Excerpt from THE RIVEN KINGDOM by Juliet E. McKenna, Chapter 16:
Chapter Sixteen
Usenas
The 11th Day of the Flower Moon
Walking through the Usenas pleasure gardens to meet Ticosa at their favourite tea house, Quenild wondered how Alory was faring. Given the choice, she would rather have gone upstream. Who better than a merchant to sift tittle-tattle from the Chalus wharfs for hints of trouble, to warn Castellan Maixen?
But the same was true in Usenas, and the tall priest Brother Cavore had visited here recently, so he had no excuse to return to ask the same questions. Besides, she and Ticosa would make a profit on this trip. With trade beyond Bastrys still impossible, Arafaze merchants weren’t the only folk paying premium prices for the Nilgeh Mire’s roots and herbs
The pleasure gardens were crowded and scent from the flowers beneath the trees filled the balmy evening. As she walked, Quenild indulged herself with fond memories of her father. She had first visited Usenas as his apprentice, enjoying the acrobats and musicians, and the purveyors of fine food and drink. Later, as mistress of her own barge, she had learned other sensual delights could be purchased in discreet tents tucked behind the dance pavilions.
Like so many others, the prosperous town nestled in a broad loop of the Dore, on the northern bank. Barges riding the river downstream offloaded their cargoes on the waterfront looking westward. Vessels coming up from Nilgeh Mire moored at jetties on the eastern side. They had an easy journey, thanks to the constant winds blowing over the countless leagues of grassland and marsh further east. As her father often said, a fool in his nightshirt could catch a breeze to carry him from Scefet to Usenas.
Travelling further upstream to Hurat was a different matter. A barge heavy with cargo had to wait for the winds from the grasslands to veer into the narrow quarter between the forested heights on the southern Sharrow bank and the downland to the north. Then a barge’s tall sails could defy the Dore’s sluggish current and carry them upstream. Fortunately, such winds were frequent and generally reliable.
Quenild skirted a small crowd applauding a well-trained dog’s antics, and tossing coppers into its master’s cap on the ground. She ignored a bevy of winsome young women in translucent Mervantese gowns, along with their escort of handsome youths, shirtless beneath unbuttoned jerkins. The hard-faced woman following a few paces behind them didn’t bother offering her company for the night.
Ticosa had claimed a table for two beside a wide window in the tea house. They shared a brief kiss. Quenild was glad to sit. It had been a long day and her feet were aching.
‘There are a lot of bog-trotters about,’ she observed. Marsh dwellers were easy to pick out, with their golden hair and dark brown eyes.
‘You should see the eastern moorings.’ Ticosa summoned a serving lad. ‘Silver tea and spice cakes, please.’
‘What are they selling?’ Quenild had overheard several traders asking for intoxicant herbs which flourished in the Mire. Those toiling in the hill country’s mines would empty their pockets to pay for temporary oblivion.
‘Nothing of interest.’ Ticosa shook her head.
‘I’ve seen plenty of Velastans.’ Quenild scowled. ‘Prices for dyestuffs are up, thanks to them.’
‘I doubt that.’ Ticosa leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Marsh folk won’t take their letters of credit.’
Quenild raised her eyebrows. ‘Nobody told them bog-trotters insist on full payment in silver?’
‘Don’t call them that. They don’t like it.’ Ticosa waited as the servitor arrived with their pot of tea, the jug of hot water, and a plate of cakes topped with candied fruits. She paid the boy and filled their cups. ‘The marsh folk are here to buy salt, saltpetre, and scrap metals. Iron, brass, steel or bronze, even lead.’
‘Since when have they started smithing?’ Quenild took a careful sip. The silver tea wasn’t the best this far downstream, but it was scalding hot. At least the cakes, made with freshly ground spices, were delicious.
‘They’re selling the metals to traders from the Teijent Dagh.’ Ticosa refreshed the pot with hot water. ‘Who have no interest in talking to the Velastans either.’
‘What do the bog – the marsh folk want from the Dagh Isel?’ As well as spices, the horse-riding traders from the remote grasslands brought mineral pigments for enamels and paints, gem stones and ivory for jewellers, and the coloured hardwoods that furniture makers prized for inlays.
Ticosa bit into a cake. ‘The Teijent sell sulphur. If the marsh folk have saltpetre, they only need charcoal…’
Quenild wasn’t convinced. ‘Firing powder must be kept bone dry. Good luck doing that in the Mire. Besides–’
Ticosa stiffened like a cat catching sight of a mouse. Quenild looked around to see two bog-trotters walk into the tea house, wearing leather breeches and sturdy jerkins like anyone else working the wharfs. No one would give them a second glance without their golden hair.
‘I saw that pair talking to the captains of The Lilac Bough and The Oak Apple.’ Ticosa raised her cup to hide her mouth.
Quenild knew both those barges regularly traded as far as Scefet. The garnets and gold Master Thiol’s wife wore at Midwinter had helped persuade her to make their own journey to the Mire. That didn’t mean she trusted bog-trotters. The back of her neck prickled as the two men approached their table.
The taller one spoke with barely a trace of a swamp accent. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mistress Reture of Hurat?’
‘You do.’ Ticosa inclined her head gracefully. ‘And you are…?’
‘May we sit?’
‘By all means.’
The second marsh man quickly fetched two unused chairs from a neighbouring table. The first waved a servitor away. Quenild’s father had told her marsh folk never ate or drank with outsiders, though he didn’t know why.
Ticosa plucked the candied redberry from the top of a cake and ate it, waiting for the marsh man to speak first.
His grin acknowledged her tactic. ‘You have a sound reputation in Scefet, Mistress Reture, for honesty and integrity.’
‘I aim for fair dealing with everyone.’
‘We have something you may wish to obtain.’
‘Alas, we have all but concluded our business here. Our funds are largely committed.’
Quenild recognised Ticosa’s regretful expression from the opening of countless negotiations.
‘Information,’ the marsh man said bluntly. ‘You seek news from Nilgeh.’
Quenild wondered where he had heard that. Ticosa would have been as discreet as she was.
Ticosa met the stranger’s gaze. ‘Before I agree to buy anything, I must be sure of the quality as well as the price.’
‘Let us give you something on account, to prove our good faith.’
Now the marsh man’s silence challenged Ticosa. Quenild saw her own thoughts mirrored in her wife’s eyes. Hearing the man out would cost nothing, and perhaps…?
‘Go on,’ Ticosa prompted.
‘Many merchants from Mervante have visited Avelsir this past month. Some travel onwards, and not to trade.’
Ticosa put her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. ‘Where are they going?’
Quenild saw the marsh man’s companion watching for anyone coming close enough to overhear. The fluent man spoke quickly and quietly.
‘West of Scefet, on the bank of the Dore, as your people call the Mother River, these Mervantese are taking a little-used pass through the mountains you call the Sharrow Heights. They are travelling to Sharrow to negotiate with Lord Romer.’
Quenild had never heard of any such route. The Goddess alone knew what savage animals prowled those forsaken hills. The miners and loggers who lived out there had a brutal reputation. Thankfully she and Ticosa didn’t deal in the ores ferried down the foaming white waters of the Mezin. Or was it the Methin? Quenild could never remember the name of the tributary flowing into the Dore opposite Usenas.
‘You must have been misinformed.’ Ticosa shook her head. ‘A Mervantese merchant with business in Sharrow would follow the highway north from Gernet.’
The marsh man spread his hands. ‘A Mervantese merchant with no wish to meet Hurat’s patrols would take a different route.’
He had a point, Quenild conceded. No one travelling to or from Gernet could predict when or where they might encounter the castellan’s cavalry. Maixen made it widely known that he varied his troopers’ routes as well as the intervals between their forays.
Ticosa angled her head. ‘Why tell us this?’
The marsh man seemed surprised. ‘The Mervantese have long been your people’s foes.’
‘Forgive me, I didn’t make myself clear,’ Ticosa apologised. ‘Why are you telling me?’
The marsh man glanced at his silent companion, who gave the slightest of nods.
The speaker leaned closer. ‘Mervantese are no friends to my people. They play us false too often. If fresh sparks start a blaze between your realms, that threatens us. We wish to assist Hurat’s commander, and we believe you have his trust.’
Quenild really wanted to know how and where they got their information.
Ticosa pursed her lips. ‘What could the Mervantese offer Lord Romer of Sharrow?’
The hitherto silent man had an accent as thick as mud. ‘To learn, you must pay.’
‘How much?’ Quenild asked.
The first man answered her. ‘Come to Scefet when Hurat’s commander wishes to purchase the chance of peace. Then we will set a price.’
The two of them stood and walked off.
Ticosa pursed her lips as she cut the last spice cake in half. She gave Quenild the piece with the candied cherry. ‘How, by all that’s holy, do they know we have dealings with the castellan?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Quenild drank her cooling tea. It had lost its remaining fragrance. ‘If they’re so keen to sell us information to keep the peace, they must be expecting war. Unless they’re out to trick Maixen into fighting the Mervantese while they can profit by selling to both sides.’
‘Or they don’t want to be blamed when the weasel king tries something underhand.’ Ticosa countered. ‘Tadiri must be wondering how far he could push north while everyone in Arafaze is watching the princesses fight for the crown.’
‘Talking of underhand.’ Quenild ate her morsel of cake. ‘Father said if I ever made a deal with anyone answering to Lord Romer of Sharrow, I should check my fingers after shaking hands, to make sure they hadn’t stolen my rings.’
‘Let’s discuss this back on the barge. Yan and Ristal deserve some time ashore.’ Ticosa stood up.
Outside the tea house, coloured lanterns shone like jewels among the pleasure garden’s trees. Music drifted from the larger pavilions and Quenild stifled some regret. She would have enjoyed an evening dancing, if her feet weren’t so tired.
Ticosa gestured at the topmost lanterns swaying in the breeze. ‘The winds look to be veering. We should be able to head upstream tomorrow.’
Quenild was still considering what they had been told. ‘If there is a route through those heights to Sharrow, Castellan Maixen needs to know. Unless this is a ploy to turn his attention towards the Mire, while Baron Zavire and Earl Lystro attack Chalus.’
Ticosa shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Those two sounded genuine to me.’
‘I don’t know what to think these days,’ Quenild said wearily.
She wondered if Alory was learning anything useful in Chalus. If fighting broke out there, she could only pray Brother Cavore kept their nephew safe.
Excerpted from THE RIVEN KINGDOM by Juliet E. McKenna. Copyright © 2026 by Juliet E. McKenna. Reprinted by permission, Angry Robot an imprint of Watkins Media Ltd Distributed in the US & Canada by Penguin Random House
THE RIVEN KINGDOM by Juliet E. McKenna
A sharp feminist historical fantasy that blends politics, religion, and a battle for a dead king’s throne, perfect for fans of the Realm of the Elderlings series.
The King is dead…
Struck down by lightning on a hunting trip, King Venais leaves the Kingdom of Arafaze with no clear successor. And soon enough the nobility are shedding loyalty in favour of ambition as two princesses with competing claims to the empty throne seek alliances and favours and the realm teeters on the brink of war.
Fear reaches far beyond the court. The Priestesses of the Sun and the Priests of the Moon, servants of the divinities that balance healing and death, truth and lies, must serve the people and keep the Sun Goddess and the Moon God above the designs of the powerful. But even in the churches ambition festers.
Away from high counsels, two wives, traders on the rivers that are the Realm’s life blood, an agent, a priest and a priestess are drawn into the brutal tangle.
And, in the Shadow Realm, fear, lies and hatred are taking terrifying form..
Fantasy Historical | Fantasy Dark | Fantasy Epic [ Angry Robot, On Sale: October 27, 2026, Paperback / e-Book / audiobook, ISBN: 9781836730378 / eISBN: 9781836730385 ]
Buy THE RIVEN KINGDOM: Amazon.com | Kindle | BN.com | Apple Books | Kobo | Google Play | Books-A-Million | Indie BookShops | Libro.fm | Audible | Walmart.com | Amazon CA | Amazon UK | Amazon DE | Amazon FR
About Juliet E. McKenna
Juliet E. McKenna is the author of 15 epic fantasy novels set in the world of Einarinn, as well as several novellas and countless short stories ranging from SF to steampunk and alternate history. She has been a judge for the World Fantasy Awards, the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the James White Award and the Aeon Award, and has, herself, been shortlisted for the British Fantasy Award and the BSFA Award for Best Novel.
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