The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “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.”

  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 magica
l 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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARCUS

  Marcus 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.r />
  “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?”