The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (42 page)

And will the Names work?
Raesinia wanted to scream. Janus caught her expression and gave a little shrug.

“I do not know, yet, whether we’ll be able to do anything for your condition. The Names must be deciphered and studied to see if something useful to you is among their powers, and I only had the chance to make a cursory inspection before I left Khandar. Once our current crisis is resolved, I will devote myself to it. But for the moment . . .”

Raesinia nodded. Somewhere deep in her chest, though, something had taken hold. A tiny mote of
hope
, that there might, somehow, be a way out.
Back to a normal life.

“All right,” Raesinia said. “I follow you so far. How did you end up talking to Sothe?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Janus said. “After your father gave me Justice, I began looking into the disturbances in the city. I got descriptions of all the potential leaders, and once I saw yours it wasn’t hard to put the facts together.”

There had to be more to it than
that
—the all-knowing Concordat hadn’t been able to find her, after all!—but Raesinia didn’t care about the details. “And Sothe?”

“Even easier. She’s so close to you on the Ohnlei side that it was inconceivable that she not be a party to the deception, though I didn’t understand the full extent of her involvement until she told me herself. I sent her a note, indicating what I knew and expressing a desire to help.”

“It was waiting for me when I got back to Ohnlei, after you ‘died,’” Sothe said. “I was frantic. I had to keep up appearances here, intercept Orlanko’s watchers, and figure out how to retrieve you at the same time. When I saw this . . .” She shrugged.

“You just decided to trust him?” Raesinia was surprised. To say that Sothe was not a trusting person was a significant understatement of the facts.

“I went to talk to him,” Sothe said, “since he knew the secret. I thought that either he’d end up on our side or I’d have to kill him, and in the latter case I wanted to get it over with.”

There was a flash of surprise—not much, but definitely there—on Janus’ face. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’m glad I was able to convince you.”

“So, what happens now?” Raesinia asked, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

“I think we’re almost through it,” Janus said. “The announcement has gone out that you’ve accepted the Deputies-General, and the mob is ecstatic. When they present their lists of demands, one of them is certain to be a new Minister of Information and the elimination of the Concordat. All we have to do is be ‘persuaded.’”

“Just like that?” Raesinia shook her head. “It’s too easy.”

“He has a fearsome reputation,” Janus said. “But I must say he’s proven to be only a mediocre opponent. He’s badly overplayed his hand, and now he’ll have to pay for it.”

“He won’t give up,” Sothe said. “Not Orlanko. If there’s a card left in his hand, he’ll play it, and be damned to the consequences.”

“That’s what worries me,” Janus agreed. “The Last Duke is finished. But now that he has nothing to lose . . .” He trailed off, staring past Raesinia and Sothe into the middle distance, then shook his head. “We will have to take precautions.”

MARCUS

“The vice captain is here,” Staff Eisen said from outside the door to Marcus’ office.

“Send him in,” Marcus said. His desk was clear of paperwork. He looked below it, to make sure the stack of files from the archives were still there. Evidence, in case he needed it.

The door stuck, as usual, then shuddered open. Giforte pulled it shut behind him, turned, and saluted.

“Vice Captain,” Marcus said.

“Sir!” Giforte relaxed a fraction. “People have been trickling in, sir. We’re still well below strength, but I think by tomorrow morning I should have at least—”

“I have a question for you, Vice Captain,” Marcus said. “I want you to answer it honestly, if you can.”

“Sir?” Giforte’s face became a frozen mask.

He knows,
Marcus thought.
He knows that I know.
Time to cut through all the secrets. He took a deep breath. “What is it that Duke Orlanko has over you?”

A long moment passed in total stillness. Marcus kept his eyes on Giforte, watching the man’s face. His control was good, but not perfect.
If he tries to brazen it out . . .

Then, all at once, his expression relaxed and his shoulders slumped. There was defeat there, but also relief, as though a great weight had been lifted.

I was right.
Marcus had to restrain himself from pumping his fist in triumph.
I wonder if this is how Janus feels all the time.

“I should have known I couldn’t hide it,” Giforte said. “I should have offered my resignation the day you took command.”

“Now,
that
would have been a disaster,” Marcus said. “It
is
the Last Duke, then?”

Giforte nodded, looking resigned. “He . . . it was my wife, to begin with. You’ve met my daughter. My wife never really recovered from the birth. Our local surgeons threw up their hands, so I wrote to doctors from Hamvelt, the best there are. One man said he could help, but the price he asked . . .” He shook his head. “I borrowed from a moneylender, but it was all for nothing. My Gwendolyn died before the doctor even arrived, and he refused to refund his fee. I was broken and penniless. I would have killed myself, if not for Abigail.”

“And then Orlanko offered to help with the debt,” Marcus guessed.

Giforte nodded. “I was too desperate to care what strings were attached. It wasn’t long before he started making . . . requests. Certain investigations he wanted stopped, suspects he wanted released without further questions. Your family . . . that was one of the first.”

“You didn’t know about it beforehand?” Marcus said. “You weren’t involved?”

The vice captain drew himself up. “Of course not! You . . .” He paused, and sagged again. “You have no reason to believe me, of course. But I’m not a murderer. I would never have done anything like that, whatever Orlanko told me. All he wanted was . . . no questions.” Giforte shook his head. “When I heard you had been named as captain, I came close to panic. None of the other captains ever paid much attention, but you . . .”

Marcus exhaled slowly and leaned back in the squeaky old chair. “I went looking.”
Though I might not have, if not for Adam Ionkovo.

Giforte straightened up again. “Sir. I will draft my letter of resignation immediately. If the Minister of Justice wishes to offer charges, I am at his disposal.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve been reading up on you,” Marcus said. “Your tenure with the Armsmen has been excellent. I don’t think there’s anyone else I would want for the post.”

“But . . .” Giforte swallowed. “What about Orlanko? He holds my debts. If he comes calling, and I don’t obey—”

“The Minister of Justice will handle your debts,” Marcus said. They hadn’t discussed any such thing, but he was certain Janus would come up with a good solution.
This is too good a man to lose.
“And I don’t think the Last Duke will be a problem for much longer. In confidence, I can tell you that the new queen is not a friend of his.”

“She’s going to unseat him? The Last Duke?” Giforte shook his head. “That’s going to mean plenty of trouble. He’s had three decades to dig in.”

“That’s why I need you,” Marcus said. “We’ve got to get the Armsmen back together and providing some kind of order. And I suspect the Minister of Justice may have need of me, so a lot of that work is going to fall on you. I trust you’ll be up to it.”

Slowly, Giforte saluted, fighting a smile. “Sir. Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. You’d better get to it.”

And once this is over,
Marcus thought, as Giforte saluted again and departed,
once the Last Duke has fallen, I’m going to dig through the Cobweb until I find the truth. And then he’s going to pay for it.

WINTER

The sun was lighting the eastern horizon by the time Winter returned to the fortress, at least half-drunk and feeling more maudlin than ever. She’d fallen in with a mixed band of Docksiders and University students, who were passing several bottles of middling-to-awful wine around a circle and debating the significance of the fact that the deputies had been summoned to the Sworn Cathedral. One faction held this to be a bad sign, indicating that the queen
intended to continue Orlanko’s policy of accommodation of the Sworn Church. Another group thought that it was a deliberate gesture in the opposite direction, a statement that the business of the Vordanai state was to be placed above the rights of Elysium and foreigners in general. Winter hadn’t taken a side, and limited her participation to a couple of swallows whenever a bottle went past. They hadn’t resolved the issue by the time she took her leave, and she suspected they’d be there until everyone involved had fallen out into a drunken stupor.

A mix of exhaustion and alcohol had Winter on the verge of that herself, and her steps were heavy as she dragged herself through the Vendre’s courtyard and back to the big, half-open doors. She carried a sealed bottle in one hand, a present for Jane, who hadn’t gotten the opportunity to get out and enjoy herself. The only question, Winter thought muzzily, was whether she would manage to deliver it before she collapsed into some corner. The chamber Jane had taken over had a bed, she seemed to recall.
That would be . . . convenient.

She was vaguely aware of passing Leatherback guards, at the main doors and again on the stairs, but they all let her through with a wave. Winter answered with a cheery lift of her bottle, trudging up to the floor where the old prison staff had had their quarters and where Jane had made her own accommodations. At the top of the steps, she took a moment to compose herself, standing where a cool breeze came in by a gun slit and trying to shake the muzziness from her head.

Maybe I should just go to bed, and find Jane in the morning.
She wasn’t
that
drunk, but alcohol had formed a dangerous cocktail with the aftermath of too many nights without sleep and the loneliness of being by herself in the midst of the citywide revel. She felt fragile, on edge, and suspected the sight of Jane might bring her to tears.
I’ll feel better in the morning.

Good sense warred for a moment with sentimentality, but sentimentality gained the upper hand. Winter shook her head, feeling the world reel slightly.
I’ll just see how she’s doing. Jane’s been up all night, too. She might need someone to . . . talk to.

The door to Jane’s room stood a few inches open, but there was no sound of conversation from inside. The council had apparently departed.
Hell,
Winter thought suddenly.
She’s probably asleep by now.
I’ll just poke my head in and check on her.

Wood creaked, and Winter froze, just beside the doorway. Something scraped against the floor, as though someone had pushed a chair. Listening
closely, below the fading roar of the now-exhausted crowd outside, she could make out soft, quiet sounds. Quick breaths, the rustle of cloth, a faint sigh.

Jane?

She ought to have turned around, then and there. Every instinct Winter had was telling her to go back the way she’d come, to write the whole thing off as a drunken, maudlin fantasy. She fought them all and eased forward, setting the wine bottle on the floor so gently it didn’t even make a click. The gap between door and doorframe was only a few inches away, and Winter leaned toward it, hardly daring to breathe.

Someone gasped. Jane said, very quietly, “Don’t.”

“It’s been”—pause—“weeks. Seeing you every day”—pause—“and every night, I . . .”

This was Abby’s voice. Winter finally got her eye against the crack in the door. She saw Jane, leaning on the big council table, her red hair damp and spiky with sweat. Abby was pressed up against her, arms wrapped around her waist. Her lips brushed a delicate trail of kisses from Jane’s collarbone up into the hollow of her neck. Jane leaned her head back, like an animal offering its throat in submission, and her hands clenched the edge of the tabletop.

“I told you,” Jane said weakly. “We can’t.
I
can’t.”

“I know.” Abby kissed the corner of Jane’s jaw, then her cheek. “Just for tonight, all right? Just once. Please.”

“Abby . . .”

“Call the guards, if you like. Throw me in the dungeon.”

Abby kissed Jane full on the lips, and after a moment’s resistance Jane’s arms came off the table and wrapped around Abby’s shoulders. Abby’s hands roamed upward, running gently over Jane’s flanks, her fingers tangling in the hem of Jane’s shirt.

Jane moaned, very quietly, but Winter was no longer there to hear. She stalked away down the corridor, leaving her bottle by the doorway, eyes brimming with unwanted tears.

RAESINIA

F
or the moment, they were letting Raesinia remain in her chambers in the Prince’s Tower. Eventually, she assumed, some court stickler for protocol would probably demand that she move over to the Royal Apartments, but that would require refurnishing, and the staff of the palace was fully occupied. So many of the more cautious nobles and their retinues had departed for the country as the riots had developed that the royal household had been left with a skeleton crew, managing a building that was suddenly vastly too large for its inhabitants. The task of putting the palace in its mourning garb was big enough to occupy an army, even without considering all the changes to the lists of precedence that would be required by so many departures and the consequent adjustments to social calendars, place settings, and so on.

Raesinia was happy to leave well enough alone. Sothe was adamant that her days of sneaking out to visit the revolutionaries were over, but it was nice to know that she still had her convenient-if-painful escape route from the tower. New rooms would come with a squadron of new servants, too, with all the complicated negotiations that entailed. Here in the Prince’s Tower, Sothe ruled with an iron hand, and she had a very simple protocol—when Raesinia was present, Sothe met visitors at the door and no other menials were allowed to enter. The cleaning and laundry staff had learned to pounce on the room the moment Raesinia stepped out the door.

This morning, Sothe brought breakfast to her table, as usual, together with a stack of the morning papers. One advantage of being queen was that she could
pay attention to current events more openly, without having to play the part of the brainless princess.

There was no news except the Revolution, as the papers were already starting to call it. Several woodcuts of Danton looked up at her, including a rather good profile in the
Barker
. The Deputies-General, scheduled to open today, had driven everyone into renewed frenzies of excitement. A more or less permanent camp of revolutionaries, centered on the occupied Vendre, was surrounded by a temporary mob whose size varied with the mood of the public. Today, Raesinia read, they occupied most of the Island, leaving only a small clear space around the cathedral in the hands of the Armsmen. The South Bank was boiling, and even the North Bank was starting to rumble, centered on the University and the Dregs.

Not all the news was good. Fresh water was becoming scarce on the Island, in spite of the best efforts of the merchants selling it at ruinous prices, so some of the gathered thousands had been reduced to drinking river water. The result was an epidemic of the bloody flux, which had already laid low hundreds and was claiming several victims a day. One paper even helpfully provided a cartoon, which showed Raesinia herself walking over the bridge to the Island in full regalia only to be met by a tidal wave of oncoming diarrhea.

In addition to disease, the prostitutes and thieves who gathered wherever there was a crowd to fleece were out in force, and with the Armsmen banished there was nothing to restrain their street feuds. Still, it looked to Raesinia as though everyone was behaving remarkably well under the circumstances, and the view of the papers seemed positive. The people believed in the deputies, which was exactly what the deputies needed in order to be effective.

The people also believed in Danton. Several papers reprinted the text of his latest speeches, beside columns calling for him to have some kind of a role in government even before the deputies had met. Or Raesinia should marry him, and make him king, so his wisdom could lead Vordan to a new golden age.

“Look at this nonsense,” Raesinia said, rattling the paper. “He’s telling everyone to stay calm, which is all well and good, but then he goes on and on about the nature of the social compact and the theory of a just monarchy. That’s Maurisk’s writing, obviously.” She turned the paper over and rolled her eyes. “It goes onto the back, in small print. He never did know when to shut up.”

Sothe didn’t comment. Raesinia tossed the paper aside. “You delivered his speech for today?”

It had taken her most of the previous week to write, and Raesinia thought it was a pretty fine piece of work. As the keynote address to the new Deputies- General, coming out in Danton’s glorious golden voice, it would go a long way toward setting the tone.

“I did. The others accepted that it was something you’d written before you . . . died.” Sothe was frowning, and Raesinia thought she knew why. She decided it was better to bite the bullet.

“And? Did you see Cora?”

“I saw her.”

“And?”

Sothe sighed. “Pri—my queen. I’ve said before that the farther you stay away from her and the others, the safer everyone will be.”

“That’s why I sent you to look in on her instead of going myself.”

“It’s still an unnecessary risk. I could be recognized, followed.”

“We both know a dozen bloodhounds couldn’t follow you across fresh snow.”

“It’s a possibility,” Sothe insisted. “And I worry that you won’t be content to simply ‘look in’ forever. It’s better that you make a clean break, my queen.”

“I just want to know if Cora is all right,” Raesinia said. “Maurisk and Sarton can take care of themselves, but Cora’s just a girl.”

“She seemed fine,” Sothe said, relenting. “She has taken your ‘death’ hard, but otherwise she appears to be in reasonable spirits. I believe Maurisk has been talking to her about the need to carry on, ‘for Raesinia’s sake.’”

Raesinia clapped her hands. “He’s not completely clueless, then. Sooner or later, I want to find a way to bring Cora in.”

“Much too risky. She’ll recognize you, and then the secret is as good as out.”

“Not if we asked her to keep it. Cora would never betray me.”

“The same as Faro?” There was a long, painful pause. “I’m sorry, my queen. But the stakes are extremely high. Perhaps, in time, I might be able to find a way.”

“Think about it,” Raesinia said. “You’ve seen how talented she is with money. We’re going to need all the coin we can get if we’re not going to continue Orlanko’s policy of mortgaging the kingdom to the Borels.”

Sothe nodded, lips pursed. There was a knock at the door, and she got up to answer it. Raesinia read a few more paragraphs of Danton’s speech, then pushed the papers away in disgust.

I’m going to have to have a talk with Maurisk.
Then she remembered that she
couldn’t, not now and probably not ever. As far as Maurisk was concerned, Raesinia had fallen from the Vendre’s walls with a bullet in her skull, dragging the traitor Faro to his death. A whole chapter of her life had ended, almost as though she
had
died. Rationally, she could agree with Sothe that it was probably for the best. Now that her father was dead and she was under greater scrutiny, sneaking out would be too risky; besides, the conspiracy had served its purpose. The will of the people, expressed through the Deputies-General, would give her the means to rid the country of Orlanko. With Janus as an ally on the Cabinet, she might be able to start putting things right.

Orlanko still held his trump card, the threat to expose her as demonically possessed. But the very power of that move would make him afraid to use it. Without being able to install himself as regent and thus as a clear successor to the throne, the result could only be chaos, possibly even another civil war. Raesinia’s reign would have to be short, in any case, since eventually the public and the court would become suspicious of their unaging queen.
Unless Janus finds a solution in the Thousand Names.
But I can’t count on that.
She would have to marry someone she trusted to be the kind of king the country needed, the kind her father would have wanted and that her brother would have been. Then Raesinia could “die” with a clean conscience, and after that—something else. She had never allowed herself to think that far in advance.

Perhaps Janus himself is the king I need.
He was certainly of a sufficiently noble line, albeit somewhat impoverished in recent years, that the people would accept him. He was intelligent, and a capable general, if his Khandarai exploits were anything to go by. And, of course, he already knew her secret, obviating the need for either a complicated subterfuge or a potentially dangerous confrontation.
And he’s handsome enough, I suppose, in an arch sort of way.

On the other hand, there was something about him that made her nervous. A sense of ambition, carefully harnessed but nonetheless visible just below the surface. She wondered if being king would be enough for him, or if he was one of those men whose thirst for power simply could not be slaked. The vision of Vordanai armies marching forth to conquer with fire and sword—with Janus bet Vhalnich at their head and Danton to fire their blood—was too plausible for comfort. That was not, she was sure, what her father would have wanted. His dreams of martial glory had ended with the cruel realities of Vansfeldt.

A problem for another day.
There was a long, twisting road yet to walk before she arrived at a position where she could begin to contemplate that choice.
But it starts today, with the Deputies-General.

Sothe reappeared. “Captain d’Ivoire is here, Your Majesty, with your escort.”

Your Majesty.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to that. “Send him in, and go and fetch the bits and pieces.” Raesinia was already wearing the slim, plain black dress that was proper for a queen in mourning, but it wouldn’t do to be seen in public without the appropriate accessories and a tasteful amount of jewels.

Bowing, Sothe went back to the door, and was replaced a moment later by Marcus d’Ivoire. The captain bowed as well, more formally. He was in the full dress uniform of the captain of Armsmen, dark forest green trimmed with silver and gold, with braids of army blue and silver at the shoulder to indicate he was a captain in a royal regiment as well. The only false note was the sword at his hip, which was a solid, weather-beaten cavalry saber instead of the jeweled rapier or small sword she might have expected.

“Your Majesty,” he said, when she indicated he should rise. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you, Captain. And you have my gratitude for what you accomplished at the Vendre.”

Marcus looked rueful. “I’m afraid I didn’t accomplish much, Your Majesty. We surrendered the fortress, after all. And I spent most of the time locked in a cell.”

“From what I have heard, you prevented a bloodbath. I was most gratified to hear of your escape.”

“Some of the . . . revolutionaries,” Marcus said carefully, “appear to have shared your gratitude. They gave me to understand that my further presence might cause difficulties. So I would not call it an
escape
, precisely.”

“You’re too modest for your own good, Captain.”

“Only honest, Your Majesty.”

Sothe came back in, with shoes, a shawl, and an assortment of delicate confections of gems and gold. Raesinia stood up and allowed these to be attached, and in the meantime studied Marcus’ broad, patient face.

I would not mind marrying him,
she thought, idly.
He seems like he would be kind. And I think he would make a good king.
Not that such a thing could ever come to pass, even if she’d been madly in love with the captain. He was a commoner, to start with, and the same gentle patience that she thought would be a useful trait in a ruler would see him eaten alive by the likes of Orlanko.
Where can I find a man who is both
capable
of ruling and good enough to do a decent job?

When the fitting-out was finished, Marcus bowed again. “I’ll go and alert your escort, Your Majesty.”

“My queen,” Sothe whispered, as soon as Marcus had gone out into the foyer. “Something is wrong.”

“What?” Raesinia turned too quickly, setting her ornaments to clicking. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not certain.” Sothe licked her lips, like a snake tasting the air. “Something isn’t right. I can’t—”

She quieted as Marcus reentered. He, too, looked perturbed.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Raesinia said, fighting a rising tide of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

“Who usually guards your door?”

Raesinia blinked. “The Grays are charged with the security of the grounds. But the royal family is guarded by a company of Royal Grenadier Guards, and some of your Armsmen. There should be a few of each out there.” She’d walked past them a thousand times.

“There’s an escort forming up in the corridor,” Marcus said. “But it seems to be only Grays. And when I looked out, I didn’t see any Armsmen or Royals.”

“That
is
odd,” Raesinia said. “Perhaps they’ll be joining us later on?”

Someone rapped at the door. A voice came from outside. “Your Majesty? Open the door, if you please. There’s an emergency.”

“Don’t,” Sothe said. Raesinia hadn’t seen her move, but she was reemerging from her own room, a pistol in either hand, her long dress tied up above her knees to give her freedom of movement. “It’s Orlanko.”

“What?”
Raesinia’s anxiety was shot through with rage. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“We’ve overestimated his caution,” Sothe said, positioning herself in the doorway. “Or his intelligence. But I’m certain those are his people.”

“Get behind me, Your Majesty,” Marcus said, surprisingly unfazed by this news. His saber rasped from its scabbard.

“Wait.” Raesinia scrambled to her feet. “We can’t be certain. Don’t shoot anybody—”

There was a
thud
and a crunch of wood. Someone had rammed his shoulder hard against the corridor door. It was a light, decorative thing, not designed to endure that kind of abuse, and splinters flew from around the bolt.

“—oh.” Raesinia’s mind went blank. There was no excuse for doing
that
to the queen’s chambers, even if the building was on fire. “Go ahead, then.”

They were in the main room of her suite, with a couch and table providing
the only cover. A door separated this room from the foyer, but it was no sturdier than the one in the corridor and would provide only a few seconds’ respite. Instead of closing it, Sothe squared off in the doorway, staring across the open space of the foyer as though she were on a target range.