The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “They took them to the Vendre,” Nel wailed. “Everyone said so.”

  Jane stood stock-still, trying to process this. Winter stepped up beside her.

  “They can’t just arrest people for listening to speeches,” she said, then looked around at a ring of worried faces. “Can they?”

  “The Last goddamned Duke can do anything he wants,” said Chris, and spit on the floor. “With the king dying, who’s to stop him?”

  “Everyone knows no one who goes into the Vendre comes out again,” Winn said.

  “Except at night,” said Becca. “In pieces.”

  “The king is ill,” said Walnut, “and the princess is a child, and sickly besides. The duke is in charge, if anyone is. And the duke works for the Borels and their Sworn Church. After what Danton did, I’m sure his masters have applied the whip. No wonder he reacts like this.”

  Winter bit her lip. A thought had occurred to her, but she didn’t like it. If anyone can help Abby and the others, it’s Janus. He was Minister of Justice, after all, and an enemy of Orlanko’s. But he might not be able to. Or he might not want to. God alone knew what Janus would decide. And if he did help, that meant revealing to Jane and the others that she’d been sent here as a spy.

  “Winter,” Jane said. “Come on.”

  She turned on her heel, heading for the door. Winter, distracted, took a moment to catch up.

  “Wait!” Sal called after her. “Where are you going?”

  Jane turned, her eyes glowing dangerously in the firelight. “Where the fuck do you think I’m going?”

  Walnut stood up, unfolding himself to his full, massive height like a collapsible easel setting up. “Then I am coming with you. It’s not only your girls who have been taken.”

  Jane looked from him to Winter and back again, then gave a curt nod. This time, when she started for the door, everyone in the tavern scrambled to follow.

  MARCUS

  “Hello, Captain,” Ionkovo said. “That is you, I take it?”

  Only a single candle burned in the cell under the Guardhouse, casting a weak pool of golden light and throwing the long, angular shadows of the bars across the far wall. Adam Ionkovo lay on his pallet in a pool of darkness, only his eyes marked by the faint, shivering reflection of the flame.

  Marcus stood in the doorway, half wanting to slam the door and stalk away. Instead he slipped inside and shut it behind him.

  It had been hours since Giforte left with a strong escort of Guardsmen, hours with no word as the sky slipped from blue into a deep, bruised purple. He’d spent as long as he could stand reading through the files, rubbing at his eyes as he read, cross-referenced, and investigated. Looking for something, some clue that he was increasingly convinced wasn’t there. Giforte was too careful; the reports were too vague. Maybe Janus would have been able to make something of the stack of oddities and exceptions, some brilliant leap of logical deduction, but it was beyond Marcus.

  When he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d locked the files in his cabinet and started wandering the halls. The big old building was nearly empty, the clerks and scribes on a skeleton crew for the night shift and most of the on-duty men out in the city. Marcus had circled the top floor without meeting anyone, peering out through blurry old glass windows. A brilliant sunset blazed in the west, but when he looked to the east the sky was blotted out by dark, heavy clouds, spreading like a stain as they approached.

  In the end, he’d found himself here, in the one place he shouldn’t be, speaking to the man he’d been forbidden to talk to. The man who knew—maybe!—what he needed so badly to hear.

  “It’s me,” Marcus said.

  “I keep expecting a visit from your Colonel Vhalnich,” Ionkovo said. “So far he has disappointed me.”

  “He’s a busy man these days,” Marcus said. “The king’s made him Minister of Justice. I’m afraid he hasn’t got time for you.”

  “Or you?” Ionkovo said. He sat up, angular face coming into the half-light.

  He’s just needling. There was no way the prisoner could know what was going on outside. “I came to ask if you’re willing to talk.”

  “I’m happy to chat, Captain, but if you mean am I willing to tell you what you want to know . . .” He shrugged. “My offer still stands.”

  “I’m not going to take your bargain,” Marcus said.

  “Why not? Whose interests are you really serving, Captain?”

  “Vordan’s. The king’s.”

  “I see. And has Colonel Vhalnich reported what happened to Jen Alhundt to the king, do you think?”

  Marcus shifted, uncomfortably. “The king is ill.”

  “To the Minister of War, then. Or the Minister of Information. Or anyone.” Ionkovo smiled, the shadows making his face a death’s-head. “We both know he hasn’t. He went to Khandar looking for the treasure of the Demon King. You think that was part of his official orders?”

  Marcus said nothing. The candle was guttering, the room growing darker. Shadows seemed to flow, gathering around the man in the cell.

  Ionkovo’s smile widened. “So, who are you really serving, when you keep his secrets? The Crown? Or Janus bet Vhalnich? What has he done, to deserve such loyalty?”

  “He saved my life,” Marcus muttered. “Several times. He saved all our lives, out in the desert.”

  “That makes him a good soldier. But you should know as well as anyone that good soldiers don’t always do the right thing.”

  Adrecht. Marcus stared at the dim figure. He knows, of course. The mutiny and its aftermath would have been in the reports.

  “Let me suggest something to you, Captain,” Ionkovo said. “You know who I am, who I work for. What they stand for. And, unlike everyone out there”—he waved a hand widely—“you know the truth. Demons are real, not fairy stories. Magic is real, and it can be deadly.

  “Now consider my order. Because people no longer believe, we must operate in secret. Because our enemies are powerful and utterly without mercy, we must use whatever methods are available to us. But can you really say we are wrong, and Vhalnich is right? Why seek the Thousand Names if he does not intend to use them, as the Demon King once did?”

  “He is my superior officer,” Marcus said. “Appointed by the Crown.”

  “A Crown that knows nothing of his plans,” Ionkovo said. “If you discovered Vhalnich was planning to murder the king, it would be your duty to stop him, superior or not. How is this any different? He betrays not just his country, but humanity itself, to our great and common enemy.”

  Sooner or later, Captain, we all must take something on faith.

  Marcus opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and stopped.

  Why did I come here? Was this already in my mind?

  “I . . . ,” he began, and stopped again. “I don’t—”

  Someone knocked on the outer door, fast and loud. Marcus had ordered that he was not to be disturbed, and the sound made his heart do a double somersault. He turned his back on Ionkovo and yanked the door open to find Staff Eisen in the doorway, panting.

  “Sir,” he gasped. “We’ve had a runner from the city.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Riots, sir. After the vice captain arrested Danton, people were gathering in the streets. The Concordat has been arresting the ringleaders, but it only makes them angrier.”

  Of course it does! Marcus wondered what the hell Orlanko was thinking. “Is Giforte back yet?”

  “He’s taken Danton to the Vendre—”

  “To the Vendre? Why?”

  “He judged it would be safer, sir. It’s a fortress. Between the men he took along and the garrison, it can hold off an army.”

  Marcus stared at him, a sinking feeling in his guts. The Vendre. A fortress, to be sure, but a fortress on the tip of the Island, within easy reach of an angry mob. And run by Orlan
ko’s people. I don’t like this one bit.

  “Can he bring Danton here?” The Guardhouse was less defensible, but at least it wasn’t in the heart of the city.

  “No, sir. That’s why he sent a runner. There are enough people in the streets that he doesn’t want to risk it.”

  “Balls of the Beast,” he swore. “All right. Gather up anyone you can find here who can hold a musket. We’re going down there.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Marcus strode away, letting Eisen close and lock the cell door behind him. He was aware of a certain lightness in his step, in spite of the crisis. Or, perhaps, because of it—Eisen’s report had banished all thoughts of Ionkovo and Janus, reducing the world to simpler terms. His men were in danger, and for the moment Marcus d’Ivoire knew exactly where his duty lay.

  PART THREE

  ORLANKO

  The Cobweb was always brightly lit on the inside, but tonight even the facade was ablaze with lights.

  The Last Duke had put out the word, and the army of shadows sallied forth. Alone or in groups, on horseback or riding in great armored wagons, each according to his particular assignment, they formed a river of lanterns, glittering steel, and dark, flapping coats stretching from Ohnlei toward the city.

  It was another advantage, the duke reflected, of the uniform, the black coat that was so embedded in popular imagination. The Concordat employed two scribes and bean counters for every spy and assassin, and on a night like tonight manpower was in very short supply. And yet take the lowliest junior analyst, a half-addled boy who’d never been trusted with anything more than adding up columns of figures; swaddle him in that sinister black leather, and he was suddenly Concordat, a terrifying instrument of the will of the all-knowing and all-powerful Orlanko. Never mind that if you gave him a sword, all he’d be able to do was cut himself. People came along quietly, goaded by the phantoms in their own minds. It was remarkable.

  Of course, there were some assignments that couldn’t be trusted to dressed-up scriveners. Orlanko paged through the first of the reports that were already flooding into his office, and looked up expectantly as Andreas entered.

  “Sir. You summoned me.”

  “I did. Your report says that you have identified Danton’s backers.”

  “Only in part, sir. I have a source in the group, but his information is limited.”

  “But you know where they meet.”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “And you think they’ll be meeting tonight?”

  “Almost certainly, sir. The minister’s arrest of Danton has set the city buzzing.”

  “Vhalnich,” Orlanko said bitterly. “He was supposed to be taken care of in Khandar.”

  “Yes, sir.” Andreas’ voice was neutral.

  “In your report,” the duke said, “you recommend not taking immediate action against this . . . cabal.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe there is another layer, to which only the senior members have access. My source claims their funding was obtained via speculative investments, which is obviously nonsense. There must be another entity, with deep pockets, standing behind them. If we let them have free rein for a while, we will eventually discover it.”

  Orlanko tapped his fingers on the desk. That was certainly the conventional procedure. Once you had a hook in the prey, it was always best to let them have their head for a time, especially once they became aware the forces of authority were breathing down their neck. It was always interesting to see where they bolted.

  But this was hardly a normal time. The ship is close to the breakers, the duke thought. If we can navigate the narrow passage, then it will be clear sailing, and there will be plenty of time to run down any rats.

  “Take them,” he said. “Tonight. Use as many men as you need. I want as many as possible alive for interrogation. Bring the source in as well, and keep him with the others. You never know what he might hear.”

  Andreas bowed slightly. “Yes, sir.” He hesitated. “There may be a complication.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know several of the agents following the group were found dead, the day of the bank run.”

  “Obviously they became careless. These are desperate men and women.”

  “Yes, sir. I received a final report from one of those agents, with a promising lead that turned out to be a dead end. When our people analyzed the report, there were irregularities in the text. I now believe it to be the work of—”

  “The Gray Rose,” Orlanko said, not bothering to keep the weariness out of his voice. “This has become an obsession with you, Andreas.”

  “It is the only logical explanation, sir. And the consequences are alarming. If our ciphers have been compromised—”

  “I designed our ciphers myself,” the duke said. “Part of that design ensures that any individual cipher falling into enemy hands does not affect the security of the whole.”

  “I know that, sir. But if it is the Gray Rose, her knowledge of our procedures makes us vulnerable. I think—”

  “It makes no difference one way or the other,” the duke snapped. “You know where this cabal is meeting. Go and take them. If the Gray Rose shows herself, you have my permission to kill her.”

  Andreas looked, for a moment, as though he wanted to argue, but his face quickly returned to its customary blank mask. He bowed deeply, worn leather coat flapping about his ankles. “As you say, sir. I will proceed directly.”

  As Andreas padded out, the duke looked back at the report he’d been reading, fighting a rising sense of irritation and, most annoyingly, nervousness. Things really were coming to a head, in more ways than one. Vhalnich. It all turns on Vhalnich.

  Vhalnich had decided to arrest Danton, a move guaranteed to send the streets into convulsions. Orlanko didn’t understand what the new Minister of Justice was playing at, which for the master of the Concordat was an uncommon and distinctly unwelcome feeling. There hadn’t been time to stop him, so Orlanko had done the next best thing.

  If Vhalnich wants the city brought to a simmer, we’ll see how he likes it when the pot boils over. The Concordat agents fanning out through the city were bringing in every agitator, every troublemaker, every printer of libelous broadsheets or licentious pamphlets. They’d begun at sundown and were working until dawn, gangs of black-coated men riding through the streets, breaking down doors, hauling terrified men and women in nightshirts out of their homes and off to the black, hulking walls of the Vendre.

  There would be clashes, even deaths. It would only enhance the effect.

  The streets will burn. There will be riots, looting, disorder. Afterward, it would be easy to put the blame on Vhalnich. After all, his arrest of Danton had been the spark that ignited the powder magazine. Besides, the maintenance of public order was the responsibility of the Armsmen and the Ministry of Justice. They needed the goodwill of the public. All the Concordat needed was fear.

  Then, when the king died—which Orlanko’s analysts assured him would happen tonight or tomorrow, Indergast’s best efforts to the contrary—there would be a new ruler. The one thing he’d been missing for his whole career, the capstone of his power. A tame head to wear the crown, a queen who would do what she was told. Once she was in place, Vhalnich could be dismissed from his post and all the prisoners released, to transform the public’s wrath to joy. Danton would moderate his message, or else he, too, could be replaced in time. Orlanko would take great pleasure in delivering a lesson to Rackhil Grieg on the nature of loyalty.

  And Vhalnich, some dark night, would vanish. He would be trussed up like a lamb for slaughter and delivered to the Priests of the Black. That would satisfy the pontifex and, Orlanko thought, be a suitably satisfying way of disposing of the man.

  There was a way through the passage; he could see it. It was narrow and lined with roaring breakers, but it was there, sure enough. At the other en
d, the queen and the city would praise his name, as the man who held Vordan together in its moment of crisis.

  A slow smile spread across his face as he contemplated the prospect.

  For tonight, then, let the city burn.

  —

  If there had been a real eagle overhead that night, as opposed to a heraldic one, it might have been forgiven for thinking that Vordan was burning.

  The air had the hot, muggy quality of a laundry, the moisture a nearly perceptible fog that felt like breathing soup. The heat kept people from their beds, robbed them of their good humor, made tempers fray. Children stripped down and played by the riverbanks, jumping into the water from the docks or, for the more adventurous, from the bridges. In Farus’ Triumph, thousands had gathered for Danton’s speech. Fights were already breaking out when the Armsmen arrived, with Orlanko’s snatch squads close on their heels.

  All over the city, streets emptied in panic at the sight of phalanxes of men in dark leather coats, marching to doorway after ill-fated doorway. Children screamed as the black-coats broke down doors with sledgehammers, and women shrieked as their homes were ransacked. Trouble began almost immediately. A printer of seditious pamphlets attempted to flee rather than go to the Vendre, and fell out a second-story window to his death. A man accused of nothing more substantial than speaking against the tax farmers in a tavern fired a pistol at the Concordat agents sent to round him up; he missed, but the enraged secret policemen stabbed him a dozen times and left him to bleed on his own doorstep. Women were forced out of bed and paraded through the streets in their nightshirts. Dark, armored wagons shuttled back and forth, hauling their sobbing cargo to the prison.

  Most of the city was dark, at first, as fearful Vordanai doused their lamps and candles in the hopes that the Concordat’s wrath would pass them by. Here and there, though, sparks of light remained. The Dregs, outside the University, were a ribbon of light. There, in taverns and wine sinks under a hundred colored flags, students and intellectuals of every stripe shouted and cursed, drank and hurled glasses against the walls.