Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1

by Daniel Polansky

  So far Thistle had not done anything to justify his presence there, or the long hours he had spent practising the knife, but that was about to change. A back door opened and three men came out of it, blades drawn, and they roared and went after Spindle, and Thistle did not think even Spindle could handle three men at once.

  On the long walk over, and in the endless interminable hours before, Thistle had developed for himself a simple, thuggish maxim. All he needed to do, he would tell himself, was to take his man – to square accounts, to make certain that one unfortunate counterpart went into the next world before he did. If someone got him afterwards that was all right, that was nothing to be ashamed of, everybody went at some point. Just make sure you put someone there to welcome you.

  The thing was that Thistle’s man didn’t seem to know that he was Thistle’s man, hadn’t got the message, was focused on Spindle to the exclusion of anything else. The other thing was that Thistle’s man wasn’t that at all, wasn’t more than a boy, younger than Thistle even. And though Thistle knew full well that he had no business thinking about anything in that moment save the moment itself, being as fast and perfect as he could possibly be, the truth was that all Thistle could think about was why in the hell had Pallor brought a boy to something like this? What kind of an asshole, what kind of a worm-souled half-witted scrounging piece of filth would bring a boy to something like this? It made Thistle so fucking angry that he was glad he had someone in front of him to kill.

  The knife stole into the boy’s ribcage, just to the side of his breast, like Spindle had showed him, easier than Thistle had expected. It wasn’t difficult, the blade seemed to yearn for it. Thistle pulled it out and put it back in again, and the boy whose name he didn’t know turned towards him, mouth opening and closing like he was trying to tell Thistle something. And in that strange, desperate moment, it seemed the most important thing in the world to Thistle that he find out what it was – he wanted to grab the boy and shake him, demand he reveal his secret, though the boy was already dying and then he was just dead.

  It wasn’t until Thistle felt a hand on his shoulder that he remembered there were other participants in the drama, and he whirled round with such frantic speed that he nearly cut Spindle with his knife, dripping red onto the floor and all but forgotten.

  ‘Be cool, kid,’ Spindle said, ‘it’s done.’

  Some of the blood that was on Spindle was Spindle’s, but to guess from the three dead men littering the ground, three plus the one Thistle had done, which made four men, four men on the ground, most of it was not.

  Rhythm inspected one of these corpses with an expression of bemusement. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised to see you like this, Pallor,’ he said. ‘I always thought you had a little too much bitch to you.’ When Pallor didn’t answer Rhythm laughed and then kicked the body and then laughed again. ‘Hell, boy,’ he said, walking over and slapping Thistle on the shoulder. ‘You didn’t think to leave any for us?’

  Thistle looked down at his shirt and discovered it was thick with ichor, all but soaked through with it, and he thought for a moment he must have taken an injury and not felt it in the excitement. He patted his chest, and his stomach, and his arms, and he realised he was unmarked. ‘It was all from the boy,’ Thistle thought. And then, ‘There is so much blood in a person, so much more than you think.’

  Rhythm had brought five men with him but in the end it had all really come down to Spindle. Maybe Thistle had done his little bit – certainly the boy he had just killed would have thought that. But mostly it had been Spindle, Spindle who had wanted these men dead perhaps even more than they had wanted to live, Spindle bringing righteous reckoning on behalf of one of the most venal, ill-tempered and stupid men Thistle had ever had the misfortune to meet.

  The handful of patrons had taken shelter behind the bar, unable to flee while Rhythm and the second wave were still blocking the entrance. Rhythm smiled at them and tipped his hat. ‘Sorry for the trouble, friends,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Pallor’s isn’t open for business any longer – but if you still fancy a flutter, walk yourself down to Isle’s, we’ll make sure to treat you right.’

  Spindle hooted and beat his chest and laughed.

  They paraded back to Isle’s, the six of them, first Rhythm, then Thistle and Spindle, stained with blood like they’d been dipped in an abattoir. It was evening and the streets were quiet though not at all empty, and the occasional passer-by made sure to give them a wide berth or ducked down a side alley if they could. Just north of Alcon Street a child started to sprint along after them, acting as tout, calling out their victory for everyone to see. He couldn’t have been more than six, and he was bony and unshod, and after they got back to Isle’s Rhythm gave him a tertarum and won a slave for life.

  Rhythm and the others went inside to get drunk, but Thistle followed Spindle silently round to the back, stripped naked and went swimming in the canal that abutted Isle’s. It was too dark by then to see what they were swimming in, and Thistle was grateful for it. Whatever it was it had to be better than what was covering him. He did the best he could to clean himself off, no easy task without soap, rubbing at his forearms and his face vigorously. Spindle got out not long after they’d gone in, but Thistle stayed leaning against the bank, let the canal flow over him.

  He did not know how long he spent in there. Long enough to see the moon reflect in the water, long enough for his skin to grow puckered, long enough that he started to feel cold despite the warm summer air. When he finally pulled himself out he found his clothes had been taken away, and a fresh set waited to replace them. Rhythm must have sent someone back to his house, and presumably that person had gone ahead and told his mother that he hadn’t been killed. Thistle hoped someone had, anyway.

  They all yelled happily when he came in, ‘they’ being Rhythm and Spindle and the other men who had come along to fight but hadn’t really done anything, and also a whole host of hangers-on and sycophants who had played even less of a role in Pallor’s end but who seemed more than happy to celebrate it. They were sitting around a centre table and of course they made space for him, space next to Rhythm. Getting to it was no easy thing, he had to run a gauntlet of back-slaps from well-wishers, half the Rung springing up suddenly to remind Thistle of how much they had always liked him, and what a popular boy he had always been, and how everyone in the Barrow had always, every single second of every single day, known he would make good.

  Thistle had never seen Rhythm drunk before but he was seeing him so now, and the state suited him no better than it did anyone else who had ever entered into it. He was still wearing the clothes he’d been wearing for days, and he reeked, Thistle could pick out his stink even through the crowd.

  ‘The slayer himself!’ Rhythm said. Spindle was sitting on the other side of him; he had a whore on one knee and a broad smile on his face, and he spilled out a quarter of a bottle of liquor pouring a round of shots.

  ‘You did good, kid,’ Rhythm said after they’d all knocked it back. ‘You did real fucking good. I knew you had it when I saw you eyeballing me back that first day, knew you’d come through when it counted.’

  Thistle had hoped to hear something like this for months now, from the first moment he’d seen the man. Now he found it didn’t mean very much to him, not very much at all.

  ‘You keep on like you’re doing,’ Rhythm continued, ‘you’ll be getting your first brand in no time. Hell, who knows how high you could go? I’m not going to live for ever. Maybe one day you’ll be the big man in the neighbourhood.’ He laughed and finished what was in his glass. ‘The sky’s the limit!’

  At the right hand of the king of the Fifth Rung, women to be reached out for and caressed, the drink running freely, respected and even a little bit feared. And how low the sky seemed at that moment, and what was the point in trying to reach it?

  35

  The kitchens in the east wing were, like everything else in the east wing, ugly and garish, gilded as a doll’s house. Eud
okia sat on a high stool at the servants’ table. Jahan was in his usual position in the corner, dull eyes missing nothing. Eudokia’s cane leaned against the wall beside him, though for once her leg wasn’t giving her any problems. Indeed, when Irene and Heraclius made their way in through the swinging side door, she seemed positively exultant.

  ‘There you are. Come in, come in. Sit down and try one of these appetisers.’

  Irene and Heraclius crossed over to Eudokia, though neither of them sat down, and only Irene took the Domina up on her offer. In the distance, past the front gardens and out in the street itself, one could hear the slow, even beat of a tocsin – though only if one was making a point of listening for it.

  ‘Jahan, care for a shrimp croquette?’

  ‘I hate fish,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not fish, it’s shrimp.’

  ‘It’s from the water.’

  ‘You don’t like anything but red meat and sugar. I can only imagine what your bowels must look like,’ Eudokia said ruefully.

  ‘These are from Andronikos’s chef?’ Irene interrupted.

  ‘The senator realised he wouldn’t have any further need of the man, what with his leaving the capital. He was kind enough to allow me his services.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you two were so close,’ Irene said, chewing a salmon puff through a nasty smile.

  ‘Oh, the senator’s done more for me than I think you can imagine,’ Eudokia said, and popped one of the assorted pastries sitting on the small silver tray in front of her into her mouth. She offered another to Irene, who declined with a wave of her hand, then to Heraclius, who was either nauseous or trying to seem imperious.

  It had been three weeks since she’d seen either of them. Irene had presumably been spending the time at her mother’s house. What Heraclius had been doing now that he was no longer welcome in her home, she couldn’t say and didn’t particularly care. Whatever it was, it seemed not to have been treating him well. The green shirt he wore was ruffled and clashed unpleasantly with his blue trousers. These last had a stain below the knee, as if he had fallen in a puddle on the way over.

  Irene, by contrast, looked positively glowing, as beautiful as Eudokia had ever seen her. Perfidy sat well on the girl. ‘The food is marvellous, Revered Mother,’ Irene said. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ve summoned us out here simply to get my opinion on your newest acquisition.’

  ‘No, not entirely,’ Eudokia admitted.

  ‘I have heard nothing of your … removing yourself from society,’ Irene continued. ‘Am I to assume that you’re going to take this opportunity to let us know about your imminent plans for retirement?’

  ‘Never assume anything, dear. That’s how mistakes get made.’

  ‘I can only hope that you don’t imagine me to be unwilling to follow through on my … promise.’

  ‘Threat, you mean? Not at all, not at all,’ Eudokia said, making a face over the rice ball. ‘Ring for the cook,’ she said, turning absently to Jahan. Then, back to Irene, ‘You’ve utterly convinced me of your unscrupulousness. I am assured of your complete and total lack of principle. Truly, there is nothing that I would put past you. Absolutely nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Irene said blandly.

  The servants’ door swung open, and the head chef entered, flour-stained but looking happy. ‘Mistress?’

  ‘The croquettes are divine, Thaddeus. Just divine. The rice balls could do with a bit less salt, however.’

  Thaddeus took his hat off, swung it gallantly. ‘I’ll make a note of it.’

  ‘You can send in the next course whenever it’s ready.’

  ‘At once, Revered Mother,’ Thaddeus said, but before leaving he turned quickly in the direction of Irene. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, then ducked back out the way he’d come.

  Irene wiggled her nose in confusion. It was a fetching affectation, though inappropriate to the moment. ‘I would have thought you’d have more important things to worry about than the menu for your next garden party.’

  There was one last pastry remaining on the tray, a morsel of chicken stuffed with almond and honey. Eudokia crushed it daintily between her teeth, then brushed her hands together, scattering powdered sugar into the ether. ‘I’ve never seen the point of insulting a fallen enemy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It lessens one’s victory. Having reached the summit of a mountain, does one declare it a hill?’ Eudokia shook her head. ‘A person’s strength is judged by the strength of their foes.’

  ‘That’s fascinating,’ Irene said, ‘though hardly germane to our subject.’

  ‘Such impatience. Is the house again on fire? Do you have some pressing engagement to attend? I would think you’d want to savour your moment of triumph as long as possible.’

  ‘Perhaps I want to display that magnanimity you spoke of, to keep your discomfort brief.’

  ‘I don’t credit you with such grandeur of character. But back to the point, I hope you won’t take what I’m about to say as being bombast, or vanity.’

  ‘One can hardly bask in defeat,’ Irene said.

  Eudokia smiled, breathed in deeply, as if savouring the scent wafting in from the kitchens. ‘You are quite the two stupidest little things that I think I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.’

  ‘Are we?’ Irene hissed through a false smile.

  ‘With Heraclius of course, it comes as no surprise – he is, after all, a penis with a man attached. But you, Irene? I confess I thought better. I knew you to be vain, ambitious and narcissistic – the young are all like that, they can hardly help themselves. But such idiocy? It is inexplicable. At the very least I’d have credited you with some basic sense of self-preservation, the same courtesy I’d give to a mouse, or a fly.’ Eudokia shook her head. ‘Too much, apparently. You’ve observed me for years now, child, every day nearly. What could you possibly have seen, during that period, that made you think you were my equal?’

  ‘I wouldn’t speak to me so, if I were in your position.’

  ‘I can almost assure you that you would.’

  ‘With what I hold above your head?’

  ‘Do you think I’d forgotten your betrayal? By the Self-Made, there are simply no bounds to your arrogance. We’ve been sitting here chatting for ten minutes and you still don’t understand what’s going on?’

  ‘You can natter all you wish,’ Irene said, no longer trying to hide her anger, ‘But it doesn’t change your situation.’

  ‘I take it you haven’t heard the news, then? Senator Andronikos is dead.’

  And now, to the steady beat of the drum on the street outside was added the sounds of the public mourners, the weeping a touch more melodramatic than necessary but impressive by virtue of volume alone.

  ‘Two days ago, though it was only announced this afternoon. Hence the weeping,’ Eudokia said.

  ‘Dead?’ Irene’s skin had gone from clotted cream to corpse.

  ‘Murdered. Tragic, I know. Salucian extremists, from all reports. A mob of them broke into his house, sacked the place.’ Eudokia shook her head back and forth sadly. ‘The Senate is passing a resolution for war as we speak. We Aelerians are a peace-loving people, but to allow the murder of our ambassador to go unanswered? A man whose lifelong struggle for amity is well known to all, a man whose name is a byword for honesty, virtue and incorruptibility? Surely not. Andronikos’s martyrdom will go down among the noblest passages in the annals of Aelerian history, and in a month’s time the largest army the world has ever seen will march north to right the savage injustice done to us. The people will demand it. And the will of the people must be upheld.’

  ‘This changes nothing,’ Irene insisted. ‘We still have Phrattes, and he still has proof of the payments you gave him.’

  Eudokia sighed dramatically. ‘Yes, poor Phrattes. It seems this ravenous gang of madmen that make up the lower classes of Hyrcania did not stop with dear Andronikos. They were so furious at the merchant’s well-known leanings towards peac
e that they killed him as well. Burned his offices and his estate. I don’t imagine that any of his personal papers survived this … atrocity, sorry to say. In fact, I can all but guarantee it.’ She allowed a moment for the extent of her victory to envelop them, then turned her attentions towards Heraclius. ‘You make a poor spy, darling. Next time you go listening at doors, make sure you understand everything you’ve heard.’

  Heraclius had looked far from the picture of health upon entering the room, and now he seemed positively ready to rip the hair from his head and run screaming out into the street. The stain of defeat had slowly but indisputably bled through Irene’s triumph, and now she too looked rather more like a beaten dog than was to be expected of so beautiful a creature.

  ‘Normally I disapprove of murder – it’s too easy a habit to fall into. A quick splash of blood and all your problems are taken care of.’ Eudokia shook her head. ‘Rarely that simple, of course. Still, circumstances dictate our course of action. You should never hold so firmly to a rule as not to recognise when it must be made an exception of.’

  ‘You would send the whole nation to war,’ Irene said, ‘just to save your position?’

  Eudokia brought one slender hand up to obscure her eyes. Her mouth set into a hard, sharp line and the barest hint of teeth flashed out from between her lips. She said nothing for a time, and Irene and Heraclius were wise enough to follow suit.

  ‘It is the gall,’ she said finally, slowly and with a deliberate lack of emotion, ‘that I cannot abide. That you sought profit by injuring me, that you betray my kindnesses – such actions require punishment, but in fact they do not truly wound me. What has, I confess, caught in my throat – what very nearly left the two of you bobbing in the river – is that you imagine your petty intrigues rise to my level. The sacrifice of Andronikos was necessary to spur the nation into action I’ve been arranging for the better part of twenty years. That his death cleared my slate, as it were, was a happy accident. But never for a moment imagine that either of you were anything but a sideshow to me, a tiring and unpleasant distraction.’