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Authors: Marc Turner
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Together they skirted the smallest of the cityâs four marketplaces. In the shadow of one of the countinghouses, the beggars and doom criers were out in force, keeping up a constant wail like a funeral dirge. Music to match Ebonâs mood. His gaze was drawn to a woman sitting with her back to a wall. She wore a robe the same color as her sun-blistered skin, and the black tears tattooed on her cheeks marked her as an initiate of the Watcher. Her eyes had been sewn shut, yet still she turned her head to follow Ebon as he rode past.
On the far side of the marketplace, the road leading to Wharf Bridge was choked with people. Ebonâs horse was being jostled on all sides, and it snorted its unease. From the princeâs elevated position he could see that on the bridge a cart had lost a wheel, spilling melons and sandfruit to the dust. The people nearby fell upon the fruit like a flock of redbeaks, only to scatter again when the driver of the cartâa snowy haired Maruâwaded among them brandishing a club. A girl was knocked to the ground, blood streaming from her shattered nose, and the rumble of the crowd swelled in anger. Moments later the Maru was hoisted aloft by a dozen hands and hurled shrieking over the bridgeâs railing. His cart and the remainder of its contents followed.
âAbout time,â Vale said.
As Ebon crossed the bridge he looked over the railing. There was no sign of the Maru, but his cart was visible, drifting a stoneâs throw away. The prince covered his nose with a sleeve. A sewer must have burst somewhere upriver because the waters of the Amber ran thick with scum and stank like a week-old corpse. Floating among the rushes that clogged the shallows were the bloated bodies of scores of animals and birds. The air throbbed with flies, and a cloud of the insects swarmed round Ebonâs head wound. He swatted them away with one hand, but more soon took their place.
Reaching the opposite bank, he squinted east. He could just make out the crystal towers of Amarixilâs Shrine in the Marobi Quarter, even convinced himself he could see Lamellaâs house beside it. Another time he might have gone there first, but his fatherâs cryptic summons demanded his presence. Duty first, always. Spying a patrol of Pantheon Guardsmen, he requisitioned it as an escort. The streets became wider as they traveled farther into the city, and the speed of their progress increased. There were more stares from the people now, hostility in them. Ebon bore them in silence. Eventually the palace came into view above the roofs of the buildings ahead: first its black towers, then its crenellated battlements, like a row of jagged teeth.
A sixth of a bell later, he rode into the gatehouse and sent a guard to inform the king of his arrival.
Ebon dismounted. The muscles of his thighs and back were sore from his time in the saddle. He left Vale to stable the horses and headed for a nearby fountain. Cupping his hands to hold the water, he drank until his stomach ached, then washed the dust and dried blood from his face. The sight of his reflection brought a furrow to his brow. A dayâs stubble cast a shadow on his chin and jaw, but a darker shadow lurked behind his cold blue eyes. As if the spirits were staring back at me. He needed to speak to Mottle before the Kingâs Council convened. What had the mage sensed at the forest? Did he know the voices were back? If so, Ebon needed to make sure of his silence.
He followed the ramparts round to the east and entered the Dawn Gate at the foot of Paganâs Tower. A soldier stepped from the guardhouse to challenge him before moving aside with a hasty salute and a muttered apology. Inside, the coolness of the vaulted stone corridors made Ebon shiver. He kept his gaze on the floor, anxious to avoid the eye of anyone who might slow him with questions. At the Hall of Paths he took the arched portal that led to the East Wing. Its architrave had been
On the far side of the marketplace, the road leading to Wharf Bridge was choked with people. Ebonâs horse was being jostled on all sides, and it snorted its unease. From the princeâs elevated position he could see that on the bridge a cart had lost a wheel, spilling melons and sandfruit to the dust. The people nearby fell upon the fruit like a flock of redbeaks, only to scatter again when the driver of the cartâa snowy haired Maruâwaded among them brandishing a club. A girl was knocked to the ground, blood streaming from her shattered nose, and the rumble of the crowd swelled in anger. Moments later the Maru was hoisted aloft by a dozen hands and hurled shrieking over the bridgeâs railing. His cart and the remainder of its contents followed.
âAbout time,â Vale said.
As Ebon crossed the bridge he looked over the railing. There was no sign of the Maru, but his cart was visible, drifting a stoneâs throw away. The prince covered his nose with a sleeve. A sewer must have burst somewhere upriver because the waters of the Amber ran thick with scum and stank like a week-old corpse. Floating among the rushes that clogged the shallows were the bloated bodies of scores of animals and birds. The air throbbed with flies, and a cloud of the insects swarmed round Ebonâs head wound. He swatted them away with one hand, but more soon took their place.
Reaching the opposite bank, he squinted east. He could just make out the crystal towers of Amarixilâs Shrine in the Marobi Quarter, even convinced himself he could see Lamellaâs house beside it. Another time he might have gone there first, but his fatherâs cryptic summons demanded his presence. Duty first, always. Spying a patrol of Pantheon Guardsmen, he requisitioned it as an escort. The streets became wider as they traveled farther into the city, and the speed of their progress increased. There were more stares from the people now, hostility in them. Ebon bore them in silence. Eventually the palace came into view above the roofs of the buildings ahead: first its black towers, then its crenellated battlements, like a row of jagged teeth.
A sixth of a bell later, he rode into the gatehouse and sent a guard to inform the king of his arrival.
Ebon dismounted. The muscles of his thighs and back were sore from his time in the saddle. He left Vale to stable the horses and headed for a nearby fountain. Cupping his hands to hold the water, he drank until his stomach ached, then washed the dust and dried blood from his face. The sight of his reflection brought a furrow to his brow. A dayâs stubble cast a shadow on his chin and jaw, but a darker shadow lurked behind his cold blue eyes. As if the spirits were staring back at me. He needed to speak to Mottle before the Kingâs Council convened. What had the mage sensed at the forest? Did he know the voices were back? If so, Ebon needed to make sure of his silence.
He followed the ramparts round to the east and entered the Dawn Gate at the foot of Paganâs Tower. A soldier stepped from the guardhouse to challenge him before moving aside with a hasty salute and a muttered apology. Inside, the coolness of the vaulted stone corridors made Ebon shiver. He kept his gaze on the floor, anxious to avoid the eye of anyone who might slow him with questions. At the Hall of Paths he took the arched portal that led to the East Wing. Its architrave had been
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