The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (9 page)

Danton stared at her hand for a moment, as though unsure what to do with it. Then his face split in a huge grin. “Just like the princess!”

“Right,” she said, as they shook hands. “Just like her.”

—

“So you bought him?” Cora said.

“I didn’t
buy
him.” Raesinia had been fighting a queasy feeling all afternoon that this was exactly what she
had
done, like some Murnskai lord trading field workers for coach horses. She had her justifications all ready. “He needs someone to care for him. We’re just taking over that task for a while so he can work for us. After everything’s finished, we can send him wherever he wants.”

“I see,” said Cora. “So you
rented
him.”

Raesinia nodded sheepishly. “If you like.”

“For
ten thousand eagles
.” The teenager’s eyes glowed, as they always did when she was talking about money.

“We can afford it,” Raesinia said defensively.

“It’s not a matter of being able to afford it,” Cora said. “I’m just wondering what it is this man brings to the cause that’s worth the price of a decent-sized town house.”

“You didn’t hear him.”

They looked down at the object of their conversation, who looked back at
them with guileless blue eyes. Raesinia had spent the afternoon in slow, careful conversation with him before bringing him to meet the others in the back room of the Blue Mask. Danton himself had proven to be amiable, willing, and uninterested in anything but the prospect of beer and food. Currently he was working his way through a pint of the Blue Mask’s best with the same enjoyment he’d shown drinking the slop from the nameless Newtown bar. Around him were gathered all the members of the little conspiracy: Raesinia, Cora, Faro, Ben, Sarton, and Maurisk.

“Well?” Cora said. “Let’s hear him, then.”

“Yes,” Maurisk said, briefly pausing in his pacing beside the window. “Let’s.” His sharp tone made it clear what he thought of this entire enterprise.

“We may need some time to get ready,” Ben said. “He’ll need some coaching, obviously. And—”

“No,” Raesinia interrupted. “He won’t. Danton?”

“Hmm?” He looked up from his beer and smiled. “Yes, Princess?”

Faro raised an eyebrow. “Princess?”

“Because of the name,” Raesinia said, trying to sound amused. “Danton, do you remember the story I told you this afternoon?”

“I do. I like stories.”

Maurisk snorted and stalked back to the window.

Raesinia ignored him. “Do you think you could tell that one to everyone right now?”

“Of course!”

He set his glass carefully on the floor and got out of his chair. Standing, he made for a somewhat intimidating figure, almost as big as Ben, with wild, unkempt hair and ragged clothes Raesinia hadn’t had time to replace. His face went slack, eyes slightly unfocused, and Raesinia held her breath.

Then he began:

Where are you, thief? Step into the light, sir

Like an honest highwayman, show yourself

And I’ll spit into your skull, match my sword

Against your scythe, and show you the power

Of a man wronged, and sworn to black revenge . . .

It was Illian’s Act Two speech from
The Wreck
, the darling of every would-be actor and dramatist, a tirade against Death that built to a roaring,
frenzied crescendo. Raesinia had heard it before, probably a hundred times, often from men reputed to be among the finest actors of the age. But it seemed to her that no command performance at the palace had ever matched this one. She could
feel
Illian’s rage, the crawling frustration of revenge denied, marooned on a deserted island while the murderer of his true love sailed away to a hero’s reward. Danton himself seemed to vanish, subsumed by this creature of anger and hatred, a wild tiger thrashing helplessly against the bars of its cage until it was bloody with the effort.

Her breath came out in a hiss, unnoticed, only to catch again when he came to the climax. Illian, despairing, hurled himself from the promontory, all the while daring Death to lay a skeletal finger on him. Raesinia could feel the air rushing all around her, and the shocking cold of the final impact.

“From this world, or from the next, I will have—”

Danton stopped.
Illian hits the water; the lights go down; the curtain falls. Intermission while they change the sets for Act Three.
Raesinia let out a long, shaky breath. Danton smiled at her, flopped back into his chair, and reached for his beer.

“Brass balls of the fucking Beast,” Maurisk swore.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Faro said. “How long did it take to teach him that?”

“No longer than it took him to say it,” Raesinia said. “He can’t read, but if you start telling him a story, he remembers
everything
. He had it word-perfect, first try, and it was”—she shivered—“like that.”

Cora was huddled in her chair. Sarton was staring at Danton, unblinking, and Ben at Raesinia with something like admiration. There was a long silence.

“So,” Faro said, “is he a wizard? A demon? That can’t be natural. How does he
know
how to say it?”

Maurisk snorted again. “Don’t start that Sworn Church nonsense—”

“I don’t care if he is,” Raesinia said, cutting off the argument. “Sorcerer, demon, whatever you can think of. We
need
him. He can be the symbol we’ve been looking for.”
Besides,
she thought,
I’m not exactly in a position to look down on a little magical assistance.
She wondered if Danton’s binding had been forced on him, as hers had been, and felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

“Maybe,” Maurisk said. Something new had entered his voice. He was seeing the possibilities.

“We’ll need somewhere for him to stay,” Raesinia said.

“I can find something,” Faro said, staring.

“Good.” Raesinia hesitated. “Do you think you could also . . . clean him up a bit?”

“He does have a certain lunatic-beggar charm, doesn’t he?” Faro smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”

Raesinia turned. “Ben, you find us a venue. Somewhere not too public, not yet. And with plenty of ways out in case something goes badly wrong. Maurisk, Sarton, you’re in charge of the text. You’re writing for the masses, so go easy on the classical allusions, and remember that not everyone knows
Rights of Man
by heart.”

Cora looked up. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks streaked with tears, but she was grinning now. “Can I sell tickets? We’d make a fortune.”

“We already have a fortune.”

“
Another
fortune.” The girl shrugged. “All right. Maybe later.”

—

By the time they broke up, it had gone three in the morning. The air was still as damp and warm as a laundry, and the street was scarcely better than inside. The members of the conspiracy left one at a time, going their separate ways, except for Faro, Cora, Raesinia, and Danton.

“All right,” Raesinia said to Danton. “I’d like you to go with Faro. He’ll find you somewhere to sleep, and make sure you get plenty to eat as well. Please do what he says until I get back.”

Danton nodded amiably, wobbling a bit. He’d put away an astonishing amount of beer over the course of the evening. “Sure. Okay, Princess.”

Raesinia winced inwardly. She’d told him to stop calling her that, but the admonition had gone through his mind like lead shot through custard, without leaving much of an impression. “All right. Faro, you’re going to be okay?”

“No problem.” He smiled and sauntered out, with Danton following like an obedient puppy.

Raesinia turned to Cora. The teenager had washed her face, but her eyes were still red.

“Are you all right?”

Cora gave a vigorous nod. “Fine. It was just that speech. I’d never heard anything so . . .” She shook her head. “Do you really think it’s magic?”

“I have no idea, and I don’t care if it is.” Raesinia smiled. “Have you never seen
The Wreck
? We’ll have to take you sometime. Leonard Vinschaft is doing Illian at the Royal now, and I’ve heard he’s amazing.”

Even as she said it, Raesinia wondered if she would get any pleasure out of the show. After all, how could another rendition compare to Danton’s?

Good God. She stared after him for a minute while Cora put on her coat.
He’s a weapon, isn’t he? A bomb that we’re going to set and prime, light the fuse, and hope we’ve found the right place to stand . . .

The two of them left the room and said their good-byes in front of the Mask. Raesinia waited until Cora had turned the corner, then said, “When I tell you what happened to me today, you’re not going to believe it.”

Sothe materialized out of the shadows. She’d traded her maid outfit for her working blacks, drab and almost invisible in the darkness, bunched tight to her body with leather cords so that no hanging fabric would betray her with a whisper.

“There’s news from the palace,” Sothe said.

Raesinia’s breath caught in her throat. “My father?”
Too soon, it’s too soon. We’re not ready!
Those were her first thoughts, followed promptly by a crushing wave of guilt.
My
father
is dying, and all I care about is—

“No,” Sothe said. “Vhalnich has arrived.”

“Already?” Raesinia frowned. “I thought he wasn’t expected for another few weeks at least.”

“Apparently he left his command and made a faster crossing.”

“How is the Cobweb?”

“Buzzing.”

Raesinia smiled in the darkness.

MARCUS

M
arcus had never really understood the point of inspections by senior officers. It certainly made sense for a sergeant to turn out his men now and again to make sure everyone’s kit was in order, but the deficiencies of individual rankers were generally beneath the notice of a captain. At the War College, he’d known some officers who liked to play the martinet, find some tiny deficiency and fly into a frothing rage to show that they weren’t to be trifled with, but Marcus had privately considered such performances to be more trouble than they were worth.

He would gladly have dispensed with the whole ritual, but the men seemed to expect it, and so he found himself walking along a line of well-turned-out Armsmen an hour or so after officially taking over his new command. At his side was Vice Captain Alek Giforte, who’d served as acting commander since the dismissal of the previous Minister of War. The vice captain seemed to know the name and service record of every man in the unit, and he kept up a running commentary as Marcus went along the lines, accepting stiff salutes and dispensing nods and smiles.

“That’s Staff Gallows, sir.” “Staff” was apparently a position in the Armsmen equivalent to “ranker,” named for the tall wooden staves they carried that served as both weapon and badge of office. The man the vice captain had pointed out was tall and broad-shouldered, standing at rigid attention, a pair of unfamiliar decorations glittering on his chest. “He won the Blue Order for his bravery in breaking up a riot in the Flesh Market in ’oh-five.”

Gallows pulled himself up even straighter, and Marcus felt that something was expected of him. He cleared his throat.

“Well done,” he said. When that didn’t seem to be enough, he added, “Glad to have men like that on the rolls.”

“Yes, sir,” Giforte said, guiding Marcus down the line. “This is Sergeant Mourn, the longest-serving sergeant in . . .”

And so on. The unfamiliar green uniforms gave Marcus the odd feeling of being in a foreign land, a visiting dignitary inspecting the local honor guard. He kept adjusting his own uniform, which was uncomfortably tight and encrusted with gilt buttons and bits of dangling gold braid. At least it had a loop for a proper sword so he could wear his familiar cavalry saber.

When, at last, they reached the end of the line, Marcus let Giforte dismiss the men. They trooped out in single file, leaving the two officers alone.

“Thank you, Vice Captain,” Marcus said. “That was very . . . informative.”

“Of course, sir.” Giforte stood with his hands behind his back, the picture of alertness. He was an older man, with gray at his temples and shot through his neatly trimmed beard, and his face had the lined, leathery look of a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors. Marcus was still trying to figure out what to make of him.

“So,” Marcus said, when Giforte didn’t seem inclined to offer anything further. “Do I have . . . an office, or something like that?”

“Of course, sir,” the vice captain said. “This way.”

They were in the Guardhouse, a rambling ruin of a building on the grounds of the Old Palace. Farus II, son of the Conqueror, had built his stronghold just outside Vordan City, the better to keep his eye on his fractious nobles. His great-grandson, Farus V, had desired something grander and more detached from city life, and had moved the court and the center of government to the manicured gardens of Ohnlei. The Old Palace had been stripped of anything valuable and allowed to fall into disrepair, but the Guardhouse—once the headquarters of the king’s personal guard—had proven a convenient base for the Armsmen.

Marcus’ new office turned out to be on the top floor, with an excellent view of the overgrown hedges and scrub that had once been the palace grounds. Giforte stepped in front of him to open the door, putting his shoulder against it and pressing hard.

“There’s sort of a trick to it,” he explained as it groaned open. “It sticks in the summer, so you’ve got to press it and lift a bit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marcus said, going in. The office was cleaner than he’d imagined for a place that hadn’t been used in months. There was a desk, an enormous oak thing dark with layers of polish that had to be a hundred years old. On its gleaming surface were several neat stacks of paper, thick with ribbons and seals. Otherwise, the room was empty, without even a bookcase. It didn’t look like a place anyone had spent any amount of time in.

Giforte stood beside the door, hands behind his back. Marcus walked over to the desk, pulled out the ancient chair with a squeal of rusty casters, and sat down. He looked at the papers, fighting a mounting sense of déjà vu.

“What’s all this?” he said.

“Documents for the captain’s approval,” Giforte said. “Duty rosters, punishment details, reports from each of the subcaptains, incident summaries—”

“I get the picture.”

Marcus took the top document off the pile. It was a warrant for the arrest of a Vincent Coalie, on charges of housebreaking and theft. At the bottom right was the seal of the Armsmen, a hooded eagle pressed into green wax. Below it was a signature that Marcus could just about make out as Giforte’s.

He flipped through the next few pages. Giforte’s name was on most of them.

Marcus looked up at the vice captain, who was still standing in rigid silence. “And I need to read all these?”

“If you like, sir,” Giforte said.

“And . . . approve them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What if I find something I don’t approve of?”

Was that just the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of Giforte’s lips? “You can inform me, of course, and I will investigate the matter at once.”

“I see.” Marcus paused. “May I ask you a personal question, Vice Captain?”

“Of course, sir.”

“How long have you been with the Armsmen?”

“Nearly twenty-three years now, sir.”

“And how many captains have you served under?”

Giforte paused, as though calculating. After a moment, he shrugged. “Fifteen, I think. But I may be forgetting one or two.”

Marcus thought he’d finally gotten a handle on what was happening here. It was an old, old army game called Manage the Officer, discovered by
subordinates everywhere when called on to deal with a superior who was in over his head.

At first, he’d wondered if Giforte’s stiff attitude was concealing bitterness that he himself had been passed over for the top job. Looking at the stacks of papers, though, Marcus understood that Giforte was exactly where he wanted to be. Captain of Armsmen was a
political
appointment, made and dismissed at the whim of the king or the Minister of Justice.
Fifteen in twenty-three years.
With such frequent changes, it was no wonder that the vice captain, a solid, dependable lifer, had accumulated all the actual authority.

He expects me turn up for the inspection, glance through all of this, and then scurry back to Ohnlei to get on with my life.
Marcus gave a rueful smile.
More fool him. He doesn’t know I haven’t got a life.
And if Janus was correct, Giforte’s carefully tended organization was going to be turned upside down. Marcus felt sorry for the man.

“All right,” he said aloud. “I’ll take a look. I’m sure you have better things to do than stand there and watch me read.”

“As you wish, sir,” Giforte said. “Staff Eisen will be posted outside the door, should you require anything.”

—

After three hours, the notion of scurrying back to Ohnlei was definitely starting to look more attractive, especially since green-vested scribes had already come in twice to add new piles before Marcus had even finished the first one. He ran his finger along the lines of an incident report, frowning at the cramped handwriting and twisted grammar of someone as uncomfortable with the written word as himself.

“—a small crowd having gathered to hear the speech of the orator Danton, a band of pickpockets belonging to the Red Snip crew claimed the right to work in the area. This being the case, the Gnasher crew took offense, saying it was their territory, and the two groups commenced to fighting. Staves Popper and Torlo restored order, and the following injuries were reported—”

Marcus shook his head and flipped the page onto the finished pile. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly, only that he didn’t intend to command the Armsmen and not know what they were doing. He had to admit, though, that the task was daunting. He pictured something like the period when command of the Colonials had been forced on him—after all, the Colonials mustered more than four thousand fighting men, while the Armsmen had
only a bit over three thousand. But the Colonials had mostly kept together, doing one or two things at a time, and thus didn’t require much in the way of complex administration. The Armsmen, by contrast, were spread all over the city in a complicated web of patrols, stations, and details, each of which generated a stream of paper that flowed up the chain of command. He guessed there were probably as many scribes copying out reports and signing off on expenses as there were Staves on the streets.

There was a knock at his office door. Another scribe, he guessed, with another load of paper.
There must be some way to get Giforte to sort this stuff.
But the vice captain obviously wanted to see Marcus snowed under. Marcus gritted his teeth and shouted, “Come in!”

Staff Eisen, a pleasant young man with a scruffy beard and dirty blond hair, opened the door and saluted briskly. He brandished an envelope.

“Got a message for you, sir,” he said. “From His Excellency. One of his men delivered it personally.”

Marcus found his heart leaping at the prospect. A good excuse to get out from behind the desk and away from the mountain of papers would be welcome. He accepted the envelope from Eisen and broke the seal, finding two scraps of notepaper inside.

One read:

Captain—the inquiries I mentioned earlier have borne some fruit. I believe this to be the location of a cell to which our sleeping friend reported. I suggest you take an armed guard when you investigate, and be very careful with any prisoners you take. Good luck.—J

The other had an address that Marcus didn’t recognize. He folded the note and put it in his pocket, then looked up at Eisen. “Could you fetch the vice captain, please?”

It was a few minutes before Giforte came in. His features were composed—if he was irritated at being called in, he didn’t show it.
He must be used to a new captain making a show of being busy for a few days.

“You called, sir?”

“Yes.” Marcus handed him the note with the address. “Do you know where this is?”

Giforte frowned slightly. “Yes, sir. It’s in Oldtown, a couple of blocks from the ford. Why do you ask?”

“I’m going there on an investigation. Orders from His Excellency the minister. Could you lend me a couple of men who know the way?”

“The Armsmen are at your disposal, Captain.” Giforte saluted. “With your permission, I’ll accompany you myself. Let me put together an escort. A dozen men should be sufficient.”

“I don’t need to stand on ceremony, Vice Captain. Just yourself and Staff Eisen will be sufficient.”

“Ah,” Eisen said. “I’m not sure . . .”

“What Staff Eisen means to say, sir,” Giforte said, and Marcus recognized the patient tone he’d gotten so often from Fitz, “is that standing orders are not to go into Oldtown in groups smaller than six. And it would be best to take a carriage.”

Marcus looked between them and sighed.

—

The carriage was a big one, painted in Armsmen green with the hooded-eagle crest on the sides. Marcus and Giforte sat inside, while Eisen and a pair of Armsmen waited on the roof, and another squad of eight Staves followed behind. Marcus hadn’t asked for stealth, but he’d hoped at least for subtlety. This was about as subtle as a bullhorn.

Rather than splash through the muddy ford, Giforte directed the carriage to take the Grand Span to the South Bank and then follow the River Road east to Oldtown. The driver, another Armsman, didn’t require any further directions, which left Marcus and Giforte sitting awkwardly in silence as the carriage rattled down cobbled streets and clacked over flagstones.

“So.” After five years in Khandar, living in the tight circle of the Colonials, Marcus found his small-talk reflexes a little rusty. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Vice Captain.”

“What would you like to know, sir?” Giforte said.

“Are you a family man?”

“Widower, sir.”

Marcus winced. “Any children?”

“A daughter.” A hint of real emotion was visible for a moment in the vice captain’s face, but it was quickly suppressed. “We’ve lost touch.”

“Ah.” And that, Marcus thought, was the end of that.
Hardly my fault if he doesn’t want to hold up his end of the conversation.

Probably Giforte thought it wasn’t worth getting too chummy with a captain who might be gone with the next cabinet shake-up.
Actually, it might be
downright dangerous.
Marcus looked at the vice captain’s bland smile, and wondered how much he knew about affairs at Ohnlei.
If he knows that Janus and the duke are enemies, then he may expect me to be gone sooner rather than later.

He pushed aside the curtain and looked out the window as the carriage bumped down off the bridge and turned onto the packed dirt of the River Road. The chaotic sprawl of the Docks soon gave way to the grid of symmetrical towers that was Newtown, stained and blackened by smoke and weather. The River Road was kept reasonably clear of obstructions—he remembered a duty rota assigning squads to the job—but the side of it was lined by carts, stalls, and tents, with vendors shouting at the top of their lungs to draw people out of the stream of traffic. The combination of obvious poverty and manic entrepreneurial energy reminded Marcus of Ashe-Katarion before the Redemption.

A flash of green drew his attention, and he saw a small crowd gathered some distance up the street. Two crowds, really. In the center, a man in a white robe was speaking to a small group. Surrounding this inner circle was a ring of Armsmen, staves held sideways to hold back a much larger and dirtier crowd that watched the proceedings with a sullen air, shouting unintelligible abuse. Another pair of Armsmen patrolled inside the ring, watching for any attempt to force through the line or throw things at the speaker. When one man raised a rotting cabbage high, they pounced and clubbed him to the ground.