The Skewed Throne Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part I - The Dredge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II - Amenkor

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  It was time for the Mistress to die.

  I had to get to the Mistress’ chambers tonight. We’d waited too long already . . . had waited six years hoping that things would get better, looking for alternate solutions. Six long years since the Second Coming of the White Fire, and since that day things had only gotten worse. Legend said that the first Fire had cast the city into madness. The second Fire had done the same. A slow, subtle madness. And now winter bore down on us, the seas already getting rough, unsuitable for trade. With the mountain passes closed, resources low . . .

  As I turned into a second corridor, I frowned, with a hard and determined expression. We’d tried everything to end it. Everything but what legend said had worked the first time the Fire came. Now there was no choice.

  “Compelling reading in this highly promising first novel.”—Locus

  Also by Joshua Palmatier:

  THE SKEWED THRONE

  THE CRACKED THRONE

  THE VACANT THRONE1

  Copyright © 2005 by Joshua Palmatier.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1350.

  DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA)

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First paperback printing, November 2006

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-08711-4

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This novel is dedicated to the memory of my father,

  Cdr. Philip F. Palmatier, Jr.,

  lost at sea in a midair collision of two A-4 Skyhawks

  December 10, 1990

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I want to thank my editor Sheila Gilbert and my agent Amy Stout, for taking a chance on a new author and for not only believing in the story, but for helping to make it that much better. Baked goods will be had by all! Thanks as well to Steve Stone, the artist who captured the essence of the entire book in the cover art. I’m still stunned. Getting a first novel published is exciting enough; working with Amy, Sheila, Steve, and everyone else at DAW to get the story into book form and on the shelf is truly exhilarating.

  Thanks also to everyone who read this novel in any or all of its various forms: two great friends and fellow writers, Patricia Bray and Jennifer Dunne; the best cycling partner in the world, Cheryl Losinger; the person who kept me sane while writing and teaching, Jean Brewster; the Vicious Circle—Carol Bartholomew, J. Michael Blumer, Kishma Danielle, Laurie Davis, Bon nie Freeman, Dorian Gray, Penelope Hardy, Heidi Kneale, Robert Sinclair, Larry West—an experimental critiquing group at the Online Writing Workshop that experienced greater success than I expected; and everyone else at the OWW who at some point critiqued one of my many novels and short stories posted there. All of them offered invaluable insight into this book.

  I must acknowledge one first reader in particular: Ariel Guzman, a true best friend and critique partner, who was there from the very beginning, when I first set words down on paper in the eighth grade and announced I wanted to be a writer. He’s suffered through everything I’ve ever written, and that first novel attempt was truly horrid. I still shudder. Without his encouragement along the way, I would never have made it to this point.

  I must also thank Alis Rasmussen, for offering to read my first real (and as yet unpublished) novel and for offering two particularly relevant pieces of advice: “patience and persistence” and “cut at least half of the words out.” She guided me through the rough terrain between the plateau of simply writing, and the heights of actually being published. She also introduced me to my first con . . . and everyone has regretted it ever since.

  And last, but certainly never least, my family: my mother, who showed me that strength comes from the inside; my brothers, Jason and Jacob, who are the only other people more excited about this book than I am; and George, who has taught me more about myself than I thought anyone possibly could.

  Nothing is more important than the people that support you and encourage you throughout life, especially those that encourage your dreams. These people not only made this a better book, they made me a better person.

  The Palace

  OVER one thousand years ago, a great fire swept through the city of Amenkor. Not a fire like those burning in the bowls of standing oil that lined the promenade to the palace, all red and orange and flapping in the wind that came from the sea. No. This fire was white, pure, and cold. And from the legends, this fire burned from horizon to horizon, reaching from the ground to the clouds. It came from the west, like the wind, and when it fell upon the city it passed through walls and left them untouched, passed through people and left them unburned. It covered the entire city—there was no escape, it touched everyone—and then it swept onward, inland, until it vanished, nothing more than a white glow, and then nothing at all.

  It is said the White Fire cast the city into madness. It is said the Fire was an omen, a harbinger of the eleven-year drought and the famine and disease that followed.

  It is said the Fire murdered the ruling Mistress of the time, even though her body was found unburned on the wide stone steps that led up to the palace at the end of the promenade. There were bruises around her throat in the shape of hands, and bruises in the shape of boots on her naked back and bared breasts. There were bruises elsewhere, beneath the white robes that lay about her waist in torn rags, the robe held in place only by the angle of her body and the gold sash of her office. There was blood as well. Not gushing blood, but spotted blood.

  But the legends say the Fire killed her.

  Fire, my ass.

  Tucked into the niche set high in a narrow corridor of the palace, I snorted in contempt, then shifted with a grimace to ease a cramped muscle. No part of my body moved out into the light. The niche sat at the end of a long shaft that provided airflow into the depths of the palace.

  Any blind-ass bastard could tell what had really happened to the Mistress. And the blind-ass bastard who killed her should have rotted in the deepest hellhole in Amenkor. There were quicker ways to kill someone than strangulation. I knew.

  I drew in a slow breath and listened. Nothing but the guttering flames of the standing bowls of burning oil which lit the empty corridor below. The airflow in the palace was strong, gusting through the opening at my back. A storm was coming. But the wind took care of the smoke from the burning oil. And other smells.

  After a long, considering moment, I slid forward to the edge of the niche and glanced down the corridor in both directions. Nothing.

  With one smooth shift, I slipped over the lip of the opening, dangled by white-knuckled fingers for a moment until steady, then dropped to the floor.

&n
bsp; “You, boy! Help me with this.”

  I spun, hand falling to the knife hidden inside the palace clothing that had been provided the night before: page’s clothing that was a little too big for me, a little loose. But apparently it had worked. I was small for my age, and had no breasts to speak of, but I definitely wasn’t a boy.

  The woman who’d spoken was dressed in the white robe of a personal servant of the Mistress and carried two woven baskets, one in each arm. One of the baskets was threatening to tip out of her grasp. She’d managed to catch it with the other basket before it fell, but both baskets were now balanced awkwardly against her chest, ready to tip at the slightest movement.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Her face creased in irritation and anger, but her eyes remained focused on the baskets.

  I straightened from the instinctual crouch and moved forward to catch the basket before it fell. It was heavier than it looked.

  My hand brushed the woman’s skin as I took the basket and a long thin slash of pain raced up my arm, as if someone had drawn a dagger’s blade across my skin from wrist to elbow. I glanced at the woman sharply, tensed.

  The woman heaved a sigh of relief and wiped a trembling hand across her forehead. “Thank you.” After a moment to catch her breath, she motioned to the basket again. “Now give it back. Carefully!”

  Relief swept through me. She hadn’t felt the contact, hadn’t felt the slash of pain or anything else out of the ordinary at all.

  I set the basket back into the woman’s arms, careful not to touch her skin again, the woman grunting at its weight. Then I stepped aside and let her pass. She huffed out of the corridor, vanishing around a corner.

  I watched her receding back, then my eyes narrowed. I wasn’t supposed to run into anyone, especially not one of the true Servants. No one was supposed to know I was here.

  I’d have to be more careful.

  I fingered the knife again, considering, then turned away, moving in the other direction, shrugging thoughts of the woman aside. She’d barely glanced up from her baskets, too intent on not dropping them. She wouldn’t remember meeting a page boy. Not inside the palace. And there wasn’t any time to spare, not if I was to get to the Mistress’ chambers before dawn. I was in the outermost portion of the palace, still needed to get to the linen closet with the archer’s nook, get past the guards at the inner sanctum. . . .

  I shook my head and moved a little faster down the narrow corridor, running through the mental image of the map of the palace in my head, reviewing the timing. The incoming storm prickled through my skin, urging me on. I reached into an inner pocket and fingered the key hidden there.

  I had to get to the Mistress’ chambers tonight. We’d waited too long already . . . had waited six years hoping that things would get better, looking for alternate solutions. Six long years since the Second Coming of the White Fire, and since that day things had only gotten worse. Legend said that the first Fire had cast the city into madness. The second Fire had done the same. A slow, subtle madness. And now winter bore down on us, the seas already getting rough, unsuitable for trade. With the mountain passes closed, resources low . . .

  As I turned into a second corridor, I frowned, with a hard and determined expression. We’d tried everything to end it. Everything but what legend said had worked the first time the Fire came. Now there was no choice.

  It was time for the Mistress to die.

  Part I

  The Dredge

  Chapter 1

  I FOCUSED on the woman with dark eyes and a wide face, on the basket she carried on her hip, a cloth covering its contents. The woman wore a drab dress, had long, flat, black hair. A triangle of cloth covered most of her head, two corners tied beneath her chin, easy to pick out in the crowd of people on the street. She moved without rushing, head lowered as she walked.

  An easy mark.

  My gaze shifted to the basket and my hand slid down to the dagger hidden inside my tattered shirt. My stomach growled.

  I bit my upper lip, turned back to the woman’s downturned face, tried to catch her eyes from across the street. The eyes were the most revealing. But she’d moved farther away, paused now at the edge of an alley.

  A moment later, she ducked into the narrow.

  I hesitated on the edge of the street they called the Dredge, fingers kneading the handle of my dagger. People flowed past, not quite jostling me. I scanned the street, the people, noticed a guardsman, a cartman with brawny shoulders, a gutterscum thug. No one openly dangerous. No one overtly threatening to a fourteen-year-old girl pressed flat against a wall. A mud-streaked girl, clothes more tattered than whole, hair so dirty its color was indistinguishable. A small girl—far, far too small for fourteen; far, far too thin to be alive.

  Eyes hardening, I turned back to the mouth of the narrow where the woman had disappeared, watched its darkness.

  Then I cut across the Dredge, cut through the crowd so smoothly I touched no one. I slid against the wall of the narrow, crouched low, until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I listened. The noise of the street faded to a background wind, the world grayed. . . .

  And in the new silence I heard the sound of footfalls on damp stone, steady and quick. I heard clothes rustling, heard the creak of wicker as a basket was shifted. The footsteps were receding.

  In the cloaked darkness of the alley, I glanced back out toward the street, toward the movement, the sunlight. No one had seen me follow the woman. Not even the guardsman.

  I turned back, slid deeper into the darkness, into the stench of refuse and piss and mildew. I moved without sound, with a cold, hungry intent, my stomach clenched and empty, thinking only of the basket, of the food it might represent. The woman’s footsteps continued, shuffling ahead on the dirty stone, splashing in unseen puddles. I drew in the stench of the alley, could almost smell the woman’s sweat. My hand closed on the handle of my dagger—

  And the footsteps ahead slowed, grew wary.

  I halted, drew close to the wall, hand pressed against its damp mud-brick.

  Ahead, feet shuffled in place. The cold of the alley grew deeper, a coldness I felt echoed in my chest like the harsh burn of hoarfrost.

  Then I heard another footstep, a heavier tread, a gasp as the woman cried out, the sound suddenly choked off.

  Something heavy hit the cobbles, followed by rolling thuds, by the sound of a struggle: clothes rustling, harsh breaths, a horrifying gasping sound, choked and desperate. Like the gasping sounds of the man I’d killed three years before. Except these gasps were not wet and slick, choking on blood. These were dry and empty.

  A sick, feverish shudder of horror rushed through my skin and I pressed against the mud-brick at my back, trying not to breathe. The coldness of hoarfrost prickling in my chest tightened, began to burn white, like the touch of the Fire that had passed through the city three years before. Fresh sweat prickled in my armpits, the center of my chest, making me shudder. My hand clenched on the handle of my dagger.

  The gasping quieted, slowed. A strained grunting filtered from the darkness. It escalated, tight and short, then released in a trembling sigh. Almost like sobbing. This faded into soft breathing. Then there was a weighted thud, heavier than the first, and even the breathing faded.

  I fidgeted, breath held close, hand gripping the sweaty hilt of the dagger. I’d let the dagger slip completely free without thinking. Had brought it to bear.

  But no one emerged from the darkness. Not after twenty shortened breaths. Not after fifty.

  And the icy Fire in my chest had died.

  I relaxed, drew a steadying breath, then edged forward. A trickle of black water appeared, running through the alley’s center. I kept to the left wall, the bricks wet, left hand against the dampness, right hand holding the dagger.

  Eleven paces farther on I found the basket turned on its side, potatoes littering the cobbles. The cloth that had covered them was already stained with filth.

  Three steps farther, I found the woman’
s body.

  She lay crumpled to the ground, on her back, her feet bent beneath her thighs. One arm lay thrust out, the other close to her side. The kerchief covering her hair had been pushed askew and tangles of her hair lay matted to the stone. Her head lay in the trickle of scummy water, tilted slightly away.

  I hunkered against the wall, scanned the darkness ahead, listening. But there was nothing but the sound of dripping water, the taste of damp growth.

  I turned back to the woman, edged past her out-flung arm, and knelt.

  A dark band of blood encircled her neck, cut into her flesh. Her eyes were open, staring up past me into the darkness of the alley. Her lips were parted.

  She looked like she was asleep, except she wasn’t breathing and her eyes were open.

  I looked at the line of blood across her neck again, leaned forward—

  And saw a thin cord loop down in front of my face.

  I brought the dagger up instantly, but not before the cord snapped tight across my neck, not before I heard a guttural, masculine grunt as a man crossed the cord behind my neck and jerked it tight. The cord caught the dagger on its flat side and yanked it flat against my neck.

  Then the man leaned upward and back, pressed his knee hard into my spine and pushed.

  My body arched outward, the cord drawing tighter across my neck. My head fell back against the man’s shoulder so that his bearded cheek rested against mine, his breath hot against my chest. It stank of ale and fish and oil.

  “A little young and thin for my tastes,” he gasped, drawing the cord tighter with a jerk, “but I’ll takes what gifts the Mistress gives me, eh?”

  The icy pressure flared again in my chest, at the base of my throat, spreading like frost. I tasted the air from the night of the Fire three years before, felt the Fire itself burning cold deep inside me. I sucked in a hard, painful breath of air in shock.