The Empty Throne

by Cayla Kluver

  With a groan of misery, I sank down on my bed. Did I have a responsibility in this by virtue of accidental knowledge? And even if I accepted that I did, what could I do? I dared not deliver the information I had to the unpredictable hands of the newspaper owners. Nor could I approach the Constabularies, who would be duty-bound to arrest me, whether or not they believed my tale.

  What about Fi? She seemed to have some line of communication with the Lieutenant Governor, and he knew Sepulchres existed within the Warckum Territory. But he would be smart enough to surmise the information had come from me—Fi would not have personal knowledge of happenings on the coast. And that might also land me in the hands of the Constabularies.

  What about Officer Matlock? He had helped me before and was less likely to take me into custody. But was that a risk I was willing to run? No, it wasn’t, at least not until I had recovered and returned the Anlace to the Queen. At that point, with the power of the Redwood Fae behind me, I’d no longer have to fear arrest. And recovering the Anlace had become a far more manageable task thanks to the information I’d obtained from the guard—the sooner I pursued it, the better.

  Then I might go to Tom.

  Once my affairs were sorted.

  Once the stink of Cysur is off you. He’ll smell it on you. He warned you not to try it, but you didn’t listen, and he’ll smell it on you clear as if you slept with hogs.

  Air. I needed air. I grabbed my cloak and stepped outside, hoping the voice in my head—the voice that echoed formlessly inside my skull, reminiscent of my own, yet quite distinct—would be drowned out by the bustle of the street.

  I stood still for a moment, trying to shake my jitters, then headed south toward the business district, where the guard had indicated I might find Kodiak Sandrovich. A collector might have a shop, and even if he didn’t, his proclivities would surely be known. He had to obtain the pieces in his collection from somewhere. And his name alone suggested he was a member of the upper class, a man who could pay top dollar.

  The streets grew less dirty, and the windows of the buildings less grimy, as I walked along. By the time I reached the market district, the shops were in decent repair, though their signs and storefronts were worn and mundane. I glanced up and down the side streets while I advanced, searching for pawn, antique, and collectors’ shops. My eyes lit on a man about a block ahead of me who was busily hanging a freshly painted business sign, and I stopped so suddenly that the people behind me stacked up like a deck of playing cards. They stepped around me, some casting withering glances, and I buried my hands in my cloak and darted across the street. After rushing into the store nearest me, I hastened to look out its front window, surprised to find it was grated with bars. Nevertheless, I studied the workman, gradually relaxing my clenched fists. The worker wasn’t Thatcher More. Still, there was little doubt the store was being prepared for him. The sign read: More Clocks, More Cabinetry, More Skill. Despite my jitters, I smirked. Thatcher was a master carpenter and clockmaker, and the play on words would surely make his business memorable. Then the import of the sign registered. If Thatcher was back in town, so was his family. So was Shea. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and revulsion seemed to rise like bile in my throat as I tried to imagine what I would do if I came face-to-face with her. She’d better hope I didn’t have a weapon.

  I tore my gaze from the window and turned around to discover I stood in the very type of store I had wanted to find. Baubles and knickknacks were peppered throughout displays of plates, sculptures, weaponry, glassware, and jewelry, the more valuable of which were in locked cabinets. I spotted the proprietor at a desk, apparently engrossed in record keeping, and wandered over to him, glancing at some of the objects I passed. When he did not look up, I cleared my throat to draw his attention.

  “And how can I help you?” he almost sneered, his eyes climbing up and down my form, no doubt assessing how much of his merchandise might be tucked within the folds of my cloak.

  “I’m looking for a dagger that once belonged to my aunt,” I informed him. I pushed aside the garment to put my hands on my hips in the hope of allaying his suspicion and encouraging his cooperation. “It’s a pretty thing with a red jewel in the handle, though its true worth lies in sentimental value.”

  “A dagger, you say?” He stroked the stubble of his chin with some thoughtfulness. “I’ll show you what I’ve got, though I don’t recall anything the likes of what you’re describing.”

  He led me to a glass case that held a row of blades lying on a blue velvet lining. I examined them, my hope deflating. The proprietor knew his stock—the Anlace wasn’t there.

  “Any other shops like yours? Or even private collectors who might favor knives?”

  “A competitor sits two blocks west of here.” He paused, again rubbing his scruffy chin. “The best-known private collector is Kodiak Sandrovich, though he don’t keep a shop.”

  Excitement flooded my veins. Sandrovich’s reputation should make him easier to find.

  “Thanks. I guess I’ll go check out your competitor’s goods.” I took a step toward the door, then swiveled on my heel to address him once more. “In case I don’t have luck at the other place, any chance I could get in touch with this Sandrovich fellow?”

  The proprietor’s eyebrows shot up; then he snorted a laugh.

  “Gentlemen like him don’t rub elbows with the likes of us. He sends a dogsbody around once a week to see what new pieces we’ve got on sale. But there’s no point in bothering with that. If he’s got your dagger, it’s gone for good. Mr. Sandrovich keeps what he buys.”

  I nodded and walked outside, noting the column of locks upon the shop’s front door and the grated interior door that could be swung shut for added protection. I desperately hoped the next shop would have the Anlace because I didn’t think I could break through these types of security measures, and a wealthy private collector would indubitably have much the same.

  My thoughts went unbidden to Zabriel, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. He’d had his own set of lock-picking tools, but when the subtle approach had failed on Evernook Island, he’d blasted through a door with his pistol. My cousin had been bold and a bit reckless, characteristics that had no doubt attracted him to the pirate’s life.

  If he hadn’t been so bold and reckless, perhaps he’d still be alive.

  I sighed, ever-present sorrow rising from my gut to squeeze my heart. I had always heard that a loved one survived in memories, but at the moment, it seemed to me that memories were more of a curse than a blessing. But you don’t have to let them consume you. You know how to find relief. I shivered, the desire to fly, to soar, to escape, so strong that I would have abandoned my mission if I’d been closer to The River’s End pub. I glanced at my arm, almost feeling the prick of the needle, the flow of the liquid Cysur into my veins, the heady rush of euphoria it brought. The sensation was intoxicating—better than Sale, better than the best food I’d ever tasted, better than the sweetest kisses. My palms began to sweat and itch, for the primal urgency of my need was both exhilarating and frightening.

  A tug on my elbow jolted me back to reality.

  “So where are we goin’ next?”

  I stifled a groan at the sight of Frat. How did he always appear at my side?

  “We’re not going anywhere. I’m spending a nice afternoon in the business district.”

  “Not so. I saw you ’xamining those knives. You’re lookin’ for somethin’ particular.”

  “I don’t think that’s your business. And why is it you always show up? I told you to quit following me.”

  “Nothin’ sinister ’bout it. I likes ya, and you need watchin’ over.”

  I huffed. “I don’t need someone watching over me. You’re more likely to need help than I am.” In spite of my irritation with him, I truly didn’t want him to come to harm. “Speaking of which, have you hear
d of the Fae-mily Home? It provides food and shelter to injured and needy Fae.”

  Now it was Frat’s turn to huff. Poking himself in the chest with his thumb, he declared, “I ain’t injured or needy. I told ya—I does quite well for meself.”

  “Then go do quite well somewhere else. And stop trailing me. It’s annoying.”

  He blinked at me a couple of times, then took a step back, and I felt as though I’d squished a bunny.

  “Wait,” I said, catching him by his enormous coat before he could leave. “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the best mood today.”

  “Then ya should quit usin’ Black Magic. Gives ya a hangover of sorts and makes your mood bounce ’round.”

  My crossness instantly reemerged, proving his point. Still, he knew way too much about my life and had no call to interfere in it, even if he was right.

  “And how would you know the way Black Magic makes someone feel?”

  “Seen enough of its dirty work. Fae and humans alike ruined. And more deaths lately—overdoses most say, but I ain’t so sure. Scarlets are takin’ more notice than usual. You may have seen ’em hangin’ ’round the shelters, trackin’ folks. Somethin’s up sure and certain. It’s one of the reasons you need watchin’.”

  “For the last time, I don’t need anyone watching over me. And just what do you mean by one of the reasons?”

  “Someone’s trailin’ you, only it ain’t me.”

  “What?” My eyes snapped to the people behind Frat, looking for someone out of place. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Course ya don’t. Guy’s good. You got to be followin’ the follower to catch on.”

  I nodded, pulse racing. “What does he look like?”

  “Stocky sort, dressed to blend in. Can’t say much more—’e wears a hat low over ’is face.”

  I nodded, considering the description. It didn’t fit Tom or Farrier. And why would a Constabulary follow me, anyway? They’d be under orders to arrest me. Who, then? Realizing Frat was staring at me, I patted him on the head.

  “Thanks for the information—I’ll keep my eyes open. But I really do have to be on my way. Alone.”

  Frat shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  He tipped his hat in his usual fashion and sauntered away. I watched until he disappeared from view, then turned and walked west at a quickened pace. After half a block, I glanced over my shoulder but saw no sign of trouble.

  The next shop was much like the first—major security, but no Anlace. And, again, the name Sandrovich came up but no information about where he lived. How was I to locate him? I’d have to stalk the area to find the dogsbody—he might lead me to his master’s home. I sighed, and fretfully tugged on my hair. I was once again considering sneaking into someone’s house, only this time I had neither the finesse nor brute force to carry it out. On the other hand, I might have the connections to get what I needed.

  I took a roundabout route to the Fae-mily Home, deliberately ducking in and out of crowds and stopping in doorways to look behind me. Though I saw no one matching the description Frat had given me, I waited for darkness to descend before stealing into the alley and through the door that led to my room. I was surprised but pleased to find Fi had left a lamp burning on the small stand next to the bed.

  Though my stomach was grumbling, I fetched Illumina’s diary, trying not to think about the drawing it contained, and tore out a sheet of paper. Settling on the bed, I began to write the note I had already composed, my request couched in innocuous language in case it fell into the wrong hands.

  Dear Gwyneth,

  I am in pursuit of a relic that was much loved by our mutual friend. I hope to present it as a gift to his mother, who will soon be arriving for a visit. I’m having difficulty obtaining it, however, as its access is restricted. I’m hoping you might recommend someone with the special skills to help me negotiate its release. Time is of the essence.

  Gratefully yours,

  A

  Satisfied with the content, I folded the note and tucked it safely in my pack. More tired than hungry, I crawled into bed and extinguished the lamp.

  I awoke sometime later, clammy and quivering, with the distinct sensation that I was being watched. Lying still, I examined the room, my gaze landing on a shadow in the corner near the washbasin. I stared at it, barely breathing, trying to determine its shape and size. Images of Sepulchres, hunters, and Constabularies flashed in my head. Though reason insisted the door was locked from the inside, preventing anyone from entering, my instincts told me otherwise. I groped for the long knife I had laid on the nightstand, then threw off my covers to spring to my feet.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded, squinting to bring the shape into better focus.

  There was no answer, but it seemed to me that the shadow shifted, moving along the floor, and I hopped on top of my bed.

  “I’d leave if I were you,” I cried, trying to sound menacing but having no idea to whom I was speaking. “You’re not welcome here.”

  Still no reply. Should I stand my ground and fight? Or should I scream and draw the attention of the residents of the Home, making my presence known? But perhaps my presence was already known. Liking neither option, I leaped from the bed to land in front of the door. I threw back the lock and shoved it open, then dashed barefoot into the small hallway and out the exit to the alley. I broke into a run, not daring to look over my shoulder for fear of what might be following.

  I ran until my sides hurt and my feet felt bruised and bloodied, then stopped to join a group of homeless huddled around a trash heap fire for warmth. A few people were cooking cups of coffee or watery soup. No one gave me a glance, telling me the makeup of the group changed frequently. Feeling anonymous, I scoured the direction from which I had come but detected no sign of pursuit.

  I exhaled heavily, then tried to determine what had happened. What might have been lurking in my room? And how could it have entered? There was only one small, high window, and it had not been broken. And the door had been firmly locked from the inside. I rubbed my hands together over the burning rubbish, considering the possibilities. An intruder could have been in my room at the time of my return. But the lamp had been lit. Surely I would have noticed.

  I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that had of late inhabited my brain. There was one other possibility that scared me as much as, if not more than, the presence of an intruder. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

  I had to quit using Cysur. Despite the hunger I felt for the peace it could provide, it might be causing me to hallucinate. Now more than ever, I needed to keep my wits about me, and I needed to leave behind the world of utter depravity that I found so appealing.

  Considerably calmer, I returned to the Fae-mily Home, not wanting to sleep on the street and believing it was best to face my fear. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that my imagination had transformed a shadow into a threat.

  I entered the shelter from the alley, acutely aware of the pounding of my heart, for it reverberated in my temples, my ears, and my very skin. I took several deep breaths, then forced myself to push open the door to my room. I tensed, clutching my long knife, but saw no intruder. On the other hand, the light from the interior of the Home did little to illuminate the space. I crossed the threshold and crept toward the lamp on the nightstand, keeping my back to the wall. There was no sound other than my soft footfalls and my ragged breathing.

  After what seemed like hours, I brought the lamp to life. I scanned the room, taking note of every shadow, then crossed the floor to close and lock the door. I was alone. Or was I? My eyes shot to the cot. Could something be skulking underneath it? I knelt down, my heart once more drumming, and took a look. The only thing hiding from me was dust. With a relieved laugh, I reclaimed my feet, internally chastising myself for being so foolish. Then I crossed to the washbasin and damp
ened a cloth, wrapping it around my damaged feet. When they stopped smarting, I crawled into bed. Only this time, I didn’t douse the lamp.

  * * *

  The next morning, I obtained an envelope from Fi and stuffed the note I had written inside it, asking her to post the message by snowbird to the Dementya Estate. She readily agreed but refused the coin I proffered, leaving me feeling even more indebted to her.

  The spring day was sunny and much warmer, and I gladly left my cloak behind. It was surprising how much better I felt without that layer of clothing, and how much the sense of lightness improved my mood.

  I retraced my steps to the southern market and the first collector’s shop I had visited then found a place in an alley to while away my time. Every now and then I shot a glance toward the store that was being readied for Thatcher More, not wanting to run into him or anyone else in his family. Thankfully, all I saw were workers, not a familiar face among them.

  Despite my worry that I wouldn’t find Kodiak Sandrovich’s errand boy, he was not difficult to spot. He wore a purple cloak with an S sigil on the back, and stood out on these streets like a mystical unicorn among cattle. Trailing him was easy, too, for his attitude was so contemptuous toward the people around him that he strutted from shop to shop as quickly as he could, never looking around, intent on avoiding any and all physical contact. A problem arose, however, when he stepped into a horse-drawn carriage to leave the area. Recalling that Zabriel had surprised Shea and me in Sheness by hanging on to the back of the hansom cab in which we had been riding, I ran forward and grabbed the bar at the top of the coach that served to confine luggage. My feet dragged along the ground, entreating me to let go, but I managed to pull my legs up and plant them on the lower frame of the carriage box. For just a moment, I caught sight of a heavyset man kicking at the ground in the middle of the street behind me—if he had been tailing me, I’d just literally left him in the dust.