The Throne of Amenkor Read online

  Praise for the Throne of Amenkor novels:

  “I give The Skewed Throne four and a half out of five really creepy-ass iconic chairs, and a strong suggestion that it not walk down any dark alleys alone. I highly recommend it.”

  —Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author of the Toby Daye series

  “A gritty, edgy, unsettling book. This tough young woman makes her choices in a world where good and evil often look like twins. I was riveted by her story!”

  —Tamora Pierce, New York Times bestselling author of the Song of the Lioness series

  “Joshua Palmatier has written a vivid, passionate story about a tough-minded heroine fighting for survival. What makes her especially compelling is her own struggle to understand right and wrong, and to confront what necessity can force you to do. This promising first novel should lead to equally confident sequels.”

  —Kate Elliott, New York Times bestselling author of the Spiritwalker series

  “The strength of Palmatier’s book lies in Varis. Varis is a bitter girl, hardened by years of living in the Dredge, but she retains a core of humanity. Her ability to slip into what she calls the river, where threats stand out as splashes of red in the currents of the world around her, makes her an intriguing point of view character . . . if you enjoy grittier fantasy, I would recommend picking up The Skewed Throne.”

  —Jim C. Hines, author of the Magic ex Libris series

  “If you are familiar with Arya Stark in George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire series, you’ll love Varis, who has a similar tenacity and toughness. I highly recommend The Skewed Throne and fans of gritty fantasy will love this book.”

  —Paul Genesse, author of the Iron Dragon series

  “This novel grips the reader with a swift-moving tale of political intrigue and economic survival in a world where the most dangerous secrets are never forgotten.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  DAW Books proudly presents the fantasy novels of Joshua Palmatier

  SHATTERING THE LEY

  THREADING THE NEEDLE

  REAPING THE AURORA

  The Throne of Amenkor:

  THE SKEWED THRONE

  THE CRACKED THRONE

  THE VACANT THRONE

  THE SKEWED THRONE copyright © 2005 by Joshua Palmatier.

  THE CRACKED THRONE copyright © 2006 by Joshua Palmatier.

  THE VACANT THRONE copyright © 2006 by Joshua Palmatier.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art courtesy of Shutterstock.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  Book designed by The Barbarienne’s Den.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1775

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may be stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  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.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780756413361

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Version_1

  THE SKEWED THRONE:

  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.

  THE CRACKED THRONE:

  This work is dedicated to my editor, Sheila Gilbert, and my agent, Amy Stout. Bold adventurers both. Without them, this book would not be . . .and would not be half as good.

  THE VACANT THRONE:

  This work is dedicated to my mom, Beryle Palmatier. (Pronounced like pearl, but with a B.)

  She gave me and my brothers the strength to accomplish anything we set our minds to, and the ability to dream big.

  I hope I’ve made her proud.

  Contents

  Praise for the Throne of Amenkor novels

  Also by Joshua Palmatier

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Skewed Throne The Palace

  Part I: The Dredge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  The Palace

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II: Amenkor

  Chapter 7

  The Palace

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The Palace

  Chapter 10

  The Palace

  Chapter 11

  The Palace

  The Throne Room

  The Cracked Throne

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Throne Room

  Epilogue

  The Vacant Throne Part I: Amenkor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II: At Sea

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part III: Venitte

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  “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.