2. A Stolen Throne

The King’s Lantern may have reeked of sour ale, stale piss, and cheap tobacco, but to Dane Rivers that just smelt like home. Having spent no small number of his younger years chugging the dregs of the worst drinking holes Solmere had to offer—and being the capital of Thandia, Solmere was in no short supply of such establishments—a strange kind of comfort descended upon him as he stepped over the tavern’s threshold.

He sensed a different kind of shift in Inquisitor Kahr, however. Her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, and she subtly hesitated before following him deeper into the common room. She carried herself with the same bearing befitting an inquisitor of her ranking, but in the King’s Lantern that worked against her. Dane had heard how she’d cut her teeth in many a court chamber and castle hall. But places like the King’s Lantern weren’t Zarin’s world. They were Dane’s. Even in his uniform, he was just another traveler passing through. And so he moved without drawing undue attention. But Zarin, for all her skill and fire, stood out like a diamond in a dung pile. Eyes tracked her progress across the room, conversations paused mid-sentence, and bodies slowly, perhaps even unwittingly, angled toward a potential source of trouble. She didn’t see it, but Dane did. And he made note to position himself between her and the room. And what a room it was. The King’s Lantern was not quite what its exterior suggested.

And Dane examined it like he would a crime scene.

It opened before him like the maw of a great monster that had bitten off more life than it could chew. The trick was in not getting swallowed by it. Smoke hung in visible layers, pipe tobacco near the ceiling, cheap incense at head height, and something acrid near the floor where someone had spilled a sharp tincture or other. The haze lent the common room and its common folk a dreamlike quality, softening the harsh edges of poverty and desperation.

Oil lanterns swung gently from the rafters, their warm light casting shadows that seemed to move independently of the people who made them. Candles guttered on tables, wax pooling in jars, cups, or whatever other improvised dishes served as holders. The glow was just bright enough to see faces but not expressions, to catch the glint of coin but not the loaded dice, to notice the sheen on a knife but not the hand reaching for it.

The wooden floor, dark with decades of spilled drink and gods knew what else, creaked underfoot, a chorus of groans and protests that added to the ambiance. The boards were uneven, dipped and worn smooth where countless feet had tread the same paths, from door to bar, from bar to stairs, from table to piss-pot and back again.

The bar itself dominated the left wall, a massive slab of scarred oak that had probably been beautiful once, before knife fights, broken glass, and a thousand carved initials had claimed it. Bottles lined the shelves behind the bar in varying states of fullness. Some bore the dust of years. Others gleamed. All promised oblivion for the right price. A man moved behind the bar with the fluid efficiency of one who’d poured ten thousand drinks and would pour ten thousand more.

Tables crowded the main floor, mismatched and listing, surrounded by chairs and benches that looked like they’d been collected from a dozen different establishments over the years. At one table, three men bent over cards, their faces tight with concentration or drink or both. One slammed his hand down and cursed loud enough to turn heads, then laughed it off and called for another round. At another table, a whore with hennaed hair and a dress cut too low for the weather cackled at something her companion said, her laugh overly sharp and devoid of true mirth.

In the corner, a cluster of younger men, dock workers by the look of their rough hands and rougher clothes, were passing a bottle and getting progressively louder, their jokes crude and their laughter aggressive. One caught Dane’s eye and looked away quickly, reading something in his face that suggested he wasn’t worth the trouble.

The clientele was exactly what one would expect to find in a place like The King’s Lantern. Dock hands and cutpurses, whores and gamblers, sailors on land leave spending their pay on anything that would help them forget the skies, and amidst the raucous a few well-to-do merchants trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably. They sprawled and shouted and whispered and watched, each caught up in their own schemes and sorrows.

A barmaid wove through the chaos with practiced ease, balancing a tray loaded with drinks and avoiding the groping hands that reached for her. She slapped one away without looking and kept moving.

The air tasted of salt and smoke and something cloying that caught in the back of Dane’s throat. The kind of dank taste you got used to if you spent enough time in places like this, until you eventually stopped noticing it altogether and it simply became part of you.

Sounds layered over each other in a constant murmur, the clink of glasses, the slap of cards on wood, the scrape of chairs, the thud of dice, the wet cough of a drunk in the corner. In a far corner, about a dozen musicians sat around a session table laden with drinks. Some played while others took a break between. A boy playing the concertina with his eyes half closed let out a whoop. The lament ended and immediately gave way to a boisterous jig, the fiddlers suddenly coming fully alive, and a whistle and pipes joined the fray. The change in tune significantly shifted the mood of the place. A gruff voice joined in, singing off-key, but for the most part the music was drowned out by chatter, and laughter, and curses. A woman shrieked something about cheating. A man called for more ale. Another demanded his money back.

It was chaos in a tight barrel ready to burst. Violence waiting for an excuse to happen. Desperation wearing a smile.

And it was perfect.

Dane breathed it in and felt himself relax in a way he hadn’t in a while. Here, he didn’t have to hold himself straight, observe rank, or pretend. Here, everyone was hiding something, which meant his secrets were just more noise in the din.

He did not, however forget himself or why he and Inquisitor Kahr were there. He noted stairs leading up to a second floor on the right, half-hidden behind a support beam. Private rooms, probably, or maybe just storage. A few more discreet alcoves lined the back wall, their occupants barely visible through gaps in makeshift curtains and screens. The kind of spaces where dark deals were made and darker deeds were done.

Zarin’s progress had slowed and more eyes turned her way. Dane waltzed back toward her, ducking under barmaids bearing serving trays and weaving through clusters of tables and people as expertly as any regular.

“You seem to have drawn some interest, ma’am,” he said upon reaching her. However, many averted their gaze as he approached.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had so many men disrobe me with their eyes at once.”

“Oh, were I you, ma’am, I would be more concerned with the ladies ogling you, not half as openly.”

“What ladies?”

“More than a few regarded you with such envy I thought their skin might turn green.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Inquisitor Rivers?”

“It’s of little consequence, ma’am,” he said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her to the bar. “I’ll explain later when fewer ears are listening.” He smiled at a well-dressed lady at a nearby table and she immediately turned away.

He suspected that things might get a little more tense than he’d initially hoped and moved closer to Inquisitor Kahr. A viper stepping into a pit of other venomous snakes was one thing. But throwing someone like Zarin into the mix was a sure way for things to turn sour fast. There was only one course of action: get to the barkeep at once, state your intentions, establish yourself as a serious threat for those who needed to understand such a thing, then get on with business.

The barkeep was already waiting for him. He was a burly fellow in his fifties, well-dressed in stark contrast to the clientele. His waistcoat was clean, his collar pressed, his sleeves rolled with intention. A hooked nose gave him the appearance of a predatory bird, and hooded eyes wore a knowing gaze that spoke of years plying the trade. He was balding, with a few thin wisps combed carefully over the dome of his head, but somehow that made him appear all the more respectable. Dane recognized the type immediately: the sort of barkeep who could read a room faster than most could read a sign, who knew which patrons to coddle and which to cut off, and who understood that the real currency in places like the King’s Lantern wasn’t coin. It was information.

“What brings a couple of ribs to the Lantern?” he asked before Dane could say anything. He was clearly unperturbed by their uniforms.

“We mean no trouble for those not seeking it,” Dane said pointedly. “We’re only here to meet someone.”

“And those who wait grow thirsty,” the barkeep said.

“Two tankards of dark ale if you’d be so kind.”

A few heads turned Dane’s way, but they soon went back to their own business.

“Are you certain?” The barkeep nodded at Inquisitor Kahr. She looked about the tavern like a child in a shop full of curiosities.

Dane turned to her and dropped his voice. “Ma’am, you’d do well not to ogle the oglers.”

“Why, yes, of course.” She brushed a strand of stray hair out of her eyes as if suddenly coming to her senses.

Dane turned his attention back to the barkeep with an apologetic smile. “Twice certain. She’s never been to Wardenfell.”

“That much is clear,” the barkeep said as he pulled two tankards with surprising care. “Two coppers for the drinks.”

Dane reached into a secret pouch in his coat and produced two coppers with a silver mark sandwiched between them. Not a bribe. A tax of sorts. For protection and anything else the barkeep might throw his way. He placed the stack of three coins on the bar and held his forefinger on them long enough for the barkeep to see the amount, but not long enough to make a show of it.

The barkeep’s hooded eyes flicked to the extra coin, then to Dane’s face, and an understanding of sorts passed between them.

The coins vanished into the barkeep’s apron without ceremony.

“Neena!” he called, his voice carrying through the common room with practiced projection. He didn’t quite shout but it was loud enough to be heard. “See these ribs to the cozy corner, would you?”

Several nearby patrons chuckled at such a brazen use of the derogatory term. It had all the appearance of an insult, but it hid several additional meanings for those within earshot.

Zarin looked disgusted and was about to object, but Dane shot her a glance and was relieved when she’d read it correctly and backed down.

A young woman with rust-colored hair tied back in a practical braid emerged from the press. She took in Dane and Zarin with a quick, assessing glance, then nodded.

“Make sure they’re comfortable,” the barkeep added. “And please see that no one bothers them.” His words were as much for the nearby patrons as the barmaid.

The effect would have been invisible to those with a less discerning eye, but Dane watched the barkeep’s words ripple through the room like a stone dropped in a still pond. Conversations subtly shifted. Watching eyes found other areas of interest. And bodies that had angled toward them turned away. The tension that had coiled like a thousand venomous serpents poised to strike dissipated like smoke.

The message had been received: These two are friends of the Lantern. And troubling them is to trouble the house.

Neena picked up both tankards and offered a well-rehearsed smile. “This way.”

Inquisitor Kahr followed the barmaid, but Dane lingered for a moment.

He dropped his voice low. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any stories lately. About the skies, perhaps?”

The barkeep’s eyes flickered with recognition, though his face remained impassive. “Stories are common enough in the Lantern.”

“I’m looking for a particular tale,” Dane said carefully. “One about a man who fancies himself royalty of sorts.”

“Ah.” The barkeep picked up a wet glass and wiped it with deliberate slowness, buying himself time to think. Then he leaned across the bar. “He who trades in tales doesn’t much care for being sought out by strangers. Especially those in uniform.”

“Which is why I thought it best to ask someone who might know how a stranger might become…less strange.”

A ghost of a smile crossed the barkeep’s lips. “An audience with the one you’re after usually costs more than a few coins, friend. Now, you’ve been courteous, and you handled your business with Gusman Tarst and his boys with restraint…” He paused, his knowing gaze holding Dane’s. 

“Oh,” Dane said with unmasked surprise. “You heard about that little altercation already, did you?”

The barkeep nodded. “News travels fast in the Old Quarter. And faster still in the Lantern.”

Suddenly, the building tension Dane had sensed in the common room earlier made a lot more sense. Two uniformed inquisitors would have been bad enough on its own. But when he and Zarin had walked into the tavern, the patrons didn’t just see two inquisitors. They saw a sword master and a magikar. The former might not have been considered odd in and of itself, however when it came to the arts, common folk tended to be superstitious at the best of times and downright hostile at the worst.

“Well, we don’t cause harm where none is needed,” Dane said. He was about to move on but he decided to press his luck. “May I have your name?”

“Offer yours first, and I’ll consider it,” the barkeep replied.

“Inquisitor Dane Rivers.” He nodded in the direction the two women had gone. “And my laudable superior is Senior Inquisitor Zarin Karr.”

“In that case, well met Dane. Most around here know me as Brayndan Tharst.”

Dane cocked an eyebrow. “You mean—”

The barkeep smiled. “Gusman is my cousin. But that’s no cause for worry. He’s been a stain on the family name for going on a decade, so I take no pride in admitting a relation. That said, there are worse fellows in Wardenfell. Much worse. I thank you for doing no more harm than was necessary.”

“Of course,” Dane said, mulling it over. “Whatever folks here think of the crown, and much of that might be true, Inquisitor Kahr and I truly do lack an appetite for trouble. The gods know we had our fill on the roads and some to spare.”

Something in the barkeep’s eyes shifted. Dane didn’t know why, but that seemed to impress him. “The person you’re looking for usually visits the Lantern late. When the more curious ears have retreated for the night. But I’m sure you’re already aware that he trades only with those who have stories worth trading.”

“I think he will find our offering to be…quite satisfactory.”

“And I’m sure you’ve heard,” the barkeep added, his voice barely audible. “That on more than one occasion, a man has prematurely perished due his failure in delivering on such a promise.”

“You may inform your patron that I always keep my promises.” Dane leaned back and raised his voice to normal volume. “Thank you for the drinks good, sir.”

“If you need anything else, you let Neena know, and she’ll take care of you.”

Dane tipped his cap and Brayndan turned to serve another.

Dane headed in the direction Neena had taken Zarin. He noticed a few looks along the way, but these were less wary and more civil than before, if not entirely welcoming.

He found Neena waiting by a screened alcove. The barmaid was probably in her mid-twenties, though life in the Old Quarter had a way of aging people beyond their years. Her eyes were sharp and watchful. She wore a simple dress, dark blue and well-mended, with an apron that had seen better days but was scrupulously clean. She balanced a tray on her palm with the ease of someone who’d been doing this work for years.

“You’re drink and your lady friend are inside, sir,” she gestured to the space beyond the screens. “Let me know if you need anything. Meanwhile, enjoy your time at the Lantern.”

She was off before he could respond, and he ducked behind the screens.

The alcove was a world apart from the chaos of the common room proper.

Dane had expected a cramped corner with a wobbly table and a bench if they were lucky. Instead, he found himself in what could only be described as a gentleman’s nook. Inquisitor Kahr sat in a cushioned couch upholstered in burgundy fabric against the far wall. The table at the center was solid oak, scarred with use but recently oiled, and set with actual coasters and placemats rather than being left to collect rings and stains. Around the other three sides of the table rested three high-backed, and comfortable looking, armchairs. Framed sketches of famous locals, or perhaps previous owners, hung on the walls, their faces stern and unfamiliar. Tall potted plants stood in the corners, their leaves somehow surviving despite the smoke and poor light. And a stick of incense burned on a sconce on the paneled wall, threading sweet smoke through the air. Rather than overpower, it was just enough to mask the worst of what drifted in from the common room. Someone had made an effort here. 

Carved wooden screens enclosed the space, enough to muffle the tavern’s din but positioned so that anyone sitting could still watch the common room through gaps if they were careful.

Smart. You want privacy in a place like this, but you never want to be completely blind.

The lighting, more than anything else, caught Dane’s attention. Expensive glowstones embedded in the alcove’s ceiling cast warm light onto the table while leaving the couch and armchair in comfortable half-shadow. Whoever sat here could be seen or unseen as they chose. The kind of setup a merchant might want for discreet negotiations. Or a noble slumming it up in the Old Quarter. Or, Dane supposed, a pair of fugitives trying not to draw attention if Hawthorn and Turner had indeed visited the Lantern, and Dane suspected they had. Not because of the witnesses who had claimed to see them there, but because it was the kind of establishment that would draw them. Tucked away on the edge of the city. A tavern frequented by those who preferred to be forgotten if seen. But as Dane had learned, everyone remembered something when coin was on the table. He would have to ask the Sky King about the criminals, but his timing had to be perfect.

Something moved in the eves at the back of the alcove and Dane almost missed it. A small furry animal stretching out and curling up above the couch.

“A cat,” he said, unable to conceal his surprise.

“Neena said it’s called Inkwell. She said he’s harmless, and I’m inclined to believe her. In fact he hadn’t moved since I arrived and I was beginning to think he was dead.”

“Yes,” Ardo said. “He seems completely unperturbed by the intrusion.”

“Or simply unwilling to acknowledge our existence,” Zarin countered.

“Most likely that,” he agreed. “So long as he doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“Yes, please keep any trouble to yourself, Inkwell,” she said into the eve above. “Inquisitor Rivers and I have already had our fill.”

Inkwell stretched his body out across the length of beam he’d claimed as his bed and clawed at the wood as if in defiance.

“What’s wrong?” Dane asked the cat mockingly. “Don’t like taking orders from an inquisitor?” 

“Something you both share in common,” Zarin said.

Dane smiled at that and spread his arms at some imaginary accomplishment. “Not bad, eh?” He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the couch to Inquisitor Kahr, where they could both watch the screens without having to crane their necks.

“I don’t know what you told that barkeep, but I suppose it will do.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his tankard. “You know how I’ve always had a way with common folk.”

Inquisitor Kahr lifted her drink then a look of concern crossed her face. “You didn’t threaten him, did you?”

“Of course not,” he said in horror. “Not even a fool would threaten a barkeep in his own tavern. So much as a wrong word, and you have a room full of angry drunks breathing down your neck and knocking you silly.”

“It sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Not at all.” He grinned. “It’s just something a young fellow I once knew in Solmere told me.” He took another gulp of the dark ale. “It’s been a while since we’ve found good ale. The barkeep didn’t hold back the good stuff.”

“Just how did you convince him to let us have this alcove anyway?”

“It wasn’t so much as me that convinced him as the coin.”

Zarin rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“He was also kind enough to share some information.”

“Well, no need to keep it to yourself,” she said sipping her drink. “I expect a full report.”

“For starters, word of our scuffle on the streets has already spread around the Old Quarter.”

Her eyes widened. “That didn’t take long.”

“The Barkeep said word travels fast around these parts. He also told me that our would-be thief was named Gusman Tharst. A well-known character around here, apparently. And fortunately for us, not much liked.”

“I can’t see why.” Zarin said sarcastically as her hand went to the lantern on her hip. 

“The barkeep is his cousin.”

“His cousin?” Zarin all but gasped. “And he didn’t kick us out?”

“And he gave us some of the best seats in the house.” Dane shrugged. “Family can be like that sometimes.”

“I’ve had my share of differences with family, but I would always defend their honor, even if they were cousins I didn’t much like.”

“I suppose one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth as they say.”

“Even if you had to pay for such a ‘gift’,” she pointed out. “Still, I won’t say no to a silver lining.”

Dane raised his glass higher this time. “To silver well spent and silver linings.”

They both broke into a chuckle, the first they’d shared in weeks.

“To silver linings,” Inquisitor Kahr answered.

Their glasses clinked, adding to the din of the Lantern, and they drank deeply. And for the first time in as long as he cared to remember, Dane relaxed. And he could see Inquisitor Kahr easing into the couch too.

Shadows moved just beyond the screens and voices grew louder there. Dane’s hand suddenly hovered above a knife in his belt.

“Did someone say something about silver linings?” A gruff voice sounded beyond the alcove.

Before Dane or Zarin could react, the screens parted to reveal a bear of a man with a tricorn hat and a beard that almost reached his belt. He was big and bent and grey and old, yet he carried himself with a combination of dignity and the hard-earned strength of a younger man. He exuded something powerful. At first, Dane thought it might be charm, but he quickly realized it was something much more potent. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

And the man wasn’t alone. A retinue of figures cut from similar cloth appeared behind him.

“Can I help you?” Dane asked with a reassuring smile meant to disarm potential conflict.

The bearlike man laughed deeply and Dane felt it in his chest. 

“I was about to ask you the same question,” the newcomer said with a wicked grin. “For I find you seated upon my throne.”

His voice carried the thick accent of the northernmost duchy of Windenshire, but underneath it was something else. A kind of education or refinement. This wasn’t some jumped-up pirate playing at nobility. This was a man who’d been born to it but chose to throw it all away.

Or had it taken from him.

Viscount Torren Blackwood. The Sky King.