The Empty Throne

“It seems I have no choice in the matter,” I replied, giving him a withering stare. “So go ahead and act like the Constabulary you truly are.”

He grimaced, and I extended my arms. He took hold of one of my wrists, treating me more gently than protocol would have dictated, and I slammed my knee into his groin.

“Damn,” he gasped, doubling over as he dropped to the floor.

Though remorse welled within me, I was too far committed to retreat; nor was I about to make the same mistake he had and assume our friendship negated any threat. I raised my clasped hands, and he briefly met my eyes, leaving no doubt he knew what was coming.

“Sorry,” I muttered before smacking my fists down on the back of his head. He collapsed, moaning, and I stripped him of his weapons belt, then flung it to the other side of the room. Unwilling to waste any time, I gathered my possessions and stowed them in my pack, my gaze continually drifting toward Tom where he writhed on the floor.

“Anya,” he groaned, struggling to push into an upright position. “I didn’t come alone, so you can’t go out through the lobby. I’d suggest the window.”

I stared at him, brows furrowed; then my eyes widened in horror. “You weren’t going to arrest me, were you?”

“I told you last night—I’m partial to redheads. I could never arrest you.”

“Then why let me believe otherwise? Why...this?” I gestured at him, for he was hunched over, one hand gingerly prodding his head.

“I couldn’t just let you go this time, not with reinforcements right behind me. So I gave you the chance to spin the tale of how you got away. I didn’t expect it to hurt so much, though. And I haven’t even considered the wounding my pride is about to take.”

My emotions continued to swing, bringing me close to tears, and I bit my lower lip, using the pain from the pressure of my teeth to remain focused. Shaking slightly, I went to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you. And I’m so sorry about—”

“Just get moving. The Constabularies downstairs are only going to wait so long before joining us.”

I nodded and threw on my cloak, then approached the window, glad to see the rain of the day before had stopped. A quick glance told me climbing was not a viable option. It was a straight drop to the ground, with no shutters or lamp brackets for handholds. I pulled out the rope Illumina had stashed in her pack—the pack I now carried, for she and I had inadvertently switched our travel satchels when she’d left a few days ago for Chrior to inform the Queen of Zabriel’s arrest—and tied one end of it around the bedpost, securing the other about my waist. With a final glance at Tom, I opened the window and hopped up to balance on the ledge, then eased myself down. My feet had no sooner hit the cobblestones then the rope landed beside me, a money pouch attached.

“You’re terrible at tying knots,” Tom called, and I looked up to see his face framed in the window. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt. And I expect you to pay that money back someday.”

With a quick wave, I picked up the rope and money, then hastened out among those who frequented the establishments in this part of the capital. Though I had left the inn behind, I wasn’t necessarily out of danger, and I panned the streets, watching for the red uniforms worn by the members of Tairmor’s peacekeeping force. Whether due to Luka Ivanova’s desire to apprehend me or not, the Constabularies did seem to be out in large numbers, and I snugged the hood of my cloak close around my face to hide my most distinguishable features—my rich auburn hair and green eyes.

Needing a place to think, I ducked into an alley across the street from a human shelter, knowing Luka’s men generally left the homeless in peace. I crouched down among the damp heaps of trash, trying to ignore the cloying odors, and forced myself to concentrate on the only question that mattered. Why hadn’t William Wolfram Pyrite’s arrest been made known?

I tugged at a few strands of my hair, sorting through the possibilities I could discern. Was Zabriel dead? No, for news of the demise of such a nefarious pirate would have been announced and celebrated, the only downside the lack of a public execution.

Had he escaped? Highly unlikely, but if he had, Gwyneth Dementya, daughter of the owner of the largest shipping company in Sheness and paradoxically an associate of the pirates, would have gotten word to me at the Fae-mily Home. I had already checked once with Fi, the woman who ran the shelter for wounded and displaced Fae, since returning to Tairmor, and no note had been delivered, though I would make sure to check again.

Was my cousin being held for interrogation? I chewed on the inside of my cheek, the small bit of discomfort helping to focus and relieve my anxiety. This third possibility made the most sense. If Pyrite’s arrest were proclaimed, there would be an immediate and massive outcry for his blood. The best way to stave off the lust for vengeance was to keep the news under wraps until he could be made to confess his deeds and reveal information about the other members of his crew.

I banged my head back against the alley wall, angry at the conclusions I was reaching. Angry, if I was honest with myself, at Zabriel and his overabundance of confidence, stubbornness, and pride. He had fled the Faerie Realm two years ago at the age of fifteen, and he had never revealed his whereabouts to his mother. Nor had he attempted to make contact with the human side of his family. Half-Fae and half-human—the son of Queen Ubiqua and William Ivanova, the Governor’s deceased elder son—he had not wanted to be claimed by either faction, much less by both. And yet he had chosen a lifestyle that was destined to put the two worlds on a collision course.

Nervous energy on the rise, I came to my feet, the thought of Zabriel confined somewhere—hungry, cold, injured, and undergoing torture—almost more than I could bear. While I felt certain his life would be spared if Governor Ivanova were told his real identity, it was Queen Ubiqua who had decided to keep news of her son’s birth from his grandfather. It was not my place to reveal such a long-kept and volatile secret, but if worse came to worst and my cousin was slated for execution, I’d divulge everything, whatever the cost.

But it shouldn’t have to come to that. Queen Ubiqua was no doubt on her way to Tairmor by now, and Zabriel could tell the Constabularies who he was anytime he wanted. The best thing for me to do was wait—and stay out of the Lieutenant Governor’s reach for the time being. Putting two royal heirs into human custody did not seem wise.

I stepped around the piles of trash to peer into the street, and immediately drew back, frantically tucking any escaped strands of hair inside my hood. If anything, the number of red uniformed men in the vicinity of the human shelter had increased while I’d sat ruminating. My heart pounded, for my straits had degenerated in another way—a pair of Constabularies was stopping the ragged citizens of Tairmor’s underbelly at the shelter’s entrance. One of the men appeared to be asking questions, while the other made entries into a logbook of the sort used by the guards at the gates into the city.

Why would the Constabularies be doing such a thing? Would they really go to all this trouble just to find me? Feeling as if a noose were tightening around my neck, I hurried down the street in the opposite direction, wishing I had the ability to vanish into thin air.

Believing the search for me would be concentrated within the poorer neighborhoods, I headed toward the River Kappa and the deep ravine it cut from northeast to southwest on its journey through Tairmor, effectively dividing the city in half. I walked until my feet ached and my stomach begged for the breakfast it had so far been denied, pleased to see my assumption had been correct: the number of Constabularies dwindled with the increasing wealth of the residential areas.

I crossed the street, intending to purchase a bit of bread from a bakery, and passed a lamppost to which a brightly colored notice had been plastered. I glanced at it, then came to a full stop, daring to trust to luck.

Aleksandra Donetsky’s Hair Care Salon, I read, examining the illustrations of well-to-do women with highly coifed hair. Offering Perfumes, Curling Fluids, Soaps, and for the first time, Dyes—safe and odorless, in shades of Brown, Black, Golden and Chestnut, Medical Certificates available...

I skimmed to the bottom of the poster where an address was printed—an address on the same street upon which I stood. I smiled, feeling almost giddy, and hurried on my way, my stomach no longer of concern. Aleksandra Donetsky might hold the key to restoring my freedom of movement within the city.

I began to check signs, for I had entered a neighborhood market area. Noticing the comings and goings of a few well-dressed women up ahead, I quickened my pace and was pleased to discover the establishment I sought. Without a care for the shabby nature of my attire, I stepped inside, prompting the matronly woman who sat behind the appointment desk to spring to her feet. She wore a corseted dress with enough jewels on her person to match Luka Ivanova, but the exaggerated expression of alarm on her face wasn’t one I’d ever see on his—in part because he wasn’t likely to wear rouge.

“I believe you’ve taken a wrong turn,” the receptionist snipped, checking me out from head to toe. “We do not run a charitable operation.”

My mouth flapped open and shut while I fumbled for words; then indignation flared. “I would like my hair dyed. And I am not in need of charity.”

“In that case, we have no one available to assist you.” She stepped around me, yielding as much space as possible, and I had the feeling she would faint if I touched her. After reaching the door, she held it open. “Perhaps another day.”

I spotted a row of chairs against the wall, then belligerently planted myself in one and folded my arms across my chest.

“I’ll wait. All day if necessary.”

The receptionist patted her upswept hair. “I could summon a Constabulary.”

“True, but I’m breaking no law. And I think your other clients might prefer we handle this quietly. If you would simply provide the service I seek, I will gladly be on my way.”

She considered me while my stomach attempted to tie itself into knots—I hoped I was correct in thinking her threat a bluff. Sticking her nose in the air, she closed the door, giving me reason to relax.

“I shall check our schedule.”

Taking tiny steps in her high-heeled boots, she disappeared behind a curtain, and I dropped my pack at my feet. No matter how out of place I looked or felt, I was not leaving this salon with red hair.

A few moments later, the receptionist reemerged to take her place at the desk, closely followed by a petite dark-haired woman in a white apron.

“I am Aleksandra Donetsky, proprietor of this shop,” she said, daintily extending her hand. I clumsily shook it, half afraid I might break it, and she motioned to the hair peeking out of my hood. “I understand you would like to change the color of your, shall I say, auburn locks. Then come. But money is paid first, and no refunds are given.”

“Understood. But if the service is not as promised, recompense will be made.” I opened my cloak to reveal the long knife at my hip, and, though the receptionist gasped, Aleksandra merely nodded.

After we had dispensed with the business aspects of the transaction, Aleksandra led me behind the curtain. The room in which we now stood had been partitioned into several workstations, and she signaled that I should take a seat in a raised chair in one of them. I obliged, then pulled down my hood.

“Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the tangles and debris embedded in my hair, her hands gripping her hips. “You are aware it is not illegal to use a brush?”

I gritted my teeth, determined to see this through, no matter how humiliating the experience might be.

“Do not dismay—I will fix. Now, do you have a color in mind? Darker would be easiest.”

“But darker would not be a dramatic change. I don’t want to look like myself at all.”

“I see. Not that I blame you. This appearance can definitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is accomplished with a somewhat caustic mixture of potassium lye, alum, honey, and black sulfur, so results vary.”

I flinched at the term caustic, picturing all my hair falling out. But my mind was made up. Even though Faefolk tended to scorn anything but natural hair color, I would see this through and regain the ability to move freely around the city. Madam Donetsky appeared not to notice my reaction and continued to think out loud.