The Skull Throne (41 page)

Thamos jumped to his feet as if stung by a bee. “Don’t. Not now. Maybe not ever again.”

He took a step back, waving his hand at the hidden door. “I think you should go.”

Leesha sobbed as she slipped through the exit, running from the manse as quickly as she could without stumbling.

CHAPTER 17

GOLDENTONE

333 AR WINTER

The Angierian heraldic coach looked out of place in the Hollow, but Rojer would have known it anywhere. He and Arrick had ridden in it countless times back when his master was still in Rhinebeck’s favor.

Only now it belonged to Jasin Goldentone.

Rojer’s bow skidded off the strings as the coach pulled up in the Corelings’ Graveyard, escorted by a dozen Wooden Soldiers on sleek Angierian coursers. The other Jongleurs and apprentices, following his lead in the bandshell, ceased their playing as well, following his gaze.

Kendall caught his eye. “Everything all right? You look white as a cloud.”

Rojer barely heard her. His head swam with a mix of panic and fear, remembering the screams and laughter of a bloody night not so long ago. He watched, transfixed, as the footman lowered the steps and moved to open the carriage door.

Hary Roller put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, lad. Now, before you’re seen. I’ll give your regrets.”

The words, and the gentle shove the old Jongleur gave served to snap Rojer out of his daze. Hary took up his fiddle and stepped up to lead the orchestra, drawing the attention of the players away as Rojer slipped away.

Exiting stage right, Rojer picked up speed the moment he was out of sight, bounding the steps three at a time and then out the door, darting around the back of the bandshell quick as a hare. He pressed his back to the wall in the shadow of the shell, watching as Goldentone stepped out of the coach.

The last year had done little to dull Rojer’s feelings at the sight of the man who had murdered Master Jaycob and left Rojer for dead in the streets of Angiers at night. In the safety of the shadows, Rojer’s lip curled and his hand itched to flick and draw down one of the knives he kept strapped to his forearms. One good throw … 

And what?
he asked himself.
You get hung for murdering the duke’s herald?

But Rojer’s muscles would not unclench. He was breathing hard just standing still, his body filling itself with oxygen to fight or flee.

Jasin called to Hary, and the old Jongleur moved down the steps at the front of the stage to greet him. The men shared a hug and a slap on the back, and the knives seemed to fall into Rojer’s hands of their own accord.

There was no sign of his apprentices, Abrum and Sali. Abrum who had broken Rojer’s fiddle and held him down. Sali, who had laughed as she beat Master Jaycob to death.

But the apprentices were just tools. It was Jasin who had ordered it. Jasin who stood to pay the most for the crime.

“Rojer, what in the Core are you doing?” Kendall’s harsh whisper at his back made him jump. How had she managed to sneak up on him?

“Mind your own instrument, Kendall,” Rojer said. “Doesn’t concern you.”

“Core it doesn’t,” Kendall said, “if I’m to be your wife.”

Rojer looked at her, and something in his eyes made her draw a sharp breath. “For now,” he said quietly, “all you need to know is that if a demon were about to eat Jasin Goldentone, and all I had to do to save him was play a little ditty, I’d smash my fiddle to a thousand pieces first.”

“Who is Jasin Goldentone?” Amanvah demanded the moment Rojer walked into their chambers. She was in her colored silks, her bare face beautiful even in her anger.

He’d expected it, but is was quick even so. Kendall and his wives had become thick as thieves in the last few weeks.

“Jasin Goldentone is my ripping business and no one else’s,” he snapped.

“Demon’s shit.” Amanvah spat on the floor, surprising Rojer with her vehemence. “We are your
jiwah.
Your enemies are ours as well.”

Rojer crossed his arms. “Why not ask your dice, if you want to know so much?”

Amanvah gave a tight smile. “Ah, husband. You know I already have. I am offering you this chance to tell me with your own words.”

Rojer gave her a neutral look, considering. No doubt she had indeed cast the dice on the question, but what the
alagai hora
told her was something else entirely. She might have the whole story—more even than he did—or she might have only a few vague hints with which to pry the information from his lips.

“If you cast the dice, you know all Everam wishes you to,” he countered, knowing it was dangerous ground.

To his surprise, Amanvah’s smile loosened a bit. “You are learning, husband.”

Rojer gave a short bow. “I’ve had excellent teachers.”

“You must learn to trust your
jiwah,
husband,” Amanvah said, putting a hand on his arm and drawing close. Rojer knew it was a calculated move, just like her anger, but he could not deny its effectiveness.

“I’m just …” Rojer swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“The
hora
say there is blood between you,” Amanvah said. “Blood that can only be washed away with blood.”

“You don’t understand—” Rojer began.

Amanvah cut him off with a laugh. “I am the daughter of Ahmann Jardir! You think I do not understand blood feud? It is you who do not understand, husband. You must kill this man. You must do it now, before he has a chance to strike at you and yours again.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Rojer said. “Not here. Not now.”

“Blood feuds can last generations, husband,” Amanvah said. “Fail to kill him, and it may be his grandchildren who revenge themselves upon yours.”

“And killing him will stop that?” Rojer said. “Or will it just make enemies of his children directly?”

“If he has any, it may be best to kill them, as well,” Amanvah said.

“Creator, are you serious?” Rojer was aghast.

“I will send Coliv,” Amanvah said. “He is a Krevakh Watcher and one of the Spears of the Deliverer. He will never be seen, and to all the witnesses, your enemy will simply have fallen from his horse or choked on a pea.”

“No!” Rojer shouted. “No Watchers. No
dama’ting
poison. No getting involved—any of you. Jasin Goldentone is mine to revenge upon, or not, and if you cannot respect that, then this marriage is ended.”

There was silence then. Silence so deep Rojer could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Part of him wanted to take back the words, just to break the silence, but he couldn’t.

They were true.

Amanvah stared at him for a long time, and he met her mask with his own, daring her to blink.

At last she did, lowering her eyes and bowing deeply. Her words dripped venom. “As you wish, husband. His blood is yours alone.”

She looked up at him. “But know this. Every day you allow this man to live, his actions will weigh against you when you walk the lonely path to be judged.”

Rojer snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”

Amanvah blew a short, angry breath through her nostrils, turning on a heel and gliding to her personal chambers and shutting the door.

Rojer wanted to chase her. To tell her loved her and never wanted their marriage to end, but the strength left him and reality closed from all sides.

Jasin Goldentone was in the Hollow, and Rojer could only avoid him for so long.

The invitation came the next morning, a special afternoon meeting of the count’s inner council to formally greet the duke’s herald.

Rojer crumpled the paper in his fist, but was careful not to leave it where it might be found. Amanvah was still in her private chambers, the air chill around the door.

“I’ve got to see the baron,” Rojer told Sikvah. Immediately she moved to lay out the appropriate clothes.

Even Rojer’s wardrobe had seen Amanvah’s touch. She’d been shocked to find the clothes Rojer brought to Everam’s Bounty were the only ones he owned. Not an hour later, Shamavah’s tailors had been stripping and measuring him.

It was good they were building a manse. At the rate Rojer’s closets were filling, they would need to devote an entire wing to his wardrobe.

Not that he was complaining. Rojer now had motley for every occasion, material fine and colors ranging in brightness depending on the nature of the event. Night, he could go a month without wearing the same thing twice. It reminded him of the early days with Arrick, when he had been the duke’s herald and they lived in the palace. Even now, the lie of those times exposed, they remained the happiest days he could remember.

Rojer had attempted to pick his own clothes at first, but his wives quickly put an end to that. In truth, they had a better sense of such things than he.

The jacket and breeches Sikvah chose for an informal meeting with the baron were printed with an intricate pattern of muted color, like a fine Krasian rug. The loose shirt was flawless white silk. It felt like wearing a cloud.

Beneath the flowing cloth, Rojer’s medallion hung heavy on his chest. A Royal Angierian Medal of Valor on a thick braided chain, the heavy gold molding in relief crossed spears behind a shield emblazoned with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne. Beneath the shield, a banner read:

Arrick Sweetsong

But Rojer wore it in reverse, the medallion’s smooth back etched with four more names:

Kally

Jessum

Geral

Jaycob

The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?

He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.

It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.

Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.

Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”

Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”

Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”

Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the
dama’ting
to issue my penance …”

“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”

The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.

His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.

But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.

Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.

Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.

Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.

But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.

Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.

An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.

And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.

Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.

“Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the
dama’ting
 …”

“I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”

“Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His
jiwah
no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.

“Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.

“Husband, when will you return?” Sikvah called.

“Not until late in the day,” and Rojer was through the door, closing it behind him.

Coliv stood in a shadowed nook just outside the door to the apartments. The Watcher gave Rojer a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.