The Skull Throne

Leesha itched to draw her hora wand and destroy it, but if they worried carriages might advertise their presence, a blast of magic would shout it.

Yet neither could the demon be allowed to hunt. “Wonda.”

“Ay, mistress,” Wonda said. She looked around a moment, then set off at a run for a rain barrel by the eave of a building. She leapt, foot barely seeming to touch the edge of the barrel as she used it to leap and catch the lip of the slanted roof, pulling herself up effortlessly and running up the roof as she slipped the bow from her shoulders.

She gave a call, so much like a wind demon’s that the people huddling behind their warded shutters would take no notice. The demon heard and banked hard, coming for her.

Wonda stood steady, arrow pulled back to her ear as the demon approached. It seemed almost upon her when she loosed, warded arrow flaring with magic as it punched through the demon’s chest. It crumpled, falling hard to the boardwalk in front of them.

“Gared,” Leesha said as Wonda made her way back down. “Please make sure it’s dead, and find a trough to leave the body in so it doesn’t start a fire when the sun strikes it.”

“On it,” Gared said.

He went over to the demon, but it didn’t so much as twitch as he yanked out Wonda’s arrow. There was no trough or fountain to be had, so he was forced to hack the demon apart and stuff it in the rain barrel. Wonda went to the pool of ichor in the street, placing her hands in it and shivering as her blackstem wards absorbed the power. The demon’s blood would continue to reek, but it would not burn in the sun.

Wonda looked up, her eyes bright as the night strength filled her. “Want me to keep huntin’, mistress, in case there’s more?”

“I’d feel safer if you stayed with me,” Leesha said. It was true enough, but she also wanted to limit Wonda’s intake of magic until she better understood the effects.

They quickly moved to the inner city, not far from Rhinebeck’s palace. The streets here were brightly lit with lamps and patrolled by city guard, but these were evaded with relative ease.

“We’re practically back at the palace,” Leesha said.

“Of course,” Rojer said. “The brothel is connected to the palace by a series of tunnels, so the Duke and his favored courtiers can have private access, day and night.”

They turned a corner, and there it stood, Mistress Jessa’s Finishing School for Talented Young Ladies. It was a grand building, with two wings around a central tower, three floors aboveground. The wards on the tower and building were strong, Leesha saw, carved deep and lacquered hard, polished to shine. The lampposts along the street were warded as well. If the walls of the city fell, the school would be as safe from corelings as the palace itself.

Rojer went boldly to the door, pulling the silk bell rope. Leesha could only assume it worked—they heard nothing outside. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a giant of a man. He was not as tall as Gared, but broader, with a bull’s neck that strained the collar of his fine lace shirt and thick arms threatening to tear the seams of his velvet jacket. His face was crooked, with a nose obviously broken more than once. There was a hint of gray in his hair, but it made him only seem more seasoned. A polished baton hung from his belt in easy reach.

“I don’t know you.” It was a simple statement, but the man’s tone made it a threat.

“Don’t you, Jax?” Rojer asked, throwing back his cloak. “I’ve grown some, but I’m still the boy you used to throw so high I could catch the rafters.”

The man blinked. “Rojer?”

Before Rojer could finish nodding, the man gave a whoop and thrust his hands into Rojer’s armpits, swinging him through the air. Gared tensed, but then Rojer laughed, and he relaxed.

“Come in, come in!” Jax said, waving them quickly inside and glancing about before closing the door.

“Caught one of your shows, summer before last,” Jax told Rojer. “Mistress and I hid in the crowd and watched. Had both of us in tears by the end.” There was a choke to the big man’s voice that seemed incompatible with his huge, menacing frame.

“You should have said.” Rojer punched his arm, but if he felt it, the big man did not react.

Jax pointed a finger at him. “And you shouldn’t have waited so long to visit. You really the Warded Man’s fiddle wizard now?”

“Ay.” Rojer nodded to his companions. “I’m here to make introductions for the Hollowers to Mistress Jessa. Is she available?”

“For you?” Jax asked. “Of course. Gotta move quick, though. Getting late. Royals will start arriving any time now.”

He led them two stories down a grand spiral staircase covered in red velvet. There was a hallway at the landing, but Jax ignored it, turning instead to push aside a great double bookshelf. It slid smoothly on a wheeled track, revealing an archway covered in heavy laced curtains.

The shelf slid back into place as they passed through the curtain, opening up into an opulent chamber filled with beautiful women. They lounged on soft couches or in semiprivate curtained chambers, ready for the night’s custom. All were dressed in beautiful gowns, their faces powdered and their hair artfully arranged. The scent of perfume permeated the air.

“Creator,” Gared said. “Think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Leesha gave him a dim look, and he dropped his eyes. “And to think it was me you were worried about coming here.”

The center of the room had a ceiling two stories high, but around the periphery was a mezzanine presumably leading to private chambers. Jax led them quickly up a staircase to the balcony and through a curtained arch.

Leesha heard sounds below as they passed through, peeking from the curtain to see Prince Mickael arrive with an entourage of men. Her heart thumped in her chest as she quickly closed the curtain.

“I hope there’s more than one way out of here,” she said as she joined the others waiting as Jax went to fetch his mistress.

“More than you can count,” Rojer said with a wink.

“Little Rojer Halfgrip!” came a call a moment later, and a woman appeared from a door at the end of the hall.

Jessa was of an age with Jizell—in her fifties at least. But where Jizell had put on the weight of years, Jessa’s gown still cinched tight around a tiny waist, and the bosom spilling from the low cut was still smooth and inviting. Her face was painted, but she was beautiful still, with only a few carefully concealed wrinkles to belie her years.

“She reminds me of my mother,” Leesha said, to no one in particular.

“Yuh,” Gared agreed, though from the look in his eyes, he obviously did not think it a bad thing. Leesha wondered if she should send him to wait upstairs. And if he would go if she tried.

Amanvah seemed to be thinking the same thing. She stepped between Gared and the woman as Rojer moved to embrace her.

Jessa tsked as she held him to her bosom. “It’s been over ten years, Rojer. Practically nursed you at my own paps, and you can’t trouble yourself to visit?”

“Don’t think the duke would have approved,” Rojer said. He pulled back, and Leesha saw his eyes were wet. Whatever her feelings toward the Weed Gatherer, it was clear Rojer loved the woman.

“Let me look at you,” she said, lifting his arms wide and taking a step back as if they were in a dance.