The Skewed Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  Instantly, the same trembling weakness that had struck me before coursed through my legs. I didn’t go as deep! I thought to myself in anger and annoyance, and fought the weakness, pushed it back ferociously as I dodged through the crowd. Without the focus of the river I couldn’t move as easily through the people, couldn’t see the eddies, the currents. I swore as I stumbled over someone’s foot, heard them curse in return, and then I realized that Garrell had stopped.

  I halted in the middle of the Dredge, felt someone pull up short behind me, skirt around with a mutter.

  Ahead, Garrell had paused near the entrance to an alley, stood leaning against the corner. A woman had spread a stained blanket out on the stone of the Dredge, broken pottery that she had repaired set out on the blanket. Her daughter sat on the corner of the blanket just before Garrell, staring down at a thin, faded green cloth in one hand. She was twisting it in boredom, her blonde hair half-fallen over her rounded face. Unusual blonde hair, the color of straw. She wore a dirty shirt that was too big for her, tied with twine at her waist like a dress. Her mother wore the same. Both were barefoot, feet dirty.

  The woman stood in front of the blanket, her own long, straw-blonde hair tied back with a length of rawhide. Her features were more foreign than the girl’s, her eyes desperate. A dab of blue had been painted onto her skin near the corner of her left eye, like a teardrop. She cupped a glazed bowl in both hands and held it out to the passing crowd in mute supplication.

  I frowned. The two were obviously not from Amenkor. I’d heard of the blue paint mark. The Tear of Taniece, some religious sect from one of the northern cities along the coast.

  I snorted. Amenkor didn’t need a god; we had the Mistress.

  Garrell was staring down at the girl. A slow smile crept across his face.

  Something touched against the back of my neck, like a drop of water, then trickled down between my shoulders like sweat. I reached up to brush it away, but there was no sweat, only the sensation, the prickle of water against skin.

  My frown deepened and I scanned the crowd behind me. Instinctively, I reached for the river and felt the nausea return, felt my legs weaken, and stopped with a grimace. I scanned the crowd again and saw nothing.

  But there was something back there. I could feel it.

  Then the Fire leaped upward again and I spun back toward Garrell.

  He was gone.

  So was the girl.

  The green cloth lay at the edge of the blanket, twisted in on itself.

  For a moment, I felt nothing but the Fire, heard nothing but the grunts of the first man I’d killed as he struggled with his clothing, his hand pressed down hard, so hard, into my chest. I smelled his musty shirt with the Skewed Throne stitching torn out as he crushed my face into his shoulder. I couldn’t catch my breath, tasted the mold in the cloth as it pressed into my mouth.

  Then the Fire blazed over me and I darted toward the alley where Garrell had been leaning, where the mother of the girl had just noticed that her daughter was missing. I halted at the entrance, leaned against one wall for support as a wave of weakness washed through me. But I didn’t have time for the weakness.

  I gasped in a few deep breaths, then plunged into the depths of the alley, into the depths beyond the Dredge.

  I ran. Into the shadows. Into the familiar stench. The alley angled away after a short stretch and I slowed as my eyes adjusted. Too slow, too slow. There was no one ahead, only mud-brick slicked with mold, a trickle of sludge down the center cobbles, an alcove, a door farther down. I slipped down the alley, keeping close to one wall, my heart thudding in my chest. The Fire had died down, but still sent licks of white flame down my arms. I felt them in my pulse, in my blood, burning.

  I reached out to the wall for support as I moved, fighting off another wave of nausea. I wanted to move faster, but didn’t dare. Garrell could be anywhere.

  The alcove was empty. The doorway had been bricked shut, the brick now beginning to crumble.

  I moved on, hesitantly, toward the empty blackness of a window, another alcove.

  When I reached the window, the darkness inside so complete I could see nothing, the Fire roiling inside my gut abruptly died down to a single coiled flame.

  My stomach clenched and I swallowed against the sudden certainty that I was too late. I lurched toward the alcove, hesitated at its recessed wooden doorway.

  Twisting the hilt of the dagger I didn’t remember drawing, I pushed the door open with one hand and stepped inside with barely a sound, crouching low and to one side just inside the darkness. I breathed in deep, scented the mildew of the rotting door and something deeper, something metallic. Something I recognized.

  I waited, letting the darkness recede into vague forms. Crumbled walls, another window, a second door. A broken table and shattered chair. A body.

  I shifted forward.

  The girl lay on her back, her too-long shirt rucked up to her armpits, her arms pulled above her head, angled and loose in death, her legs splayed. Her skin was hauntingly pale, except for the black of the blood trailing down from the knife wound in her chest.

  I stood over her, stared down at her eyes—mere shimmers against the paleness of her face. The wetness of tears still stained her cheeks.

  I thought again of the first man I’d killed, of his hand pressing hard against my chest, and drew in a long, deep, shuddering breath. Tears threatened to blind me.

  I’d taken too long, moved too slowly.

  The Fire had died, and in its place I felt hot anger. Like the anger I’d felt when I’d knelt over the man’s body and spat into his face, flushed and feverish.

  I turned to the second door, moved toward it without thought. No thought was needed. I could feel the anger in my jaw, hard and locked and intent. Could feel it in the hand that gripped the dagger.

  The door opened onto a wall, a narrow running to the left and right. I couldn’t tell which direction Garrell had taken.

  I pushed myself beneath the river, violently.

  Bile instantly rose to my throat, burning, and I collapsed to my hands and knees, hunched over as I vomited. The world of gray and red and wind vanished almost instantly.

  But not before I caught the stench of rotten butter and piss and blood. It came from the left narrow.

  Spitting out the last of the vomit, I forced myself to my feet, wiped the sourness from my mouth as I stumbled to the left. My legs trembled. One calf cramped.

  Twenty steps along the narrow, past a sharp turn, I saw Garrell. He was walking away, his back to me, but moving slowly.

  I came up behind him without a sound, touched his shoulder.

  He turned with a slight start, that slow grin still on his face. Only now it was deeper, more satisfied. Sated. And now I was close enough, I could see it touching his eyes.

  He was still back with the girl. I could see it there, in his eyes. Dark brown eyes.

  I slid my dagger up beneath his ribs. The motion felt slow, practiced, but it happened in a heartbeat. I slid it in deep, then pulled it free and stepped back out of range.

  I’d missed his heart on purpose.

  He staggered back, his eyes widening. He wasn’t with the girl anymore. His hands grabbed for both sides of the narrow, but only one made contact. As he stumbled, he tried to gasp. Blood poured out of his mouth with a rough, choked cough. Hand still against the wall, he swung backward, back slamming against the mud-brick. His other hand made contact with a meaty slap.

  Then his legs gave out and he crumpled to one side, back skidding down the brick.

  I moved forward and knelt over him. He was still breathing, through blood and spit and snot. Blood now stained his shirt where I’d stabbed him. The stain was spreading.

  He tried to raise one arm, tried to reach for me. There was anger in his eyes now, and his mouth twisted. His breath was coming in shortened gasps.

  “Die, bastard,” I muttered.

  And he did, his last breath coming in a bubble of blood.

&
nbsp; It held for a moment, then burst.

  I stared into Garrell’s muddy, death-glazed eyes and shivered in belated reaction. Not a shudder of weariness from using the river, nor of nausea. This shiver tickled along my skin and brought hot, sharp tears to my eyes.

  I turned away from Garrell’s body and looked up into the blue of the sky, into the sunlight that somehow never made it down into the depths of the narrows, into the rooms with the bodies of the dead, or the niches of the living. I looked up at the sky with tears stinging my eyes and thought of the first man I’d killed, the one who’d been a guardsman, the one whose dagger I carried.

  After a moment, I let the tears come. Not sobbing, racking tears. Not tears for the ex-guardsman who’d tried to rape me. And not for Garrell. These tears were for the girl whose body rested inside the shattered room, her arms loose above her head. And for the girl I’d been.

  I was still staring up at the sky when I heard a rustle behind me, in the narrow.

  I turned where I knelt, dagger held before me. At first I saw nothing but the darkness, still blinded by the sky. But then a figure emerged, huddled close to a wall.

  The figure was too far away for me to see a face, nothing more than a shape. Before I could move closer, whoever it was turned and faded into the darkness, the sounds of their fleeing footsteps receding into the silence of the narrow.

  I thought suddenly of the girl and rose. Leaving Garrell behind, I fled back to the room. I didn’t want to think about what I’d done, how easily I’d done it. I didn’t want to think about Garrell at all.

  So I concentrated on the girl.

  I hid the dagger beneath my clothes, then knelt and gently pulled down the girl’s makeshift dress, hiding the blood and spatter at the junction of her legs. The length of twine she’d used as a belt was gone, discarded. I scooped her body up in my arms, holding her beneath the neck and knees. Her head rolled back, unnaturally relaxed, and I subdued an urge to sob. I shifted her arms so that they lay against her body, then stood.

  She felt weightless, like a bundle with nothing inside, all loose and empty and broken.

  It was the most horrible sensation I’d ever felt.

  I found the girl’s mother where I’d left her. She’d collapsed to her knees in the center of the blanket, her face empty. But her eyes continued to dart toward the faces in the crowd, continued to search. She hadn’t seen me. Her shoulders hunched as I approached from behind, hitched with awkwardly silent sobs, her hands covering her face. The green cloth was twisted through the fingers of one hand.

  I knelt beside her.

  Her hands dropped instantly and she jerked away, face terrified, arms raised defensively. She cried out something in a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t move.

  Then she noticed what I held in my arms.

  It only took a heartbeat. And then she screamed. A rough scream of pure anguish that pierced the noise of the Dredge, that caused those passing by to halt in shock, to draw back. But she didn’t notice. Her hands returned to her face, trembling inches before her, as if she didn’t dare touch herself. Then she reached forward, tentatively, and pulled her daughter to her. She clutched her daughter to her chest, one hand holding the back of the girl’s head to her shoulder, the other at the base of her back, crushing the girl to her. She hunched over her as she sobbed, the blue mark of paint near her eye vivid in the sunlight, her face contorted with a pain I didn’t understand.

  And so I fled. Back into the depths beyond the Dredge, into the narrows and alleys and hidden rooms. I didn’t care where I went. I simply moved—away from the dead girl, away from the torn, pleading expression on her mother’s face, away from the sensation of weightlessness. I moved, blinded by tears occasionally, but the tears came harder now, hurt more in my chest. I was too exhausted for tears.

  Eventually, I realized I was heading toward Cobbler ’s Fountain.

  It was approaching dusk, and I’d found Garrell.

  I waited in a recessed doorway in sight of the fountain. I didn’t like to come here. Not because of my tattered clothing anymore; Erick had taken care of that. Because of the memories.

  I glanced up at the broken fountain, a mere outline in the darkness, and felt sunlight and water against my face, heard laughter. My mother’s laughter, soft and deep and throaty as she splashed me. I giggled, splashed back. I could taste the water in my mouth, cool as it ran into my eyes, down the curve of my neck.

  Hands lifted me from the fountain. I heard my mother murmur, Come on. You’ve had enough fun for today. Time to head home.

  I turned away, shoved the memory aside in anger. It didn’t matter. It meant nothing. It was too vague, too bright with sunlight and reflected water, the voice too soft and fluid. I’d been too young.

  “Have you found Garrell?”

  Erick stood on the edge of the open, cobbled circle around the fountain. When I glanced up, his expectant face darkened and his stance shifted, became subtly more dangerous.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His eyes shifted behind me, scanned the alley, the recesses, the doors, then back to me. He frowned.

  The nausea returned when his gaze fell on me, and I turned away.

  “I found him,” I said.

  I led him back to the narrow, through the night. I didn’t look back, but I could feel him following, wary, his hand close to his dagger.

  I halted ten paces away from the body and sank down into an uncomfortable crouch against the wall. Erick paused just behind me in the darkness, then edged past, his hand resting briefly on my head. The touch was gentle, reassuring, and I felt my chest clench and harden, my eyes burn again.

  I hunched over my knees, pulled them to my chest.

  Erick knelt at Garrell’s side a long moment, then stood.

  “Did you do this?” he asked. His voice was emotionless and he did not turn.

  Before I could answer, someone else spat, “She killed him. I saw her.”

  I jerked upright, hand groping for my dagger.

  Erick barely reacted, merely turned toward the voice. “Come here,” he said, hard and unforgiving.

  Farther down the narrow, a shadow detached itself from the wall and hesitantly moved forward. The figure kept to the deeper darknesses, kept itself hidden, but as it moved closer, it seemed to gain confidence.

  When he came close enough to be recognized, he stood straight, face wary but head high.

  Erick shifted toward him. “Who are you?”

  “Bloodmark,” I said sharply, my voice laced with hate.

  Both Erick and Bloodmark turned toward me, Erick with a frown, Bloodmark with a contemptuous sneer.

  “Is that your name?” Erick asked.

  Bloodmark’s sneer faded. “It’s as good a name as any.”

  Erick nodded, as if he’d expected the response.

  Then he seemed to dismiss Bloodmark entirely and turned toward me.

  “Come here,” he said.

  I hesitated, uncertain what Erick intended. But all of the brittleness had left his voice, and I was used to following his orders now because of the training. I trusted him.

  I stepped forward until I stood beside Erick, over Garrell’s body.

  Bloodmark sank into a crouch less than ten paces away, but I barely noticed him.

  I looked into Garrell’s face, as I’d done earlier. But now all the hatred and anger had faded. I felt nothing but a trembling, weak shame.

  Erick leaned forward, close enough I could feel his breath tickling the back of my neck.

  “Go ahead and mark him,” he murmured.

  I flinched, stepped back in horror, but Erick stopped me, his hand against my back. He pressed me forward.

  “No,” I breathed, shaking my head.

  “Why not? You killed him, didn’t you?” Still a murmur, but hardened now, insistent.

  “I saw her kill him,” Bloodmark interjected. “She touched his shoulder and when he turned she stabbed him!”

  Erick jerked his head to
ward Bloodmark, cutting him off. “If you say one more word, I’ll cut out your tongue, gutterscum.”

  The threat sent a shiver down my back, to where Erick’s hand still held me in place. My skin prickled.

  Then Erick’s breath touched my neck again.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  I nodded, felt the dagger slice up through Garrell’s shirt, snagging slightly, then slipping into flesh. With a torn voice, I breathed, “Yes.”

  “Then you deserve the mark.”

  His hand left my back and he stepped away. Not far, but enough so that the world seemed to narrow down to just me and Garrell, to his shadowed face and muddy eyes, the ale-stain of the birthmark on his neck a pool of black against his skin.

  I knelt, my dagger already in my hand. The stench of death, of blood and piss and shit, filtered through the stench of rot from the narrow.

  I hesitated.

  “But I killed the man who tried to strangle me. I killed the fat man. You marked them both. Not me.”

  From what felt like a great distance, Erick said, “You killed the man who tried to strangle you to save yourself. And you killed the fat man to save me. This one is different, Varis. You killed him because it was necessary. Because you wanted to.”

  I brought the dagger up to Garrell’s forehead, placed the blade against his skin, then hesitated again.

  I closed my eyes and thought about the man with the garrote, felt the cord as it bit into my neck. I still carried a faint scar, a circle of white, with a vertical line where I’d cut myself with my own dagger to get free. I thought about leaning over him, staring into his face, then spitting on him.

  The hot anger of that moment returned with a flush and I opened my eyes, looked down into Garrell’s face again. Only this time I didn’t see the shadows against his skin, the muddiness of his eyes, the dark blood of the birthmark.

  I saw him staring down at the girl with the straw-blonde hair as she toyed with the green cloth. I saw the slow smile as it spread across his face. That slow, casual grin.

  The hot anger spread through my chest, down into my arms, and I straightened where I knelt. My jaw clenched, and with firm strokes I sliced the Skewed Throne into Garrell’s forehead, then sat back.