I slid through, pulled the door closed behind me as quietly as possible, and then turned and halted, heart wrenching in my chest. I let out an involuntary gasp.
I’d entered a long, wide hall from a side entrance. To my right, four huge pillars stretched from the marbled floor to the ceiling. Another four pillars stood on the far side of the room. Shadows filled the recesses behind the pillars where I stood, and behind the pillars on the opposite side of the hall. Down the center, between the two rows of pillars, stretched a wide walkway, leading to two large wooden doors banded with metal.
Directly ahead, at the height of a dais, I could see the side of a throne lit by torchlight, the throne facing the walkway and the double doors.
The Skewed Throne.
My body shuddered and I blinked in the half-light, tried to focus on the throne, my eyes refusing to settle, the air distorted somehow. After a moment, I realized that the problem wasn’t with my eyes at all, but with the throne itself.
It was a simple stone slab with no back and four supports, one on each corner. But even as my eyes held onto this image, it seemed to waver, twisting, one leg suddenly shorter but supporting a corner that appeared higher than all the others. The throne warped, turned in upon itself, the stone slab that formed the seat was no longer flat, the edges that had appeared sharp and well defined before were now smooth and rounded. Then it shifted again, now chipped and chiseled, rough-hewn.
The motion turned my stomach, sent a feverish heat tingling through my skin. I shuddered again and turned away from the throne, away from the dais and the three wide stone steps that led from the main walkway between the pillars up to the throne itself.
With a deep breath, I steadied myself.
And felt the throne at my back reach out toward me, felt it pushing against my shoulders, almost like a physical presence. The rustling of dead leaves returned, shivering through the air, growing even as the skin at the nape of my neck began to prickle. The voices emerged from the rustling sound, called to me, echoed in my ears.
I tensed in horror. The voices came from the throne. The throne knew me, had tried to call to me earlier, was calling to me now.
And I hadn’t touched the river since the voices had rushed me in the closet.
I stepped back, tried to block the voices out—
Then I heard the clatter of the guards on the other side of the door, in the hallway behind me.
Not looking toward the throne, I darted to the right, down the long walkway, between the rows of pillars, across the half-dark room to the main entrance. I felt the throne behind me, a hot, scrabbling pressure against my back, felt it flowing from shape to shape, twisted and tormented, calling to me, the voices more urgent now, more desperate.
I gasped as I neared the doorway, passed through and out into the empty hallway beyond with a low, moaning cry. The gasp turned into a shudder of relief as I felt the ornate oaken door thud home behind me, cutting off the voices and the sensation of hands scrabbling across my back.
I leaned against the door a long moment, shudders running through my body. Sweat dripped down my face and I wiped it away with the back of my arm, heart thundering in my chest. I drew in deep, ragged breaths, steadied myself.
It took longer than I expected.
Then I straightened. I set the eerie sensation of the Throne, of the haunting voices and their immense power, aside.
I’d reached the edge of the Mistress’ private rooms. Time to shed the page boy disguise. It was almost finished.
My gaze hardened, face grim as I stepped down the unguarded hall to a new set of double doors, the last set of double doors, drawing my dagger as I went.
Chapter 11
“ THEmustard-coated merchant’s name is Alendor,” Borund said, and sank back into the chair he’d had moved into William’s bedroom. “Cristoph is one of his sons, the youngest. And if Alendor’s involved. . . .”
He trailed off into silence. It was late morning, the day after I’d killed Charls, and I’d just told him what I’d heard at Charls’ manse, and that Cristoph knew what I’d done. But I hadn’t told them everything. I’d only said Cristoph had seen me leaving Charls’ manse, blood on my clothes. I hadn’t mentioned Erick at all.
On the bed, William struggled into a sitting position, using the pillows and the headboard for support. He grimaced in pain as he moved, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead, but neither Borund nor I moved to help him, careful of his pride.
When he’d made himself comfortable and caught his breath, he asked, “So what does he intend to do? He’s buying up all available resources, gaining others from those who have it and aren’t willing to sell by intimidating them or killing them, but for what purpose? A monopoly?”
“Yes.” Borund nodded thoughtfully. “But a monopoly not just on a single commodity. He wants to control everything. He’s forming a consortium, a small group of people that will control all of the trade in the city, perhaps in the surrounding cities as well if he already has Tarrence working for him in Marlett.”
William snorted, then winced, one hand moving to his side. “That’s not possible, not in Amenkor. And not anywhere else either.”
Borund shifted forward again. “Isn’t it? Look at what he’s done so far. Besides Alendor, Charls, and the two other merchants Varis saw at Charls’ manse, who else in the city has—or had—any stock of fish? Or wheat?”
William frowned in thought. “We do, in the warehouses on the docks. I think Darryn has some in storage as well. . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he looked toward Borund, eyes wide. “And that’s it. Alendor controls almost all of the wheat and fish.”
Borund nodded, his voice grim. “And what about other resources, such as fruits and vegetables? Or wine? What about cattle or pigs? There haven’t been any drovers from the north since Regin purchased that herd in the spring. Since it’s now almost winter, we can’t expect to see any more herds like that for at least five months. Even non-food stocks, like cloth. We haven’t had a shipment of wool or flax from Venitte in over four months, maybe even six.”
“Six,” William said distractedly. He’d sunk back into his pillows as Borund spoke. “And since it is almost winter, there won’t be many ships in the coming months. We’ve only got a few weeks left of decent enough weather to risk sending out more ships, maybe a month at most. What resources we’re going to have are already in the city.”
They both fell silent.
In one corner of the room, I shifted my stance, uncomfortable. But not from the weighted silence. In my mind, I could see Charls reaching for me, his hand grasping at air. I could see his blood, black against his skin. Then there was Erick and—
“What about Cristoph?” I asked.
Borund frowned. “What do you mean?”
I straightened. “He knows that I killed Charls, knows that I killed his friend down at the wharf. He could go to the Guard.”
Borund shook his head. “He won’t. Alendor won’t let him. It would attract too much attention to his house. Right now Alendor must be wondering whether you saw him at Charls’ manse, whether we even know about the consortium. He’ll want to stay out of sight until he knows for certain. Alendor will handle Cristoph for us.”
I nodded, relaxed back against the wall.
That still didn’t solve the problem of Erick. But he hadn’t reported me to the guard after Bloodmark’s death, hadn’t warned the sentries at the gates last night. . . .
I sighed and closed my eyes, intent on pushing Charls’ pleading gaze out of my head.
When I opened my eyes, I caught William watching me.
He flinched away, turning to look down at his feet.
My stomach clenched and I stared down at the floor, mouth pressed tight.
Into the awkward silence, a horn blew, long and hollow and forlorn.
Both Borund and William looked up toward the open window. It looked out onto the harbor.
With a frown, Borund rose and moved to pull back the c
urtains. I followed, stood at his side. The first horn was followed by others, the sounds filling the room in a strange cacophony of noise.
“What’s happening?” William said. I could hear the impatience in his voice. He wasn’t used to being restricted to a bed, unable to move about.
“Something in the harbor,” Borund said.
“But what?”
“Wait,” Borund said, his voice lowering, his forehead creasing in confusion.
On the slate-gray water of the harbor, ships flying the Mistress’ colors of gold and white were preparing to make way on the docks. But these weren’t the usual ships I’d seen off-loading crates and barrels. These were smaller, leaner, and somehow more dangerous, more purposeful, their sails crisp beneath the white-scudded sky.
And more maneuverable. As we watched, they pulled away from the docks and headed straight out toward where the spits of land on either side of the bay curved in toward each other, creating an opening to the ocean beyond. They passed a large merchant ship headed toward open water without pausing.
Gerrold appeared at the door to the room. “Something’s going on in the harbor, Master Borund.”
Borund grunted. “Yes, I see. Send Gart to see if he can find out what’s happening. Quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gerrold left, and Borund shifted forward, his stance going rigid, a dark frown touching his eyes, his mouth. “What . . . ?” he began, but didn’t continue.
The Mistress’ sleek ships began to slow, drawing up alongside the mouth of the bay. They began a slow pattern, weaving back and forth across the opening of the harbor. The merchant ship made slow progress forward, but when it got close to the line, one of the sleek ships broke from the formation and approached. The ships were too distant to see anything more than blurred movement on the decks. But there was movement, even as the merchant ship slowed to a halt, sails going slack.
Borund sucked in a breath, held it.
“What is it?” William barked.
Borund didn’t respond, simply shook his head.
On the water, the sleek ship backed away and the merchant ship began to move again. But the sails didn’t go back up in the same configuration.
The merchant ship began to turn, and Borund let his held breath out forcefully, as if someone had punched him in the gut.
Behind, I heard someone tearing up the stairs and down the hallway. The door burst open and Gart skidded to a halt just inside.
“The Mistress . . . has closed . . . the harbor,” he gasped, eyes wide in shock, fear, and a child’s uncontrolled excitement.
The gates to the palace were thronged by the time Borund and I made it up through the two outer wards. Most of the men yelling at the palace guardsmen lined up in front of the closed and barricaded doors were lesser merchants and representatives from the ships—both local and foreign—that were now locked inside the harbor, all with a sick desperation on their faces. Beneath the river, the mob was a nauseating churn of anger moving in strange, unpredictable eddies that tasted of salt and smelled of sweat. Tensions were so high I had edged in as close to Borund as I could get without touching him, leaving myself barely enough room to wield my dagger if necessary. He stayed back from the main crush of bodies, but even so I was jostled into his back once or twice.
Borund swore under his breath after scanning the mob, then thankfully turned and edged away from the gates. “We’ll never get into the palace. Captain Baill must have shut the gates before he issued the orders to close the harbor, and this crowd isn’t likely to disperse any time soon. Damn! I need to know what’s going on!”
I continued to scan the crowd, shoulders tense, uncertain whether I should make any suggestions. That was William’s job.
I caught Borund’s eye, saw the stress around the edges of his face, the darkness from lack of sleep. The exhaustion was clear. I suddenly wondered how often he had gone in to watch William sleep late at night, as I had.
I drew breath to suggest we go to the guild hall, but someone stepped up to Borund’s side, someone gray.
“Master Borund?”
The boy was short, dressed in ordinary clothes from the docks, with dirty hair and a round, grime-smudged face. His eyes were large and intent and flicked continuously over the crowd.
Borund frowned as he tried to place the boy. “Yes?”
“Avrell, the First of the Mistress, would like to see you,” the boy said. “He said to give you this.” He handed over a small chunk of stone, the outlines of an ancient snail embedded in one side, then darted back into the press of bodies near the gates.
Borund grunted. I recognized the piece of stone from Borund’s office.
And I suddenly recalled seeing Avrell leaving through the side entrance to Borund’s manse.
Borund motioned for me to follow.
The dock boy led us through the edge of the mob, at first heading toward the gates. But before the press became too close, the boy angled away and we passed into a side street of the middle ward running parallel to the wall enclosing the palace. Once we were free of the area in front of the gates, we moved swiftly, the boy motioning us forward while checking to see if we were followed.
I scanned behind as well but saw no one.
The boy ducked into a small building set back from the wall that was once a stable. The reek of manure still clung to the musty air inside, but there were no horses. Instead, the building was packed with marked crates, straw poking out through the cracks between the wood.
Borund gasped as the dock boy led us into a narrow space between the stacked crates. “Capthian red! Crates of it! I haven’t been able to get this since last winter, not a single crate!”
The narrow path turned, branched once, then opened up into a small niche that barely fit the three of us hunched over. The dock boy motioned us out of the way, then pulled at a chunk of the plank flooring. A section lifted away, cut with a ragged edge so that it couldn’t be seen when set in place.
The boy motioned us down into the rounded opening below. I could see that it dropped down into a thin tunnel, even though there was no light.
Borund hesitated, glancing at me for confirmation.
“It’s safe,” I said. “It drops down to a tunnel. There’s no one down there, and I can see a lantern ready to be lit.”
Borund nodded and, with a bit of maneuvering, managed to lower himself down into the hole. The dock boy stared at me the entire time.
“How did you know there was a lantern?” he finally asked. “It’s too dark to see it.”
I didn’t answer, simply dropped down smoothly after Borund once he moved out of the way. The dock boy followed, handing the lantern to Borund along with an ember box to light it. The ember inside was still glowing hotly.
The lantern flared just as the dock boy fit the cover to the tunnel back into place. Squeezing past both me and Borund, he took the lantern and said, “Follow me.”
The tunnel grew narrower at first, until we had to proceed sideways, backs scraping the rough-chiseled wall, then branched to the left and right. We’d followed the left path for twenty paces before I realized the wall to the right was the same eggshell color as the wall of the palace, but darker, not as sun-bleached as the walls above. More tunnels branched off to the left, but we continued forward for another hundred paces before turning away from the palace wall. After two quick rights, we hit stairs leading sharply downward. The twists and turns, darkness and narrow niches, reminded me forcibly of the Dredge.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Borund turned back and murmured in a subdued voice, “We’re passing under the palace walls.”
After twenty paces, a new set of stairs led up to a door set in the ceiling. The dock boy set the lantern carefully on a shelf, then rapped lightly on the door.
It lifted open, light pouring down into the mostly darkened tunnel. Blinking away the sudden brightness, I saw a palace guardsman kneeling, holding the door, and standing above him was the First of the Mistress.
“Welcome to the palace,” he said.
Then another guard leaned down into the tunnel with an outstretched hand to help pull us up.
“We haven’t needed those passages in years,” the First said, almost to himself.
We’d moved from the small room where we’d emerged, through a few short corridors lit with wide oil sconces, to a bare room containing wooden chairs and a table with wine and a platter of breads and cheeses. The room was dusty, the walls stained with old soot from torches.
I sat on my heels in one corner, quietly watching Borund and the First where they stood. The guards had been positioned outside, and the dock boy had split from the group on the way to the room. The only other person I’d seen was a woman robed in white who had brought the food and wine. One of the Mistress’ servants. She’d smiled as she set the platter on the table, but the smile had faded when she turned back to Avrell and gave him a solemn nod before leaving.
Avrell’s mouth had tightened . . . and then he’d pointedly ignored me.
“Why is the harbor closed?” Borund asked tersely. “Who ordered it?”
The First sighed and motioned to a chair. “The Mistress herself ordered it.”
“What! But why?” Borund shook his head in confusion. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” the First said flatly.
It took Borund a moment to catch all the implications the First had put into his voice, but when he did, he leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking in the heavy silence.
“So the rumors are true,” he finally murmured. It wasn’t a question.
The First nodded. “I wasn’t certain, can’t be certain, even now. The Mistress has been acting erratically since the Fire, but nothing alarming, nothing that couldn’t be explained at the time as rational, if a little odd. But recently . . .” He sighed, his rigid stance sagging slightly. He moved to a chair. “Maintaining the Skewed Throne is not as simple as it would seem. The Mistress has always acted strangely in the past, given orders that made no sense at the time. But later you could always look back and see why the order was given. And none of the previous Mistresses . . . changed while seated on the throne. Not in any significant way.
The Skewed Throne Page 24