The Skull Throne

The Hollow had grown so large that a full day’s ride from Cutter’s Hollow barely had them to the border. But there was an inn at least. The next few nights would be spent sleeping in tents, something Rojer had never cared for. Amanvah’s tent was more a pavilion, with half a dozen servants to tend their every need, but for bedding down, Rojer would trade it for a broom closet if the walls were solid and kept the sounds of corelings at bay.

The inn had been cleared in expectation of the royal caravan, but the count took dinner in his rooms. Leesha was not invited to join him, something that spoke volumes in Angierian tea politics.

Jasin, too, was absent from the common, though that was no surprise. He seemed to want to avoid Rojer as much as Rojer did him.

Amanvah, too, would have been pleased to retire, but Rojer did not allow it, loudly inviting Leesha, Gared, and Wonda to join them in the common. He was learning when Krasian customs worked in his favor, for his jiwah could not refuse an invitation once made. Sikvah took over half the kitchen, cowing the staff and putting Amanvah’s dal’ting servants in charge of serving their table. Creator forbid some barmaid offend Her Highness by bowing the wrong way.

Jizell and Vika took another table with a few apprentices, all of them more than happy to have Hollowers serve them. Coliv stood by the wall, watching everything, rigid as a hitching post. Rojer had never seen the man eat.

“Tell us of this Duke Rhinebeck, husband,” Amanvah said between courses. “You knew him, did you not?”

“Ay, a bit,” Rojer said. “Back when Master Arrick was royal herald. I learned to read in the palace library.”

“That must have been wonderful,” Leesha sighed wistfully.

Rojer shrugged. “Suppose you’d think so. For my own part, I couldn’t wait to get back to fiddling and tumbling. But Mistress Jessa insisted I learn my letters, and even Arrick agreed.”

“Mistress Jessa was Royal Gatherer?” Leesha asked.

“Not exactly,” Rojer said.

Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “Weed Gatherer.” Rojer nodded.

“What is a Weed Gatherer?” Amanvah asked.

“You’d get along well.” Leesha did an impressive job of adding venom to her voice. She was really quite a natural. “A Weed Gatherer is the royal poisoner.”

Amanvah nodded her understanding. “A high honor for a trusted servant.”

“There’s no honor in poison,” Leesha said.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Rojer snapped. He caught Leesha’s eye. “And I’ll not sit and listen to you talk about Mistress Jessa like that. She was the closest thing I had to a mum after mine died. Creator knows I bite my tongue about Elona.”

Leesha snorted. “Fair and true.”

“So I saw the duke here and there in the palace,” Rojer said, “usually stumbling to or from the royal brothel. He and his brothers have their own private tunnel there, so they can visit unseen.”

“Of course they do.” Leesha sawed at the meat on her plate like she was amputating a limb.

“This is common in Krasia as well,” Amanvah said. “Men of power must have many children.”

“Creator, not a chance,” Rojer said. “All Jessa’s girls take pomm tea. Can’t have royal bastards running all over the city.” Leesha glared at him, and Rojer coughed.

“They …” Amanvah paused, in that way she did when she was searching for the right word in Thesan. “These Jiwah Sen take herbs to prevent children?”

“Disgusting,” Sikvah said. “What kind of woman would make herself kha’ting?”

“They are not Jiwah Sen,” Leesha told Amanvah. “They are heasah.”

Amanvah and Sikvah put their heads together at that, whispering rapidly to each other in Krasian. Rojer didn’t know the Krasian word, but he could well guess its meaning. This conversation was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Amanvah straightened, carved from pure dignity. “We will not discuss such matters where we break bread in Everam’s name.”

Rojer was quick to bow. “Of course you are correct, Jiwah Ka.”

“Tell me more of Rhinebeck’s clan,” Amanvah said. “How do they trace their blood to Kaji?”

“They don’t,” Rojer said.

“Then to the one-time king of your Thesa,” Amanvah waved her hand impatiently. “Our scholars have speculated that the king’s line must go back to the first Deliverer’s Northern heirs for the throne to be legitimate.”

“Might be,” Rojer said, “though I wouldn’t go spouting such things at court. The Rhinebecks haven’t more than a touch of royal blood to them.”

“Oh?” Leesha asked.

“Demonshit,” Wonda said. “If Duchess Araine ent royal, no one is.”

“Oh, Araine is royal enough,” Rojer said. “She was married to Rhinebeck the First’s son in an effort to give his coup legitimacy. But Rhinebeck the First was first minister, without an ounce of royal blood. He invented the machine to stamp klats, and it’s said he kept one in five the machines made. By the time the old duke died without a son, he was the richest man in Angiers, and every royal house vying for the throne was in his debt.”

Amanvah smiled. “Your people are different from mine, husband, but not so different.”

“This is Rhinebeck the Third’s problem,” Rojer said. “If he dies without an heir, there are any number of houses with as good a claim to the throne as his brothers’. They might manage to keep power, but it will cost them, and make the succession ripe for interference from the north. Klats are well and good, but Euchor can fill their enemies’ coffers with gold.”

“That’s not all he can fill them with,” Leesha said, but she did not elaborate.

They moved out of the Hollow proper the second day, but the road leading in was well warded, with caravan camps at regular intervals. They kept moving well after dusk, pressing on to the garrison of Wooden Soldiers at the edge of Thamos’ territory.

Rojer was out of the coach the moment the caravan called a halt, stretching his restless limbs with his tumbler’s warm-up.

“Gone stir-crazy?” Gared asked, swinging down from Rockslide, his massive Angierian mustang, as easily as any of Thamos’ cavalry commanders.

“Needed the stretch,” Rojer said.

“Ay,” Gared said. “Reckon it’s exhausting, sleeping in furs all day with three women.”

Rojer smiled. “If that’s what you think, the duchess needs to find you a bride more desperately than we thought.”

Gared laughed, and Rojer deftly rolled with the blow as the big Cutter accented the sound with his customary slap on the back.

Rockslide turned their way, but Gared had a fat apple in hand. The animal snatched it with a bite that could easily take a grown man’s head and turned back, chewing quietly as Gared ran a brush against the stallion’s neck.

Rojer shook his head. “Gared Cutter I met a year ago barely knew which end of a horse was which.”

“A season ago, even,” Gared agreed. “I could get here to there, but I never liked the corespawned things.” He looked back at the horse, standing proud as if it were doing him a favor by allowing itself to be brushed. “But old Rocky here’s got no patience for raw wood.”