The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (8 page)

“Do you see the girl at the edge of the stage?” she said quietly. “The one with the twisted leg.”

“Nervasia,” Sarton said. “Caused b . . . b . . . by deficiencies in the diet in infancy.”

“She’s lived with that her whole life,” Raesinia said, watching the hobbling, wretched creature. “This morning she knew as well as you do that she’d live with it until the day she died. Now she’s ready to hand over what is probably her life savings.”

“In exchange for a vial of sugar and river water,” Faro said.

“She’s not buying an elixir,” Raesinia said. “She’s buying
hope
.” She took a deep breath and glanced at Ben. “And a man who can sell hope to a girl like that can sell anything to anyone.”

Ben was nodding. Faro frowned.

“Come on,” Raesinia said. “I think we need to have a chat with him.”

—

They waited on the edge of the square until de Bornais had sold every last vial. At that point he, Danton, and two porters left the square, de Bornais promising that he would return the next day to help those who hadn’t been close enough to the front of the line.

“He does this every day,” Ben said. “Sometimes it’s the same people in the crowd.”

“I guess they think that twice the dose will do twice the good,” Faro said.

“Do you know where he goes afterward?” Raesinia asked Ben.

“There’s a tavern around the corner. Last time I was here he spent a while in there.”

“Right.”

There was no sign marking the tavern, but none was really necessary. Even so early in the day, there was a steady stream of customers headed for the door, coming off odd-hours shifts or just slaking a midday thirst. Raesinia followed Ben through the swinging door into a gloomy, smoke-filled space. It was on the ground floor of one of the old apartment blocks, and looked as though it
had originally been an apartment itself. The proprietors had knocked out the internal walls, boarded up most of the windows, and set up shop behind a wooden board balanced on a set of barrels. The tables were a mix of battered, scavenged furniture and knocked-together substitutes, and small crates served for chairs.

Unlike the Blue Mask and its fellows, who wore their disreputability like a costume for a masked ball, this place was honestly, solidly disreputable. Really, Raesinia thought, it didn’t even rise to that level, since that would imply that it had a reputation. It was just one anonymous boarded-up apartment among many, where men traded small change for temporary oblivion. She’d visited Dockside taverns after shift change, full of drunken shouting workers spoiling for a fight, but there was none of that sense of danger here. The people around the makeshift tables just looked tired.

De Bornais and Danton sat at a table in the corner, with the two porters at another nearby. A few faces looked up to regard Raesinia and the others, but without much interest. Only the proprietor, a rat-faced man with a long mustache, took any extended notice. Raesinia stepped out of the doorway and beckoned her companions close.

“I need to get this Danton alone for a few minutes,” she said. “Can we detach de Bornais?”

“I could engage him in a discussion on the m . . . m . . . merits of his treatment,” Sarton offered. “But—”

“He’s more likely to run from a real doctor than talk to one,” Faro said. “Swindlers like him live in fear of someone turning up and demanding answers.”

Raesinia thought for a moment. “All right, here’s the story. Faro, you’re the young son of some merchant, and Ben is your manservant. You’ve heard from belowstairs about this elixir, and now the master’s taken sick, so you want to secure a supply. Buy him a few drinks and imply you’re willing to make a pretty substantial contribution.”

“Got it,” said Ben, then sighed. “Why do I always end up as the manservant?”

“Because you don’t know how to dress properly,” said Faro, shooting his cuffs and inspecting them for lint. “Come on. Just follow my lead.”

“What are you g . . . g . . . going to say to Danton?” Sarton said, as the two of them sauntered over to the table.

“First we need to find out what de Bornais gives him. Is that story of his genuine, or is he just a paid shill?”

The lingering power of Danton’s oration insisted that the story was true—it
had
to be true; how could anything so obviously heartfelt not be true?—but the cynical part of Raesinia’s mind suspected the latter. She kept her eye on Danton as Faro oiled up and engaged de Bornais in conversation. Faro’s talent as an actor was considerable—it was one of the reasons they’d brought him in to their little conspiracy—and his warm handshake and extravagant gestures fit his role as a gullible young man from the moneyed class perfectly. De Bornais seemed to be taking it in, but Danton showed little interest in anything but the pint of beer in front of him. Bits of froth were clinging to his ferocious side whiskers.

“There we go,” Raesinia muttered, as de Bornais got to his feet. Faro took him by the arm and steered him in the direction of the bar, leaving Danton alone at the table. “You keep watch from here. If Faro looks like he’s losing his grip on de Bornais, warn me.”

Sarton ducked his head, obviously pleased to have been given a position of responsibility. Raesinia left him by the door and headed for Danton. A few eyes followed her. In her University-tomboy getup, she didn’t look particularly feminine, but women of any kind seemed to be a rarity here. Raesinia ignored the gazes and sat down on the crate de Bornais had vacated. She’d timed her arrival for just after Danton reached the bottom of his pint, and he looked up from it to find her smiling at him.

“Can I buy you another one of those?” she said.

Danton blinked, looking down at the empty mug, then back up at her.

“Another beer,” she repeated, wondering how much he’d already had to drink. “More.”

“More,” Danton agreed happily. Raesinia waved at the sour-faced proprietor, who set to filling another mug from a barrel on the bar.

“I listened to your speech,” Raesinia said. “We were all very impressed. Is it a true story?”

“’S a story,” Danton said. Up close, his voice had the same quiet rumble, but it lacked the authority he’d displayed on the stage. “I’m supposed to tell it. Jack gave it to me.”

“Jack—you mean de Bornais?” His face was uncomprehending, and she tried again. “The man who sells the medicine?”

This time he nodded. “Yes. Jack. He’s a good fellow, Jack.” This last had
an odd singsong rhythm, as though he were repeating something he’d heard many times. “He shows me what to do.”

“How much does he pay you?”

“You shouldn’t worry about the money.” This, also, sounded like a pat phrase. “Jack takes care of everything.”

Raesinia paused, rapidly reassessing her position.

“Does Jack,” she said slowly, “tell you what to say? When you’re out on the stage, I mean, talking to everybody.”

Danton dipped his head. “Mmm-hmm. He told me a story, and I tell it to people. It’s good to share stories.”

Raesinia stared at him.
What the hell are we dealing with here?
Danton wasn’t just drunk—he seemed almost feebleminded. If she hadn’t seen him speaking to the crowd herself, she wouldn’t have believed he was capable of anything of the sort.
So he’s—what? Some kind of idiot savant?
She watched him grab the new mug of beer in both hands and take a long drink.
But if he can repeat whatever someone tells him . . .

A plan was just beginning to form when a heavy hand descended on her shoulder. She looked up into the thickset face of one of de Bornais’ porters, whose eyes widened in comical surprise.

“’Ey,” he said. “You’re a girl.”

She twisted to face him, brushing his hand aside. “What about it?”

De Bornais himself arrived, sidestepping Faro and hurrying to the table. He yanked the beer out of Danton’s hand and slapped him, hard, like a mother smacking a squalling toddler. Danton blinked, his eyes beginning to water.

“You know you’re not supposed to talk to anybody,” de Bornais said. “I’ve told you a hundred times. Say it. What are you supposed to do?”

“Drink m’ beer,” Danton mumbled. “Not talk to anybody.”

“Right.” He spun to face Raesinia, who had wormed free of the porter. “And what the hell do you think
you’re
doing?”

“I thought—” Raesinia began, but de Bornais waved her into silence, glaring at the porter standing beside her.

“Sorry, boss,” the big man said. “I didn’t catch what she was up to.”

“All I want—” Raesinia tried again.

“I know what you
want
,” de Bornais said. “The same thing they all want. They want to tell my friend a sob story and get a free dose, because he’s too good-natured to know any better. It’s a good thing he has someone to look out
for him—that’s all I have to say. If I left him alone this city would pick him clean in an hour.” He nodded to the porter. “Get her out of here.”

Faro had drifted over behind Raesinia, hand hovering near the hilt of his ridiculous dress sword. Ben followed, looking uncomfortable. The second porter, sensing trouble, left the bar and took position flanking de Bornais, while the unfortunate proprietor cringed behind his bar.

“All I want,” Raesinia repeated, “is a few moments of your time. I have a proposal for you.”

“My time is valuable,
miss
.”

Raesinia could see Faro bridling at de Bornais’ sneering tone, and she put up a hand to restrain him. Her other hand dug in her pocket and came out with a new-milled fifty-eagle gold piece. The smooth gold winked in the tavern lamps as she flipped it to de Bornais, who picked it out of the air and held it in front of his eyes as though he didn’t believe what he was seeing. The gold represented enough money to buy the entire contents of the bar several times over.

She raised an eyebrow. “How much of your time will that buy me?”

De Bornais’ eyes narrowed.

—

The closest thing to privacy the tavern offered was the tavern-keeper’s bedroom, a miserable space crammed behind a door in the back barely big enough for a straw mattress and a chest of drawers. Raesinia had slipped him an eagle to let them use it, and de Bornais’ two porters stood an uneasy watch outside, opposite Faro, Ben, and Sarton.

“All right,” de Bornais said. “This had better be good.”

“We saw Danton’s speech outside,” Raesinia said. “My friends and I were very impressed.”

“Of course you were. He’s a damned genius.”

“I was curious about the . . . terms of his employment.”

De Bornais smiled nastily. “Oh, I see where this is going. You’re not the first to come sniffing around, you know.”

Raesinia did her best to give a carefree shrug. “It’s only natural. When a man has a talent like that, it seems to me he could charge whatever he liked.”

“Maybe. But you talked to him, didn’t you? Danton’s . . . special. A bit touched.” De Bornais put on an unconvincingly sad expression. “I take care of him, you see? He’s practically a brother to me. I knew his mam, and when she was dying, she asked me, ‘Jack, please take care of our Danton, because you
know he can’t do anything for himself.’ I make sure he’s okay, and he helps out however he can.”

“Yes, I saw how well you take care of him,” Raesinia deadpanned.

De Bornais had the decency to blush, rubbing his knuckles. “I don’t like having to do that. But like I said, he’s a bit touched. It’s the only way to get him to understand sometimes. He doesn’t blame me.”

“You don’t pay him?”

“He wouldn’t know what to do with it.” De Bornais patted the pocket where he’d tucked her coin, and gave a nasty smile. “So it’s no good, you offering him money. He’s got everything he needs, and he does whatever I tell him.”

“If that’s the case,” she said, “perhaps
we
could come to some kind of arrangement.”

“Don’t be stupid,” de Bornais said. “You were there today, weren’t you? Then you saw the kind of money I’m making.”

“But not for long, I’ll bet,” Raesinia said. “You must move around a lot.”

“Of course.” He gave a sickly grin. “Have to spread the good news.”

And stay out of the way of angry customers, Raesinia thought.

“What if you were to let us . . . hire Danton, and we guaranteed your income? Think of it as a vacation.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think you appreciate the kind of money we’re dealing with here—”

He stopped as she undid the first two buttons on her overshirt and reached down past her collar. In an inner pocket, held tight against her side, there was a sheaf of documents, and after a moment’s thought she selected one of these and withdrew it. It was a folded sheet of thick, expensive paper, startlingly white in the gloom, and she snapped it open in front of de Bornais.

“Can you read, Baron?” By his eyes, she saw that he could. “Good. This is a draft on the Second Pennysworth Bank for ten thousand eagles, payable to the bearer with my signature. Do you think that would be sufficient?”

“I . . .” He looked from the bill to her face and back.

“Is the choice of institution not to your liking?” Raesinia patted her pocket. “I have others.”

“No.” De Bornais’ voice was a croak. “No. That will be . . . fine.”

—

De Bornais emerged from the back room, all smiles, waving the anxious porters away. Raesinia followed, catching Ben’s eye, and nodded. They followed de
Bornais to Danton’s table, where the big man was at work on a third mug of beer.

“Hello, Jack!” Danton said, suds frosting his wild beard. “You want a drink?”

“Er, no, thanks. Not right now.” De Bornais looked nervous. “Listen, Danton. You like stories, right?”

“I like stories!”

“This young lady”—he gestured at Raesinia—“has some stories she wants you to tell. Do you think you could help her out?”

Danton nodded vigorously, then hesitated. “What about you, Jack? Don’t you need my help?”

“It’s all right. I’ve got to go on a . . . trip. Just for a while. But she’s going to take care of you in the meantime, and you do whatever you can to help her, you understand?”

“All right.” Danton took another pull from his beer, apparently unconcerned.

Raesinia stepped forward and extended her hand. “It’s good to meet you, Danton. I’m Raesinia.”