few weeks.”

  I nodded. “Lord Sorrenti told me. I hope Captain Catrell and his men will be useful.”

  “Oh, they will be,” General Daeriun said, breaking off his discussion with Sorrenti. “Although at this point, aside from the Servant you brought with you, we have seen no sign of the Chorl at all near Venitte.”

  “Daeriun.”

  The general did not turn toward Lord March, but kept his eyes on me, waiting for my reaction.

  I frowned. “They’re coming, General.”

  He lifted his chin, not quite in contempt, but said nothing.

  I dismissed him, shifting my gaze toward Lord March. I didn’t need to impress Daeriun. I only needed to convince Lord March.

  “Forgive my general,” Lord March said, standing and moving from behind his desk. “He’s a skeptical man. We have enough evidence to suggest there’s some type of threat out there—ships lost, the report from Captain Tristan of the attacks at sea, other traders verifying sightings of strange ships. However, Daeriun won’t believe it until the Chorl attack and he can sink his blade into them.” Daeriun grunted. “Now, what did you need?”

  “I need a ship.”

  Lord March’s eyebrows rose in surprise. A ship was clearly not what he had expected.

  From Lord Sorrenti’s frown, neither had he.

  “You have ships here in Venitte,” Lord March said. “Why would you need one of mine?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. My gaze flickered toward Sorrenti. “Because we’ve noticed something strange regarding one of the traders in the harbor. I’d like to find out what, but if I use one of Amenkor’s ships, it will be obvious what I’m doing. I need to be more circumspect than that.”

  “Why?”

  Meeting his gaze squarely, I said, “Because it involves one of your Council members.”

  He frowned. “I see.”

  For a long moment, he stared at me, considering. Then, he straightened. “Daeriun, have the guards clear the room, please.”

  Daeriun shot him a mute glare, then motioned to the few guardsmen stationed around the room. They began herding everyone out of the room, the clerks protesting a moment as they tried to cap ink bottles or gather papers to take with them.

  Within minutes, the room was empty except for William, Avrell, Sorrenti, Daeriun, Lord March, and myself.

  Lord March drew in a steadying breath, then asked, “Which one?” His voice was heavy with command, with expectation. He thought he already knew the answer. When I hesitated, he added, “I trust Lord Sorrenti and General Daeriun with my life, Mistress. As you no doubt trust your First and Master William with yours.”

  I nodded. “Lord Demasque.”

  March and Sorrenti exchanged a glance. Daeriun stiffened.

  “Tell her,” Sorrenti said. “It’s obvious she has nothing to do with the current state of the Council of Eight. Why would she come here otherwise?”

  “Do you trust her?”

  Sorrenti’s gaze fell on me, his mouth pressed tight. “I trust her, yes. And more importantly, the Seven trust her.”

  Lord March grunted. “Very well.”

  Daeriun said nothing as the other two spoke, although it was clear by his frown that he did not approve.

  Lord March turned back to me. “The threat of the Chorl could not have come at a worse time. For the past seven years, since just before the Fire passed through our city as well as yours, the Council of Eight and the entire region has been slowly destabilizing. I noticed it almost immediately, was forewarned that such might happen by Lord Sorrenti, who said that it happened the last time the Fire passed over the coast.”

  Sorrenti nodded grimly. “The last time, famine and disease spread all along the coast. At least half of the population succumbed to the Black Death in Venitte alone, perhaps more. There was drought all along the coast. Many starved. The Council at the time grew desperate as everyone tried to protect their own estates, as they tried to protect their own families.”

  “At least half of the Council was killed,” Lord March said, “either by assassination or during the riots in the city. The disease in the northern quarter, the deaths, became so prevalent that at one point Lord Haggen—the ruling Lord at the time—set fire to the district in an attempt to contain the plague. The fire raged out of control, burning nearly half the city to the ground. All of this happened over the course of eleven years, finally escalating to the fire. A kind of madness.

  “And we’re seeing signs of the same madness again.”

  “What do you mean?” I knew of the madness of the first coming of the Fire, had witnessed some of it through the throne, through the eyes of the Mistresses of the time. I’d lived through that previous Mistress’ rape and death at the hands of her own personal guard, her body left battered and bleeding on the steps of the palace promenade.

  “Haven’t you felt it in Amenkor?” Daeriun asked, almost growling. “This past winter we had the largest shortages we’ve had in decades. Disease ran rampant in the Gutter. The citizens rioted, had to be quelled by the Protectorate. They came close to overrunning the Merchant Quarter, almost set fire to the wharf.”

  “And the Council has begun to break down.” Lord March’s voice overrode Daeriun’s smoothly, the general settling back grudgingly. “Did you notice Lord Dussain? Richar Dussain?”

  I frowned, thought back to my presentation before the Council. “The youn
gest Lord.”

  “He’s the youngest for a reason. This past winter, his father was killed during one of the riots.”

  “An accident?” Avrell asked.

  Both Lords turned toward the First.

  “So it seemed,” Lord Sorrenti said. “I do not believe so. The circumstances were suspicious, but nothing could be proven.”

  “In any case,” Lord March continued, “since Lord Dussain’s death—before that—Venitte has been unsettled. And it’s only become worse. I can feel the tension myself, can sense it, even without Lord Sorrenti’s advice.” Here, he shared a hooded glance with me. He meant the throne, Sorrenti’s connection to the city, the same connection I’d felt after I’d touched the Skewed Throne in Amenkor. As if the city itself were a part of me, part of the pulse of my blood, the beating of my heart.

  “And now there’s the Chorl,” I said.

  “And now the Chorl,” Lord March repeated. “If they are out there, if they do intend to attack, I’m not certain the Council will be strong enough to stop them. Not in the current state of unrest. The Eight have already resisted helping Daeriun with the placement of units throughout the city, have already resisted providing the necessary supplies. They’re afraid—of what happened to Lord Dussain, of what the winter might presage. They’re gathering their resources, attempting to protect themselves. And one of the most obstinate of the Council, the least cooperative so far, is Lord Demasque. Which brings us back to your request.”

  He shifted forward slightly. “Anything regarding any of the Council of Eight should be approached with great caution. I rule here in Venitte, but only by the Council’s agreement, and the threat I bring by controlling the Protectorate and the guard. I warn you to tread lightly, because I may not be able to protect you if you step on the wrong feet.” He paused, to let his words sink in, then asked, “What do you think Demasque is doing?”

  “I don’t know. But my instincts tell me whatever it is can’t be ignored. And I didn’t survive as long as I did in the slums of Amenkor without trusting my instincts.”