The Burglar's Throne

            Elona rarely spent any time in the throne room. There was an elite corps of cleaning staff, of course, who kept the cavernous room free of dust. The floor was slate, rough-hewn, dating back to the days when Retron Kings came and went every few decades. From the walls hung ornate, ancient tapestries, though they had been repaired so often that it was unlikely any of them retained more than a few of their original threads. The ceiling arched upward like a cathedral’s, and was painted in such a way to fade darker and darker, making it seem higher than it was.

            The room was grey and black, which made the glistening, jewel-encrusted throne all the more radiant. With every great theft, blacksmiths would attach new jewels and bits of gold, silver, platinum, and cold iron. In Retrein, victory was not measured in shattered swords, but in broken banks, and thus, the throne was the ultimate trophy. The Burglar’s Throne, as it was called, was excessive in its glamour.

            Elona sat on it. In three thousand years, it had never been comfortable, but her immortal behind had never molded itself to its contours. It was an eternal struggle, and she hoped that one day it might end with the whole thing being melted down and redesigned by someone who had heard of ergonomics.

            This was not an official event, so Elona wore only her customary grey hoodie and comfortable athletic pants. Still, in the presence of the throne, she felt it appropriate to at least wear her crown.

            The crown was a thin band of iron, unadorned. It was really more of a circlet than a crown, yet it had been her symbol of power since she had received her gift, and she wore it as a sign of respect to her secret friend.

            Harren came in by the side entrance – a thief to the core. The throne room was, ironically, the ideal room for such a meeting. It had been built when electrical wiring was still considered a magic of the Arizradna. The walls were solid stone, and it was extremely simple to sweep for any electronic bugs. During the Narcian Civil War, Elona had had cold iron dampeners installed to prevent other forms of surveillance.

            “She’s disappeared.”

            Elona sighed. She knew that already. Lady Crow had informed her in the pre-dawn hours. “I am still unconvinced.”

            “The House trades in convolution. We have Nascine’s word on what happened in Narcia. We have Thatch’s. And we have the Narcians’ assurances. Did this not go exactly as I said it might?”

            Elona was forced to agree. When Nascine heard Harren’s improbable accusation, she had disappeared. There were other explanations – that she might assume Harren was an Agent, or that she might have actually believed him (something Elona doubted, from what she knew of Nascine, assuming Nascine was the person she had claimed to be.)

            Harren believed that his accusation would be, essentially, a message to the House. One that let them know that the Rookery was on to them. In a thousand years, though, they had never been able to fully create a profile that described the psychology of a House Agent. University Spies, Arizradna Watchers, even Stag’s Head assassins all had patterns. The House was inconsistent. Sometimes, they were reasonable, approachable, willing to make a deal. Sometimes they were ghost-like, merciless, and deadly. And on occasion, they were amateurish, naïve, and completely out of their depth.

            So had Nascine gone back to her superior? Message understood? A complete rollback of her operation so that they may take another tack? Harren was convinced. He was a talented thief, but she wondered if his self-confidence were not the product of some species of delusion. It had served him well in the Rookery’s internal politics, but Elona had cultivated millennia of instinct, and she remained of the opinion that Emily Nascine was a loyal subject to her garish throne.

            “Let me rephrase,” said Barclay as Nascine flailed around, trying to get out of the bed. “When I say we are technically the House… you should know that the House has become two very different things.”

            “You ‘eople ‘ried to…” Nascine fought for her voice. “You tried to kill me!”

            Barclay shook his head. “That was not us. You have to listen to me. There is a rift. A schism within the House. The people who tried to harm you are part of the faction within the House that has lost its way.”

            Nascine sat up, pulling the wool blanket up to cover herself. She felt incredibly weak, and her lungs burned with the foulness of the river water. “Why should I trust you?”

            “You’re alive. Do you think that if the other faction had gotten their hands on you they wouldn’t have already killed you? Who do you think tossed you in the river in the first place?”

            Nascine could feel her heart pounding. The various drugs pumping through her veins were like a solid presence that could be felt, and her body seemed to be on fire as the poisons and antidotes fought while her immune system went mad.

            “We know a great deal about your mission in Omlos. We know they killed Kilarny. We know that they killed one of Yasik’s people. They are evil, you understand? Without sympathy or remorse. They stand for nothing, only seeking to grow more powerful. They have perverted the purpose of the House to serve themselves. Our people are few in number, but we are fighting back against them, attempting to restore the House to its original purpose.”

            “And what is that?”

            “To keep this world from plunging into chaos and darkness.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2013)