Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  Emethius waved him off. “Don’t let your imagination get away from you.”

  “Be serious with me,” said Malrich. “You felt it. You saw it. There was a presence.”

  Emethius was slow to respond — he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “There is truth in what you say, but be careful with where you let your mind wander. I agree, there was something unusual about those riders; I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was powerful.”

  “Like a god,” stated Malrich, growing more certain with every passing moment.

  Emethius eyed Malrich long and hard. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “When I was young, I often visited the Court of Bariil with Prince Meriatis. On most days the Throne of Roses was as cold and quiet as any other piece of metal — ordinary copper, nothing more. But every once in awhile it seemed to take on an energy, much like the air does before a spring rain. It would seem to shiver and hum. It was nothing I could actually see or hear, mind you, but it was something I could perceive whenever I drew near the throne. That’s what I felt when I saw the lead rider.”

  Malrich shuddered at the implication. He suddenly felt like a hunted animal. “I think we should both do as you instructed, and not let our imaginations run out of control. They were most likely border wardens, tasked with seeing us off their master’s land.” He stifled an uneasy laugh.

  Emethius patted his friend’s shoulder. “We’re just not that important, Mal.”

  “Now there is definitely some truth in that.” Malrich pulled out a sliver of flint and drew it against his dagger, sending sparks flying into the pile of brush he had collected. An ember took hold, and Malrich held up the bundle and blew softly until tendrils of smoke were curling around his fingers. He grinned, his face illuminated by the flickering flame he had just coaxed to life.

  Suddenly, there was a flare to the east, and there, not more than a league away, was another campfire burning as bright and hot as the rising sun.

  Malrich rapped a knuckle against his empty canteen and nodded toward Emethius. No words needed to be exchanged. Malrich snuffed the flame with the heel of his boot, while Emethius hurried off to prep the horses. Cold, hungry, and tired they walked from the willow grove and into the windswept plains beyond.

  CHAPTER

  XVI

  A SPY BY NIGHT

  Leta feared it would be difficult to sneak out of the palace complex unnoticed, but it actually proved to be quite simple. The palace was typically locked down like a fortress after dusk, but tonight was no ordinary night. It was not only the sabbath, it was also the anniversary of the Battle of Vas Perloh.

  Festivities were scheduled throughout the day to celebrate the Faceless God, and the palace complex was packed with revelers. Leta joined the revelry for a few drinks, making sure to speak to the necessary court gossips so that her presence was noticed, then she quietly slipped back to her apartment. She quickly changed her attire, putting on a filthy wool skirt and blouse — an outfit she had collected from one of the afflicted patients in the monastery. She pushed her hair up in a bun and covered her head and shoulders with a drab gray shawl. With her disguise complete, she regarded herself in a mirror. She could hardly recognize the woman in the reflection. Feeling pleased, Leta set off to intercept her aunt.

  Lady Miren was residing in one of the many guest houses located on the palace grounds. They were used to host visiting dignitaries and lords. Miren had, of course, selected the largest and most opulent residence for herself. Leta found an inconspicuous spot to hide near the guest house, and there she waited. It did not take long. A carriage pulled up before the front door, and out of the house stepped Lady Miren dressed in her typical black attire.

  Miren boarded the carriage and the driver whipped the horses into motion. Leta followed on foot, and chased the carriage through the palace’s front gate. She was happy for her disguise. Sir Rupert and his men were standing at the gate checking invitations. Neither he nor any of his guards looked in Leta’s direction as she hurried past. They were too busy policing those trying to get in to give more than a passing glance at those leaving.

  Once they were out of the palace, the carriage driver quickened the pace. Leta had to jog to keep up. The carriage traveled the entire width of the city before rumbling across a drawbridge and vanishing behind an iron-banded door.

  Leta scowled at the pair of brass lions flanking the drawbridge; the lions seemed to bare their teeth in reply. I should have known, thought Leta, surprised at her own foolishness. Lady Miren’s carriage had disappeared into Fort Hermsburg, the home of Praetor Maxentius.

  Praetor Maxentius lived in the fortress that protected the mouth of Mayal Harbor. The fortress occupied a stone bluff that overlooked the narrow strait between the Sea of Ro and the Bay of Lares. Trebuchets lined the fort’s southern battlements, positioned such that they could sink any ship that tried to enter the harbor without the praetor’s permission. Meanwhile, the artillery on the western battlements were capable of reaching the only bridge linking Mayal to the mainland.

  Due to Fort Hermsberg’s commanding position, it was often said, ‘he who possesses the fort possesses the key to the city.’ For the last century, that honor belonged to the patriarch of House Leonius.

  Praetor Maxentius had been the master of Fort Hermsberg for over three decades. In that time, the fort had more or less become Maxentius’s own personal fiefdom within the city of Mayal. Several hundred people lived behind those high stone walls; stablemen and servants, guards, squires, and sworn knights. Plus there was a plethora of offspring from the various branches of the Leonius family tree. More than a dozen chefs kept the kitchen churning out food all day long. Fort Hermsberg was probably one of the most densely populated structures in Mayal. Because of this, the fortress was lit up like a birthday cake, with candlelight emanating from nearly every window.

  Of course Praetor Maxentius is involved, thought Leta, scrunching her nose with scorn. Lady Miren needed the military on her side if she hoped to successfully complete her purge. But that still left the identities of the other co-conspirators unknown.

  Leta’s attention was drawn to a window on the uppermost floor of the fortress. This was the window of Maxentius’s private study. South facing, it provided a commanding view of the strait. Leta visited the room often as a child, and she still had fond memories of Meriatis lifting her up onto the window ledge so she could watch the ships sail in and out of the harbor.

  Leta settled onto a street bench far enough away from the fortress as to not draw the attention of the guards walking a circuit atop the battlements. For the next hour she kept her eyes fixed on the upper floor window. Four distinct silhouettes filtered past — one woman and three men. One figure was walking a perpetual loop around the room, pacing with lengthy strides, his arms clasped behind his back. Leta assumed this was Praetor Maxentius, given the figure’s somewhat round frame. The woman was Lady Miren — the frilly mourner’s bonnet on her head gave Leta no doubt. One of the other men was General Saterius; she could spy the pointed snout of his wolf cloak. It was the fourth member of this clandestine tribunal who gave Leta pause. The figure only approached the window once, and then, it was to close the curtains. The brief glimpse she got was of a slender, bald-headed figure.

  Leta was trying to think of someone who matched that description when the iron-banded gate swung open. Leta scurried into the shadows of a nearby alley. She peeked around the corner just in time to catch sight of Lady Miren’s carriage come bouncing down the road. The carriage’s sidewalls were painted a garish shade of red and were covered in ornamental roses; it was impossible to miss.

  The next carriage to exit the fortress was plain and bore no house standard, which was atypical. As the unmarked carriage trundled past, Leta detected the dark silhouette of a bald figure behind the window screen. Although the occupant’s face was obscured, Leta could sense eyes staring straight at her. Leta suddenly felt naked and exposed. But before she could retreat down the alley, the c
arriage turned, taking a road toward the core of the city.

  Leta was tempted to chase after the carriage and discover the identity of this fourth secret member, but she remembered Cenna’s words. I must follow the wolf.

  Last to exit Fort Hermsberg were three riders. Saterius was at their lead, draped in his wolf cloak. A pair of lean-faced men rode on either side of him.

  The wolf is on the prowl, thought Leta, now let’s see where he goes. She followed after the three riders, trailing behind them by a few hundred feet. She was not overly concerned with being spotted; the streets were crowded with people celebrating the holy day. Jubilant music drifted from every square. Bells rang and flutes whistled, while worshipers sang and danced. Many of the revelers wore colorful masks that kept their faces hidden, emulating the gods they so revered. Some walked about with iron chains tied about their waists. The chain belts clacked and clanked, creating an electric cadence to the street.

  Leta followed Saterius into Bellman’s Plaza. It was one of the oldest squares in the city, named after the ancient bell tower that stood at its center. The bell itself had long since collapsed from its steeple moorings, and had plummeted through the entire structure, coming to a rest on the ground floor where it still stood today. It was cracked straight through the middle, its bronze surface turned emerald with time. It had become a favorite of the local children, and a dozen kids were crawling about the face of the bell, drumming and kicking its walls in a fruitless effort to make it chime like it did when it hung aloft in the belfry.

  A man garbed in only a loincloth was perched atop the stone railing of a fountain that stood opposite the bell tower. He was loudly lecturing to anyone who would listen. “The Shadow creeps as it ever does, and the sinful bask blissfully in the sun, unaware that the total eclipse draws nears. Repent, and be glad that you were given this chance. Look upon those that have failed to heed my warning.” He motioned toward a group of Blackheart victims who were wallowing beneath the lip of the fountain.

  It was becoming more and more common for families to abandon their loved ones once caring for them became too much of a burden. Each night the city guards would round up such victims and bring them to Leta’s monastery.

  The victims lying at the base of the fountain had their hands and feet bound. They were no longer a threat to others, but that did not stop them from doing harm to themselves. One woman was gouging her thumb into an open wound in her leg, while the man beside her was grating his head against the base of the fountain. Half of his nose was missing.

  Every caring instinct in Leta’s body screamed that she should go and comfort these poor victims of the Blackheart. But she knew she had to refrain. Tonight she needed to tend to those who conspired to kill the innocent. If Saterius was tracking down Lady Miren’s next target, then he and his men might lead Leta to their quarry. If she could identify their victims beforehand, she could protect them once they showed up at her monastery. That was the hard proof she would need if she was going to confront her father. What would happen after that, she could not guess. But her father was a good man. He couldn’t possibly send people to the headsman simply because they were rebels, could he?

  “One thing at a time,” she whispered to herself.

  The square was packed with hundreds of people. A dozen carts full of fruits, grains, and other edible goods were gathered around the bell tower, while the remainder of the square was occupied by open air drinking parlors. Drunks were belting out competing songs, causing a raucous uproar as the patrons of each parlor tried to outdo the others.

  Saterius and his two companions were conversing on the far side of the square. Saterius kept motioning toward a four story building adjacent to the bell tower — more specifically the building’s second story balcony. One of his men nodded in agreement, and Saterius and the other rider departed, taking all three horses with them.

  The watchman that remained behind took a seat in one of the open air parlors, situating himself so that he had an unobstructed view of the building Saterius had pointed out. He sat hunched over, squinting at the building. A server brought him a drink, and there he waited, his eyes shifting from balcony to door and back again while he sipped from a flagon of wine.

  Leta concluded that whoever lived in this house was one of Lady Miren’s leashed rats. Saterius was probably keeping an eye on the house to see who else might show up.

  Leta took a seat behind the watchman and quickly devised a plan. A prostitute was leaning against a nearby lamppost. She was basking in the yellow glow of the oil lamp, waving her hips at anyone who gave her more than a passing glance. The woman wore a short dress, hitched up to show more thigh than was ever appropriate in public, and her bodice raised her breasts almost to her chin. Such a brazen display of flesh was rare in a theocratic state such as Merridia, and Leta was mildly surprised a constable hadn’t already arrested the woman. Leta waved the meretricious woman over.

  The streets had not been kind to the woman. She was bone thin, and her cheeks were pockmarked with scars. She wore gold jewelry, but the thin veneer had mostly rubbed off her necklace and bracelets, revealing dull iron underneath. A sachet was tucked into her belt, and she reeked of stale flowers.

  “Does the lady like the look of things?” said the woman, as she ran her fingernails along Leta’s back in a slow, long draw.

  Leta swallowed her disgust and smiled pleasantly. “No, the lady does not, but my companion is in need of some company, and you seem just the woman for the task.” Leta motioned to the glowering watchman.

  “What is the lady trying to involve me in?” The woman puffed out her lips in a doubtful frown. No amount of makeup would cover the canker scars wreathing her mouth.

  “Nothing that a Silver Merridian won’t keep you quiet about.” Leta offered the woman a coin that bore the image of her father’s face on one side, and Tiberius, chief god of Calaban, on the other. Both the god and high lord seemed to be judging her.

  The woman collected the coin greedily and flicked it into the air with her thumb. It gave a nice sharp twang as it tumbled through the air. She collected it with a snatch of her palm, nodded in satisfaction, and walked off toward the watchman without saying another word.

  The woman draped her body across the watchman’s lap and began to fondle his chin. The watchman made a few half-hearted efforts to shove her aside, but each successive gesture grew more limp-wristed. Finally he gave in to his base urges, threw his arms around the woman’s waist, and ordered her a drink.

  How men had come to rule the world was beyond Leta’s understanding. She turned her attention back to the house the watchman was supposed to be keeping tabs on. It wasn’t long before a man appeared on the second floor balcony. He briefly surveyed the plaza, then disappeared indoors. A few minutes later, he came shuffling out the front door. He was a young man with droopy eyes and a blond head of short-cropped hair. His left leg was bowed, and he walked with a shambling gait. An injury from the war, Leta surmised — Mayal was full of men who bore physical scars from the rebellion.

  The rebel hurried down a side street that branched off the main square. Leta dared a glance at Saterius’s watchman. The man was still sitting with his arm hooked around the prostitute’s waist, a besotted smirk planted firmly upon his face. The ruse had worked.

  The rebel headed north and Leta followed after him, careful to always stay a few dozen paces back at all times. The man periodically checked over his shoulder, but otherwise kept on like everyone else. Outwardly, he appeared like so many others — a man simply taking an evening stroll to enjoy the festivities. But unlike everyone else, who seemed to have nowhere in particular they were heading, the man walked with a purpose, setting a brisk pace even with his bowed leg.

  The crowd began to thin as they left the center of town. Leta was forced to trail farther and farther behind the man to remain unseen, until finally she rounded a corner and realized she and the rebel were the only two people on the street.

  A sudden fear gripped Let
a’s heart. What if this man meant her harm? She stopped her pursuit and leaned against a wall, wishing she could disappear into the masonry.

  The man kept on as before, although his posture had become more rigid, his shuffling gait more hesitant. Finally he came to the end of the road and stopped. He had come to the entrance of the north harbor. A dock reached out into the harbor where the road ended, while a raised wooden walkway ran in either direction along the shoreline. The man seemed to be having some trouble deciding which way to go.

  “Left or right?” wondered Leta aloud.

  The man seemed incapable of making a decision, and each passing moment caused the knot in Leta’s throat to tighten. Why isn’t he moving? What’s holding him back?

  There was a copper sign hanging above the dock entrance that was polished to a mirror-like sheen. A knot formed in Leta’s chest. The man wasn’t hesitating. He was looking straight at the sign, using the polished metal like a mirror. His gaze was set dead upon her position. Their eyes momentarily locked, and then the man was gone, shuffling down the left walkway as fast as his feet could take him.

  Leta cursed herself for being so stupid and broke into a sprint. Her feet hammered against the cobblestones, causing an echo to reverberate down the empty street. The racket destroyed any hope she had of sneaking up on the man unnoticed, but she couldn’t let the man slip away, not without getting a good look at his face. She reached the wooden walkway and grunted with frustration. The man was gone.

  There were a dozen storefronts and warehouses down the path, plus a pair of dark uninviting alleys. Leta sighed. It would be foolish for her to go poking around this part of town by herself. This was the kind of place where women disappeared with some regularity, kidnapped and forced to service the men who worked aboard the trading galleys that made call at Mayal’s port. Her adventure in spying had come to an uneventful end. Fate had worked against her, and she couldn’t help thinking that it was probably for the better.