The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (5 page)

“This is the same Count Yonas or some such who has been smiting the heathens so heroically in Khandar?”

Raesinia nodded. “Count Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“And what do we know about him?” Maurisk said.

“Not much,” Raesinia admitted. “But there’s no love lost between him and Orlanko.”

“That’s got to be good for us, then,” Cora said. “The enemy of my enemy, and all that.”

“I don’t know,” Faro said. “I’ve found that most of the time the enemy of your enemy can be relied on to stick a dagger in your back while you’re busy with the first fellow.”

“We’ll see soon enough,” Maurisk said. “It’s Giforte who really matters. If Count Mieran puts someone new in as head of the Armsmen, it’ll tell us a bit about what he plans. If he promotes Giforte instead—”

“Then I’ll drink another toast,” Faro said. “Giforte is a crusty old fart with more breeding than brains. Not that there’s any shortage of such around His Majesty.”

“Long may he reign,” Cora said, and the others echoed her automatically.

“Here,” Faro said. “Better to do that with wine in hand.”

Maurisk glared at him while Faro distributed the mugs, then looked up at Raesinia.

“Was there anything else?” he said. Maurisk was a teetotaler, yet another point of contention between him and the hard-drinking Faro.

“Not at the moment,” Raesinia said, accepting a mug herself.

Maurisk’s habitual scowl deepened. “Then I will say good evening.”

He went for the door, dodging Faro’s attempt to offer him a mug, and let it bang closed behind him. Faro stared after him for a moment, giving his best impression of an abandoned puppy, then laughed and turned back to the others. “And I will say good riddance.” He took a long sip from his mug and swallowed thoughtfully. “Honestly, Raes, what possessed you to bring him into this?”

“He’s smart, and he believes in taking the country back from Orlanko,” Raesinia said. “And he takes it seriously.” She brought the mug to her lips.

The wine was actually rather good, Raesinia thought. In spite of its run-down appearance, the Blue Mask kept a good cellar. The unwashed floors and ratty furniture were a deliberate affectation, an act; situated as it was on prime real estate beside the University, the rent on the Mask was probably higher than many noble town houses.

An act.
Raesinia stared into the depths of her mug, letting the conversation drift around her. Faro talked enough for three, anyway, pretending to flirt with Cora and laughing hugely at his own jokes.

It’s all an act.
Raesinia Smith was an affectation, just like the Blue Mask. So, for that matter, was Raesinia Orboan, the delicate, empty-headed princess she played at Ohnlei whenever formal ceremonies demanded it. She might have been real, once, but she’d died four years ago, coughing her lungs out in a bed stinking of piss and vomit. What had risen from that bed was . . . something else, an imposter.

She felt the binding twitch, ever so slightly. It wouldn’t let her get drunk—she suspected it saw the inebriated state as a problem to be corrected like any
other. Once, as an experiment, Sothe had procured a gallon of potent but awful liquor and Raesinia had downed the lot in a single sitting. All it had produced was a powerful need to visit the toilet.

There were only three people in Vordan who knew what kind of creature lurked underneath her masks. One was Raesinia herself, and another was Sothe, whom she had come to trust with her life. The third was the Last Duke, Mallus Kengire Orlanko. It was Orlanko who had intervened when Raesinia ought to have died. He’d called in his backers, Sworn Church priests in black cloaks and glass masks, and they had done
something
.

At the time, Raesinia hadn’t appreciated the brilliance of it. Now she understood all too well. The king had no sons, not since Vansfeldt, so what better way to keep the future queen under your thumb? Let even a whisper of the truth escape—that the princess was cursed, damned, not even human—and the mobs would be howling for her head, with every priest in the city egging them on. When the king died . . .

Long may he reign.
Raesinia took a pull from her mug. But he wouldn’t; anyone could see that. Already the city lived in fear of the duke’s Concordat, and the tax farmers squeezed the common folk to pay the Crown’s debt to Viadre. When her father died, Raesinia would ascend the throne, but Orlanko would be king in all but name. His northern allies would come seeking their rewards, and no doubt Raesinia would find herself married to some Murnskai prince, while Borelgai profiteers looted the kingdom and Sworn Priests burned the Free Churches.

And so Raesinia Smith had built her little conspiracy, step by step, lying to everyone. The depth of her betrayals—not telling Cora and the others who she really was, breaking her father’s confidences—roiled her stomach, but there was no other option. If Orlanko found out she wasn’t the empty-headed, pliable princess he thought she was . . .

Cora laughed, and Faro grinned. Raesinia looked away from them and stared down into her mug.
It’s not a betrayal, not really. We all want the same thing.
Power in Vordan for the Vordanai, and the end of the Last Duke. No more tax farmers, no more Borelgai bankers muscling honest merchants into poverty. No more disappearances in the night and mysterious bodies floating in the river. No more screams from the depths of the Vendre.

It was the right thing to do. She knew it was. Even Father would understand that, wouldn’t he?

MARCUS

“B
y the third day, we were pretty much used up, and those big naval guns were knocking the place to pieces around our ears,” Marcus said. “If the colonel hadn’t turned up when he did, I doubt we could have held on until nightfall. Even as it was, things got pretty heated. I had to go out myself—”

He stopped.
And Adrecht saved my life, and lost his arm.
Adrecht, his best friend, who had later tried to kill him, and who was now a set of slowly bleaching bones somewhere in the Great Desol.
Along with quite a few others.

Count Torahn, Minister of War, knew none of this. His jowly face was alight with vicarious martial excitement. “Splendid, Captain. Absolutely splendid. Have you thought about writing up your experiences in the campaign? Colonel Vhalnich will submit his official report, of course, but it’s important to have as many perspectives on the thing as possible. I’m sure the
Review
would jump at the chance if you did them a little monograph.”

Marcus tried not to grimace. “Thank you, sir. I think Giv—uh, Captain Stokes was trying his hand at writing something about it when I left.” He didn’t add that Give-Em-Hell’s memoir, titled
Across the Desert with Bloodied Saber
, seemed to be turning into more of an epic than a monograph.

“Wonderful. I look forward to reading it,” Torahn said. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve always said that a properly led Vordanai force should be a match for any army in the world, eh?”

This last was directed at the other end of the little anteroom. Duke Mallus Kengire Orlanko sat in an armchair, stubby legs barely reaching the ground, flipping idly through an enormous leather-bound ledger. He looked up,
spectacles catching the light from the candles and becoming two circles of pure light.

“Indeed, Torahn,” he said. “You have certainly always said so. Now if only our soldiers could learn to walk on water, the world would truly be within our grasp.”

It was hard for Marcus to believe that this was the infamous Last Duke, Minister of Information and master of the dreaded Concordat. He looked more like somebody’s cheerful old grandpa, at least until he turned those oversized lenses in Marcus’ direction. Then his magnified, distorted eyes became visible, and they seemed to belong to some other person altogether. Not a person, even. Eyes like that belonged on something that lived at the bottom of the sea and never ventured out of the shadows.

You sent Jen to me.
Marcus matched the duke’s gaze as levelly as he knew how.
You sent her and told her to do whatever she needed to do.

He’d always known Jen had worked for the Concordat, but somehow he’d allowed himself to believe—
What? That she could fall in love with me?
At the very least, he’d thought she’d finally been honest with him. Then, that awful night in a cavern full of monsters, she’d thrown it all back in his face and revealed herself to be something much more than a simple agent.
Ignahta Sempria
, the Penitent Damned, the demonic assassins serving an order of the Church that was supposed to have disappeared more than a hundred years ago.

Marcus had tried to kill her, in the end, but Jen had brushed aside his best efforts. Only Ihernglass, in some way that Marcus still didn’t understand, had been able to use the power of the Thousand Names to bring her down. When he’d left Khandar, she still hadn’t awoken, and Janus wasn’t sure she ever would.

“Are you certain?” she had said. “Are you—”

Count Torahn was saying something, but Marcus had missed it entirely. He smiled at the Minister of War and wondered how to politely ask him to repeat himself, but a click from the door saved him the embarrassment. Janus slipped quietly out of the king’s bedchamber.

“Well,” the Last Duke said. “I take it congratulations are in order.”

Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran bowed formally. For his visit to the Royal Palace he’d put on a formal uniform Marcus had never seen him wear before, a cross between his usual blues and something more appropriate for a courtier. It included a long, thin cape, which fluttered elegantly as he moved, and was trimmed in the bloodred and Vordanai blue that were his personal
colors as Count Mieran. In his ordinary dress blues, giltless and patchy from repeated washing, Marcus felt like a beggar by comparison.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Janus said. “I will do my utmost to be of service to His Majesty.”

“Gave it to you after all, did he?” Torahn said. “I argued against it, you know. Nothing against you personally, you understand, but it didn’t seem a proper post for a military man. I’d hoped to use you elsewhere. Still, I suppose the king knows best.”

“I’m sure he does,” Janus said.

Marcus felt as if he’d come to class to find everyone else had studied for a test he didn’t know was on the schedule. Janus, as usual, had explained nothing, either during the uncomfortable journey or since they’d arrived at Ohnlei. He must have been able to see the confusion in Marcus’ face now, however, and he took pity on his subordinate.

“The king has honored me with his trust,” Janus said. “He has named me to the cabinet as Minister of Justice, to oversee the courts and the Armsmen.”

There was a shuffling sound from one corner. Representatives of all three of the organizations tasked with protecting the king’s safety were on hand, standing at attention so quietly that Marcus had nearly forgotten they were there. There was a sergeant from the Noreldrai Grays, big and imposing in his dark uniform and tall cap, and an impeccably uniformed grenadier from the Royal Guard. In addition, there was an Armsman, in a somewhat more ornate version of the dark green uniform worn by these officers of the law. At Janus’ words, he had stiffened up and saluted.

“Speaking of the Armsmen,” Orlanko said, as Janus nodded and signaled for the guard to relax, “their captaincy is vacant at the moment. If you’d like, I can have my people prepare dossiers on some suitable candidates. I believe Vice Captain Giforte has been serving in that role since the previous minister’s passing, but he—”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Janus interjected, “but that will not be necessary. My choice is an easy one. Captain d’Ivoire will assume the post.”

“He will?” Orlanko’s magnified eyes shifted.

“I will?” Marcus said.

He looked at Janus and caught a flick of his eyes. Marcus didn’t have Fitz Warus’ effortless ability to understand his superior’s unspoken commands, but he was slowly getting the knack of reading the colonel’s expressions. This one said,
Later
.

“A good idea,” Torahn said. “That’s the trouble with the Armsmen these days. Too many layabouts at the bottom, too many lawyers at the top! A good, honest soldier will shake things up a bit. And you could hardly do better than the captain here.”

Marcus wasn’t foolish enough to believe that the Minister of War had taken
that
much of a liking to him in their few minutes of conversation. This was another salvo aimed at Orlanko. Marcus felt like a fisherman rowing between two foreign men-of-war, caught in a conflict he understood next to nothing about, crouching to keep his head beneath the gunwales as broadsides flashed back and forth overhead. Whether this one had hit the mark, he had no idea, but Orlanko brushed it aside.

“I’m sure the captain will do a fine job.” The Last Duke closed his ledger and heaved himself onto his feet. “And now I must be going. You may rely on my people, of course, for any information your new duties may require.” He gave a very slight bow. “I look forward to working with you, Count Mieran.”

“Likewise, Your Grace,” Janus said. “Your Excellency, if you will excuse me as well. I have much to do.”

“Of course,” Torahn said, then wagged a finger genially. “Don’t think this gets you out of writing me a proper report!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Janus said. “Come, Captain.”

The Armsman beside the door saluted again as they passed. The anteroom let onto a corridor leading out the back of the king’s suite, opposite the much larger entrance to his formal audience chambers. Like all the hallways at Ohnlei, it had been decorated within an inch of its life, in this case with a pattern of tiny bas-relief eagles whose eyes were tiny, sparkling mirrors. Candles flickered in cleverly concealed braziers.

“Sir—” Marcus began.

“Jikat,”
Janus said quietly.

This was a word in Khandarai, of which there were probably only three speakers within a hundred miles. It was an ancient and expressive language. The word “jikat” meant “quiet,” but more than that. A literal translation might read “the silence we observe in the presence of our enemies.”

Enemies?
Marcus said nothing.

“Back to our rooms,” Janus said. “Everything should be ready by now.”

—

The invisible, omnipresent administrative apparatus of Ohnlei—the
true
rulers of the kingdom, Marcus sometimes suspected—had assigned Janus and his staff
to a cottage not far from the palace, on one of the many curving gravel roads that wandered through the grounds like a plate of dropped noodles. “Cottage,” in this context, referred to a two-story stone-and-timber building, elegantly appointed and self-sufficient in the matters of kitchens, baths, and so on, with its own staff and caretakers. This one was called Lady Farnese’s Cottage. Marcus had gathered that the kings of Vordan were in the habit of building these little houses for their friends, mistresses, and favorite courtiers, and once these original inhabitants died or fell from favor, they were repurposed as housing for guests of the court.

Small squads of Noreldrai Grays patrolled the grounds, mostly for the look of the thing, but they were met at the front door of Lady Farnese’s Cottage by a pair of soldiers in an unfamiliar uniform, cut like a Royal Army outfit but with the same red-on-blue trimmings Janus was wearing. Marcus guessed that these must be men in direct service to Janus in his capacity as Count Mieran, and this impression was shortly confirmed. One of the pair, a lieutenant by his shoulder stripe, stepped forward and saluted, and Janus made the introductions.

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Medio bet Uhlan, of the First Mierantai Volunteers. Lieutenant, Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, lately of the First Colonial Infantry.”

“Honored, sir,” said Uhlan, speaking with a gravelly upcountry accent. He was a young man, clean-shaven and handsome, with a crispness to his stance and salute that Marcus found depressingly keen. “Thank you for taking such good care of the young master.”

“For the most part it was him taking care of me,” Marcus said. “But it’s good to meet you in any case.”

“You’ve made the preparations as I asked?” Janus said.

“Yes, my lord.” Uhlan saluted again. “Everything is in readiness.”

“Good. Let’s go inside.”

The cottage had a serviceable parlor, suitable for entertaining guests, and another pair of Mierantai guards stood at attention as they entered. When Uhlan shut the door behind them, leaving his companion on guard outside, Janus gave a small, contented sigh.

“Here, I think, we may speak freely.” He glanced at Marcus. “The Last Duke knows everything that goes on in the palace, so you should always assume you are being overheard. The same holds for most of the rest of Ohnlei. We’re only a mile from the Cobweb, after all, and he’d be a poor spider if he didn’t know what was going on in his own lair.”

“But not here?”

“Here Lieutenant Uhlan and his men will keep watching for stray eyes and ears. They’ve already swept the house for hidey-holes—did you find any, by the by?”

“Yes, my lord,” Uhlan said. “One trapdoor and a tunnel through the foundation, and a spot outside where the moldings make a sort of ladder leading to a way in through the roof. We’ve closed them both, as you instructed.”

“And the staff?”

Uhlan grimaced. “It took some argument before they agreed that you could provide your own household, but we managed. I’ve sent to Mieranhal for our people, but it will be a few days before they arrive.”

“Mieran County is too remote and too insular for our friend Orlanko to infiltrate easily,” Janus said to Marcus. “I thought it best to import a few people we know we can trust.”

Marcus didn’t feel quite so blasé about it, but if Janus wanted to trust in Uhlan and his crew, he had little choice but to do likewise. He nodded.

“Where’s Lieutenant Ihernglass?” Janus said.

“Upstairs,” Uhlan said. “And asleep, I believe.”

“Just as well. It’s been a long journey, and I won’t need him until tomorrow.” He gestured at an armchair. “Sit, Captain. Lieutenant, would you ask Augustin to bring us some refreshments?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Marcus settled himself into the chair, wincing at a protest from his lower back. It was a legacy of the hell-for-leather carriage ride from the coast, two days of misery in a jolting, bouncing wooden box, trying valiantly to hold on to his lunch.

It had, indeed, been a long journey. Preparations had been under way to bring the entirety of the First Colonials back to Vordan, but when Janus had received the news of the king’s illness, he hadn’t wanted to wait. He’d commandeered the fastest ship in the harbor by the simple expedient of asking the captain how much gold it would take to convince him to dump his current passengers and cargo and make for Vordan, then offering him half again as much for the quickest passage he could manage. The ship, a sleek Vheedai frigate, had made the run in less than half the time it had taken the lumbering transports on the way out, at the cost of running full-sailed through a blow Marcus had been certain was going to sink them.

Then, instead of turning west for the mouth of the Vor and the slow plod
upriver to the capital, the colonel had led them ashore at Essyle and paid another hefty sum to arrange a stagecoach. Riders galloped ahead of them, bearing instructions to have fresh horses ready and waiting, and so the wheels of the coach had barely stopped turning from the coast to the capital. Even the famous Vordanai mail coaches didn’t run by night, but Janus had paid for spare drivers as well as spare horses, and the broad highway of the Green Road was smooth enough to traverse by torchlight. As a result of all this effort, their little party had covered the three hundred miles from Essyle to the outskirts of Vordan City in a bit more than thirty-six hours, which Marcus was certain had to be some kind of record.