The Skull Throne (50 page)

There was no denying the effectiveness of the tactic. All the men at court, from the lowest scullery boy to Rhinebeck himself, were trained to leap to her bidding, lest the crone strain herself to exhaustion with the act of crossing the room.

Leesha looked at Thamos as they passed, but the count affected not to notice.

Nothing is settled,
she reminded herself.
Not until I make right with Thamos.
She of all people should know that a mother’s marriage agreements were meaningless without the child’s consent.

Wonda had the door. “Let an old woman lean on one of those magnificent arms,” Araine told her.

“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said. Melny broke off with practiced ease, smiling as she took the lead of the crowd of women in the hall, escorting them to the evening salon.

They approached the end of the hall where two large women stood at attention to either side of a great set of double doors. They were dressed almost identically to Wonda, and wore tabards bearing Araine’s crest. They were unarmed, but did not look to need arms to keep out most unwanted visitors. When they moved to pull open the doors, Leesha could see the barest impression of a short club hanging from the back of their belts, hidden by the loose tabards.

They saluted as Araine approached, but their eyes were on Wonda.

“You’ve become something of a legend in Angiers, dear,” Araine told Wonda. “Since your last visit, I’ve made some changes in the palace guard.”

Another pair of women on the opposite side closed the doors, but these were clad in lacquered wooden armor and carried spears.

Araine ignored the discomfort on Wonda’s face, turning to Amanvah and Sikvah. She surprised Leesha again, slipping effortlessly into Krasian. “Be at peace, sisters, and lower your veils. We are in the women’s wing of the palace. No men are allowed beyond these doors.”

Amanvah bowed slightly, lowering her pristine white veil and undoing her headscarf. Sikvah followed suit. Unmarried, Kendall’s face was uncovered, but she wore her hair in a motley headscarf and removed it with a bow.

The salon was filled with ladies of the court by the time Araine shuffled up the steps and down the hall. Women drank and lounged, discussing art, music, theater, and poetry. Princess Lorain commanded a knot of women, as did the Duchess Melny, the tension between the groups palpable.

A trio of female Jongleurs in the court heraldic motley performed near the center. Two of them, young and beautiful, plucked harps, filling the rooms with soothing sound.

The third was older, tall and thickly set. The motley patchwork of her gown was made of smooth elegant lines of colored velvet, embroidered in gold. Her voice permeated the room, bounced expertly off walls and ceiling designed to amplify those in the center of the room. The high soprano aria from
Scaletongue,
the opera about the mythical Messenger Jak Scaletongue, who could speak to demons, and delighted in tricking them.

Amanvah’s eyes locked on the singer in that sharp, predatory way Krasian women had, Sikvah and Kendall’s heads swiveled as one to follow, like a flock of birds turning in unison.

Amanvah and Sikvah raised their hands slightly, wiggling fingers in their secret language while continuing to watch the Jongleur. Leesha still had no sense of what the movements meant, but she knew from experience the Krasian women could speak as intricate a conversation with fingers and facial expression as they could with words.

Pretending to adjust her hair, Leesha slipped on a warded earring. It was a tiny silver shell, molded around a curved bit of dried ear cartilage from a flame demon.

She tilted her head slightly, and caught Kendall’s whispered words, even amidst the music. “Who’s that?”

Sikvah leaned close to Kendall, her words the barest breath on the young woman’s ear, but Leesha’s earring caught them all. “She is the one who killed Master Jaycob.”

Leesha’s stomach tightened. She had written the report to the city watch after the crime. Leesha prided herself on a sharp memory, but it cut both ways, as the image of Jaycob’s swollen and bloody body flashed in her mind, bones broken like kindling. He had been beaten to death by someone using their bare hands.

From the size of the bruises, Leesha had always assumed the killer had been a man. There had been a purple handprint on Jaycob’s shoulder—where the assailant had gripped him to pull him into their blows. Leesha remembered measuring her own hand against it, like a child measuring against an adult.

One look at the singer’s big hands, though, and she knew.

“What do we do?” Kendall whispered.

“Nothing, save the
dama’ting
command it,” Sikvah said. “This woman owes our husband a blood debt, but until he calls it due, we must endure.”

The Core we must,
Leesha thought.

“Creator, that singing is giving me a splitting headache,” she said. Not loudly, but not quietly, either.

Araine immediately picked up on it. “Sali, quit your warbling!”

The Jongleur had taken a great breath for her next verse, but choked on it instead, coughing with great convulsion. She punched herself in the chest, trying to regain composure, and behind her, Leesha head Kendall give a tiny giggle.

Leesha raised her voice. “If the ladies of your salon are as sick of another tired rendition of
Scaletongue
as I, Your Grace, perhaps the Princess Amanvah will bless us with something newer.” She glanced at Amanvah, whose eyes shone with gratitude.

At a nod from Araine, Amanvah and her
Jiwah Sen
swept in on the unfortunate royal troupe, forcing them to stumble awkwardly from the center of the room.

Kendall had her fiddle out, playing a few notes to warm the strings as Amanvah addressed the crowd.

“In days long past, my people used music to drive back the
alagai,
turning them from their unholy purpose.” Her trained voice easily mastered the acoustics of the room, and her accent, rolling and musical, sent shivers through the crowd, commanding the attention of all, even the displaced Jongleurs.

“It is time,” Amanvah said, “to return that power to all Everam’s children. Listen well.”

With that, she began to sing, Sikvah and Kendall rising to join her, the three of them nearly as powerful alone as with Rojer at their lead. The song was in Krasian, but the melody wrapped them all close, and soon she could see women around the room mouthing the refrain as best they could, excitement on their faces as they remembered childhood lessons in the desert tongue.

And in the corner, Sali stood with crossed arms, seething.

CHAPTER 20

SIBLING RIVALRY

333 AR WINTER

Rojer’s head was pounding when Sikvah shook him awake. He barely recalled stumbling into his chambers and crawling into bed with her. Amanvah and Kendall had their own rooms in the suite. Rojer looked to the window. It was still dark.

“Creator, what’s the ripping emergency?” he asked. “Unless the walls have been breached, I mean to sleep through till noontime.”

“You cannot,” Sikvah said. “The duke’s man is waiting outside. You leave at dawn for the hunt.”

“Night,” Rojer muttered, rubbing his face. He’d forgotten all about it. “Tell him I’ll join them shortly.”

By the time he pulled on his clothes a breakfast tray had been sent up, but Rojer only snatched a roll on his way to the door.

“You must eat, husband,” Sikvah said.

Rojer waved the thought away. “Going hunting with Duke Rhinebeck. Believe me when I say there will be food aplenty. Odds are I’ll return with a few extra pounds, and not from the game.”

Sikvah looked at him curiously. “When
Sharum
hunt, they take only water with them. It is a test of survival.”

Rojer laughed. “For many in the North, as well. But Royals hunt for sport. If the duke’s attendants chase a stag before his bow—and he manages to shoot it and not them—the cooks will turn it into a royal feast, ay, but the lodge will be stocked to feed an army in any event.”

He kissed her, leaving Amanvah and Kendall to their beds as he headed toward the stables in search of Gared.

He was fortunate to hear Jasin before he saw him, ducking into an alcove and hiding in the shadow of a statue of Rhinebeck I while he waited for them to pass.

“You cannot mean that Milnese fop and ripping Halfgrip are invited, and I am not,” Jasin growled.

“Lower your voice, boy,” Janson snapped. Gone was the obsequious tone he took with Royals and visitors. Rojer hadn’t heard that tone in some time, but he knew it well. Janson had used it often in the last days of Arrick’s service to the duke. “Rhinebeck doesn’t want you on the hunt, and that’s all you need to know. You’ll be lucky to keep your post at all after the mess you’ve made of your trip south.”

“You’re the one who told me to have the soldiers drive the vagrants from the caravan grounds,” Jasin said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

“I didn’t tell you to brag about it to the Hollowers,” Janson said, “and if you so much as breathe a word about my order again, the black dress I have tailored for my sister will be a small price to pay to be free of the headaches you cause me.”

Jasin wisely kept his reply to himself, and a moment later the minister was called away to attend some matter of the duke’s departure. Rojer strolled out into the hall, whistling a bright tune. Jasin looked up and scowled.

“Sorry you won’t be joining us,” Rojer said as he passed.

Jasin grabbed his arms, shoving him hard into the wall. He wasn’t a giant like Gared, but he was taller and stronger than Rojer. “I thought you’d learned not to cross me, cripple, but it seems you need a reminder of—”

Rojer stomped hard on Jasin’s instep, circling his forearms in a simple
sharusahk
move to break the herald’s hold. He flicked his wrist, catching a knife in his hand and putting the point to Jasin’s throat.

“Not afraid of you anymore, Nosong,” Rojer spat. He pressed the knife in, drawing a drop of blood.

Jasin’s face went from pink to snow white. “You wouldn’t dare …”

Rojer pressed harder, cutting off the words. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did to me? To Jaycob? Give me an excuse. I beg you.”

“What’s going on here?”

Rojer and Jasin turned as one to see the speaker, Rojer twisting to block the blade from sight as he made it disappear up his sleeve. Lord Janson stood in the hall, glaring at them both. Rojer didn’t think he had seen the knife, but there was no telling for sure. Not that it mattered, if Jasin were to accuse him and show the puncture at his throat.

But Jasin smiled, spreading his hands. “Nothing, Uncle. Simply an old disagreement.”

Janson’s eyes narrowed. “Settle it another time. His Grace awaits you, Master Halfgrip.”

Rojer bowed. “Of course, Minister.”

“Another time,” Jasin agreed, turning on his heel and stomping back into the palace proper.

“Halfgrip!” Rhinebeck called when Rojer made the stables. It was unclear if he were still drunk from the night before, or if this was a fresh inebriation, but it was barely dawn and already his words were slurred and the wineskin his page carried was only half full.

“You can’t mean to hunt in that,” Pether said, pointing to Rojer’s motley with a short crooked staff that doubled as a riding crop. The Shepherd had changed from his formal robes into brown and green riding gear, fine silk and suede, with the crooked staff embroidered in gold on his fine wool jacket.

Rojer looked down at his clothes, a bright patchwork of color that was perfect for performance, but less so for sneaking about the woods. He shrugged helplessly. “Apologies, my lords, but I had not packed for hunting.”

“No matter,” Prince Mickael said. “Goldentone has hunting motley. Janson! Send a boy up to fetch a set from the herald.”

Janson bowed. “Of course, Highness.” He glanced at Rojer, who was wise enough to swallow his grin and look at his feet.

The runner returned with a set of green and brown motley from Jasin, but when Rojer opened the package, it stank like Goldentone had emptied his chamber pot onto it.

Rojer smiled. Still a victory. If he could not easily kill the man, he would settle for a thousand tiny blows.

The royal hunting lodge was a full day’s ride east of the city. Keerin and Sament had been invited along, but it was the barest courtesy, and not a true welcome. They had their own entourage, and even on the next day’s hunt the two groups kept mostly to themselves.

They were hunting rockbirds, a large species of raptor common in the hills of Angiers. The birds were a slate color almost indistinguishable from the rocks where they made their nests.

The duke had split them into two groups. Rhinebeck, Thamos, Rojer, and Gared positioned themselves east above a cluster of nesting stones. Mickael, Pether, Sament, and Keerin had been sent to a similar position to the west. Servants led dogs quietly up the path to the stones. When they were ready, Rhinebeck would give the signal and they would loose the dogs, flushing the birds from concealment, right into the hunters’ sights.

Rojer and Gared carried conventional bows, arrows nocked at the ready. The duke and Thamos held loaded crank bows with ornate aiming lenses. Each had an attendant with two more, ready to hand off and reload while the Royals fired.

“He’s an embarrassment to the crown,” Thamos was saying to Rhinebeck. “Driving peasants into the night to save a few hours.”

“Rizonan peasants,” Rhinebeck said. “Squatters trespassing on ground cleared for Messengers and caravans. Most of them bandits who would as soon slit my men’s throats as not.”

“Nonsense,” Thamos said. “Those we encountered were too wretched to be a threat to anyone. Rizon is gone, brother. And Lakton soon enough, if we do not act. If we don’t want our lands teeming with bandits, we must absorb the refugees and offer them better. It is the only way. And we cannot do that if Goldentone has them cursing your name.”

Rhinebeck sighed, taking another long pull from his wineskin. He offered it to Thamos, who waved it away, and Gared, who accepted. The young baron was proving impressionable, and was nearly as drunk as Rhinebeck.

“Creator knows I’m not defending Goldentone,” Rhinebeck said. “That little pissant makes me long for the days of Sweetsong, before the drink turned him sour.” He glanced at Rojer, who kept his face expressionless. It was no secret much of the rift between Arrick and the duke had come after Sweetsong returned from the destruction of Riverbridge with Rojer in tow.

“What about you, Halfgrip?” Rhinebeck asked. “They say ask a Jongleur if you’re looking for gossip. What do they say on the streets about my half-witted herald?”

“He’s no more loved in the guildhouse than in the palace,” Rojer said. “Before Your Grace took him as herald, his patrons were more interested in doing his uncle a favor than they were in his singing. He was known for taking jobs my master turned down. It’s how he earned the nickname Secondsong.”

Rhinebeck roared a laugh. “Secondsong! I love it!”

The sound echoed off the rocks and a dozen rockbirds took flight, muscular wings fighting the pull of the ground to reach the strong winds that swept the hills.

“Night!” Rhinebeck cried, snapping his crank bow up so quickly the bolt came loose and the string twanged uselessly. Rojer and Gared loosed at well, their arrows not coming significantly closer. There were curses from the west as the other group had similar results.

Only Thamos remained calm, raising his crank bow and taking his time as he tracked one of the birds. Rhinebeck snatched another bow from his attendant and had it up while Rojer and Gared were still nocking their second shots. Thamos fired and there was a squawk even as Rhinebeck pulled his trigger with barely a moment to aim.

The rockbird cried as it fell from the sky. Thamos smiled, but it was short-lived as his elder brother glared at him. The count gave a nod. “Well shot, brother. I confess I am out of practice, but Creator willing, I’ll catch up over the next few days.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Rhinebeck’s attendant spoke. “Indeed, sire. A fine shot.” Thamos’ attendant nodded emphatically. “Masterfully done, Your Grace.”

Rhinebeck glanced to Gared and Rojer.

“Rarely have I seen such skill with a crank bow,” Rojer said. Gared remained quiet, so he gave the big man a surreptitious kick in the leg.

“Oh, ay,” Gared said, his voice flat. “Good shootin’.”

Rhinebeck grunted, slapping Thamos on the back. “You were always better with the spear than the bow.” He looked to Rojer. “You’re fault, Jongleur, for making me laugh like that.” He chuckled again. “Secondsong. I’ll have to remember that one.” The servants began to breathe again, and the tension bled from the air.

The hunting lodge was small fortress, built on high ground with thick wardwalls and a full staff year-round. It held a garrison of fifty Wooden Soldiers, and at least two dozen servants and groundskeepers in addition to the score of soldiers in the duke’s entourage, along with pages, cooks, and hounds. It even had its own brothel, with comfort women for the soldiers and choicer whores to cater to visiting Royals. Two of these were boys, but their hair and face powders made them seem as women at a glance.

“Disgusting,” Sament said, noticing one of these, but Keerin’s eyes lingered, and Rojer knew without a doubt the two would be grunting in the pillows tonight. He wondered if Keerin was the sort to take top or bottom.

Mickael and Pether blamed Rhinebeck for scaring the game, their annoyance only amplified as Rhinebeck held up his prize.

“So Thamos jumps and swings the bow so fast the ripping bolt falls free!” Rhinebeck gesticulated with the drumstick of the rockbird to illustrate his point.

With every retelling of the tale—and there had been many—Rhinebeck added little flourishes with the skill of a Jongleur. He seemed to have internalized the lie entirely.

Everyone had a laugh at Thamos, then. His brothers and their whores, the Milnese, even some of the servants. Gared studied the contents of his cup, and Thamos made a pained sound that the others took for embarrassed laughter.

Rojer, by his nature, wanted to join the merriment.
Never spoil a crowd’s good mood,
Arrick had taught,
or act too good to be part of it.

But over the months he had spent with the man, Rojer had grown to truly like Count Thamos, and could not bring himself to add to his humiliation. He drained his wine instead.

The cooks had done a fine job dressing the prize, but the single rockbird was barely a morsel for a crowd of grown men. Rhinebeck had served it as an appetizer, so all could share in his proud “victory.” It was gamy and tough, much like the tale they were enduring yet again.

The duke’s table was piled with pork, venison, and beef, enough to feed twice the assembled group. Wine flowed freely, and those not drunk already were soon on their way, Rojer included.

Of the royal family, only Thamos had not found company for the pillows, and Rojer caught him watering his wine.

Gared followed his example. He’d withdrawn since the duke had claimed Thamos’ kill. “You’d think the throne would be enough.”

“My brothers have always been this way.” Thamos’ voice was low and tired. “Time was I would have been the same. My seal was on that bolt, and I would have delighted in showing up Rhiney and the others.” He sighed. “I might not have cared for the vagabonds in the caravan camps, either. The world looks different since I left Angiers and saw how real folk live.”

He slammed his fist on the table. Rojer glanced around, but the other Royals were making too much noise to notice. “We’re wasting time! To the north Euchor has his eye on kingship of Thesa, and to the south, our enemies mount. People starving all over Angiers, and we’re hunting! And doing a poor job of it at that. Just an excuse to get out of the city for more drinking and whoring.”