The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  Perhaps Janus himself is the king I need. He was certainly of a sufficiently noble line, albeit somewhat impoverished in recent years, that the people would accept him. He was intelligent, and a capable general, if his Khandarai exploits were anything to go by. And, of course, he already knew her secret, obviating the need for either a complicated subterfuge or a potentially dangerous confrontation. And he’s handsome enough, I suppose, in an arch sort of way.

  On the other hand, there was something about him that made her nervous. A sense of ambition, carefully harnessed but nonetheless visible just below the surface. She wondered if being king would be enough for him, or if he was one of those men whose thirst for power simply could not be slaked. The vision of Vordanai armies marching forth to conquer with fire and sword—with Janus bet Vhalnich at their head and Danton to fire their blood—was too plausible for comfort. That was not, she was sure, what her father would have wanted. His dreams of martial glory had ended with the cruel realities of Vansfeldt.

  A problem for another day. There was a long, twisting road yet to walk before she arrived at a position where she could begin to contemplate that choice. But it starts today, with the Deputies-General.

  Sothe reappeared. “Captain d’Ivoire is here, Your Majesty, with your escort.”

  Your Majesty. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to that. “Send him in, and go and fetch the bits and pieces.” Raesinia was already wearing the slim, plain black dress that was proper for a queen in mourning, but it wouldn’t do to be seen in public without the appropriate accessories and a tasteful amount of jewels.

  Bowing, Sothe went back to the door, and was replaced a moment later by Marcus d’Ivoire. The captain bowed as well, more formally. He was in the full dress uniform of the captain of Armsmen, dark forest green trimmed with silver and gold, with braids of army blue and silver at the shoulder to indicate he was a captain in a royal regiment as well. The only false note was the sword at his hip, which was a solid, weather-beaten cavalry saber instead of the jeweled rapier or small sword she might have expected.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, when she indicated he should rise. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you, Captain. And you have my gratitude for what you accomplished at the Vendre.”

  Marcus looked rueful. “I’m afraid I didn’t accomplish much, Your Majesty. We surrendered the fortress, after all. And I spent most of the time locked in a cell.”

  “From what I have heard, you prevented a bloodbath. I was most gratified to hear of your escape.”

  “Some of the . . . revolutionaries,” Marcus said carefully, “appear to have shared your gratitude. They gave me to understand that my further presence might cause difficulties. So I would not call it an escape, precisely.”

  “You’re too modest for your own good, Captain.”

  “Only honest, Your Majesty.”

  Sothe came back in, with shoes, a shawl, and an assortment of delicate confections of gems and gold. Raesinia stood up and allowed these to be attached, and in the meantime studied Marcus’ broad, patient face.

  I would not mind marrying him, she thought, idly. He seems like he would be kind. And I think he would make a good king. Not that such a thing could ever come to pass, even if she’d been madly in love with the captain. He was a commoner, to start with, and the same gentle patience that she thought would be a useful trait in a ruler would see him eaten alive by the likes of Orlanko. Where can I find a man who is both capable of ruling and good enough to do a decent job?

  When the fitting-out was finished, Marcus bowed again. “I’ll go and alert your escort, Your Majesty.”

  “My queen,” Sothe whispered, as soon as Marcus had gone out into the foyer. “Something is wrong.”

  “What?” Raesinia turned too quickly, setting her ornaments to clicking. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not certain.” Sothe licked her lips, like a snake tasting the air. “Something isn’t right. I can’t—”

  She quieted as Marcus reentered. He, too, looked perturbed.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” Raesinia said, fighting a rising tide of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

  “Who usually guards your door?”

  Raesinia blinked. “The Grays are charged with the security of the grounds. But the royal family is guarded by a company of Royal Grenadier Guards, and some of your Armsmen. There should be a few of each out there.” She’d walked past them a thousand times.

  “There’s an escort forming up in the corridor,” Marcus said. “But it seems to be only Grays. And when I looked out, I didn’t see any Armsmen or Royals.”

  “That is odd,” Raesinia said. “Perhaps they’ll be joining us later on?”

  Someone rapped at the door. A voice came from outside. “Your Majesty? Open the door, if you please. There’s an emergency.”

  “Don’t,” Sothe said. Raesinia hadn’t seen her move, but she was reemerging from her own room, a pistol in either hand, her long dress tied up above her knees to give her freedom of movement. “It’s Orlanko.”

  “What?” Raesinia’s anxiety was shot through with rage. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “We’ve overestimated his caution,” Sothe said, positioning herself in the doorway. “Or his intelligence. But I’m certain those are his people.”

  “Get behind me, Your Majesty,” Marcus said, surprisingly unfazed by this news. His saber rasped from its scabbard.

  “Wait.” Raesinia scrambled to her feet. “We can’t be certain. Don’t shoot anybody—”

  There was a thud and a crunch of wood. Someone had rammed his shoulder hard against the corridor door. It was a light, decorative thing, not designed to endure that kind of abuse, and splinters flew from around the bolt.

  “—oh.” Raesinia’s mind went blank. There was no excuse for doing that to the queen’s chambers, even if the building was on fire. “Go ahead, then.”

  They were in the main room of her suite, with a couch and table providing the only cover. A door separated this room from the foyer, but it was no sturdier than the one in the corridor and would provide only a few seconds’ respite. Instead of closing it, Sothe squared off in the doorway, staring across the open space of the foyer as though she were on a target range.

  Another blow brought a great crash from the outer door, tearing the bolt out of the wood and sending splinters pinwheeling across the room. A man in a Noreldrai Grays uniform stumbled through it, and as he took a moment to straighten up and get his bearings Sothe shot him neatly in the head. He toppled backward against the doorframe, blocking the path of a second Gray who was struggling to get into the room. Sothe tossed her smoking pistol aside, switched the second one from left hand to right, and shot him, too, just as he was beginning to shout a warning. Then she drew a vicious, thick-bladed long knife into either hand, settled back on the balls of her feet, and waited.

  “Your Majesty,” Marcus said urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Stay put,” Sothe snapped. “We don’t have a chance if they catch us in the open.”

  “There isn’t time to explain.” Marcus grabbed Raesinia’s sleeve, but she yanked it away from him and set her jaw.

  “I’m not leaving without her,” she said.

  “But—”

  Marcus was interrupted by the ring of steel on steel. At least a half dozen Grays had cleared the two bodies and rushed across the foyer, only to pile up again at the inner door. They’d left their muskets behind and drawn their straight-bladed swords, but these weapons were still long enough that the narrow confines of the doorway offered no room to swing. The first one charged with his sword lowered point-first, like a lance, but Sothe’s blade licked out and diverted the thrust so that it crashed into the decorative wainscoting and stuck there. Her off hand came up in an almost casual motion a
nd drew a line across the guard’s throat, which opened in a spray of gore. He gave a bubbling shriek and stumbled backward, clutching the wound, until one of his companions shoved him roughly aside and came at Sothe with leveled blade.

  “You can’t kill them all!” Marcus shouted, over the shouts of the attackers and the screech of blade against blade as Sothe blocked another thrust.

  Yes, she can. Raesinia had never really had the opportunity to watch Sothe fight before. It was . . . graceful was not the word, precisely, or elegant, though the latter was closer. Efficient, possibly. Sothe fought like a master butcher carving a pig, no unnecessary flourishes or brutality, just the minimum number of strokes necessary to reduce her opponents to piles of quivering meat. The second Gray fared no better than the first, going down with a long gash in his inner thigh that fountained a quite astonishing amount of blood. Two more tried to come at her together, but she simply retreated a step, letting them tangle each other up in the doorway. One of them managed a clumsy thrust, which she sidestepped neatly as she lopped off his hand at the wrist.

  “We just need to hold until help arrives,” Sothe said, as this opponent fell back, screaming. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “Orlanko can’t have all the guards in the palace on his side—”

  She checked an overhand swing from another Gray on one of her knives, falling back a step as he tried to force her down by main strength. Her other blade came up to gut him, but before it got there a pistol shot sounded from the foyer. Sothe’s opponent stiffened for a moment, then went limp, sword dropping from his slack fingers. He fell forward, collapsing on top of her, and she had to catch him under the armpits to avoid being bowled over. As she tossed him aside and looked up, a second shot sounded, and Sothe grunted and spun as if she’d been kicked in the shoulder by a mule. The deadweight of the guard bore them both to the floor in a heap.

  Raesinia screamed and tried to dart forward, but Marcus grabbed her with his free hand and shoved her back against the wall. Four Grays surged through the doorway, spreading out with drawn swords. Standing in the foyer, smoking pistol still in hand, was a young man in a long dark coat. He tossed the weapon aside and strode forward, black leather fluttering around his ankles.

  He spared only a cursory glance for Raesinia and Marcus. Instead he went to where the dead Gray lay atop Sothe and rolled the guard off with the toe of his boot. Sothe was on her back, completely still, and from where she stood Raesinia couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  “So,” the man said. “The Gray Rose, run to ground at last.” He glanced at the scattered corpses. “And with some teeth, after all. I commend you on a well-run chase.”

  He drove his boot into her stomach with sudden violence, and Sothe gasped and rolled on her side, curling into a ball. Blood squelched on the floor under her shoulder.

  “And still a bit of life in you,” he said. “Excellent. If you survive, His Grace will be very interested to hear what you have to say.”

  As he spoke, the four Grays had spread out into a loose semicircle around Marcus. He kept his saber moving and backed away until he and Raesinia were pressed against the wall. The Concordat agent gave Sothe another kick, almost playfully, and was rewarded with another gasp of pain. Then, with the air of someone attending to an unpleasant but necessary matter, he came to stand behind the ring of guards.

  “She was wrong, as it happens,” he said. “The Grays have been in the service of His Grace for some time, and the Grenadier Guards have orders not to interfere. Captain d’Ivoire’s handful of Armsmen have already been rounded up. Ohnlei is ours, Your Majesty.” He sketched a bow. “My name is Andreas. At your service.”

  “Orlanko has finally gone mad,” Raesinia said. “This is treason.”

  “He’ll hang for certain,” Marcus said. “But you don’t have to join him.”

  “Treason is a slippery thing,” Andreas said. “It is, as they say, in the eye of the beholder, which means it depends on what people believe. And His Grace is an expert in that field.”

  “The deputies are convening as we speak,” Raesinia said. “When I don’t turn up—”

  “The Deputies-General, as they so quaintly style themselves, are also being taken in hand.” Andreas smiled. “Put down your sword, Captain, before you get hurt. I promise you, no harm will come to Her Majesty.”

  There was a long pause. The tips of five swords hovered in the air, twitching with nervous tension.

  If she asked him to, Raesinia was reasonably certain that Marcus would fight and, in all probability, die. Ben had done the same. Even Sothe—she couldn’t finish the thought. Why are they all so eager to sacrifice themselves for me? She wondered if she would do the same, if the circumstances were reversed, but of course the circumstances never could be reversed. Not for me.

  I won’t let him die. There’s no point. She met Andreas’ eyes, opened her mouth to speak, and hesitated. Behind the Concordat agent, one of the Grays was grimly winding a cloth around the stump of his severed hand, while another was checking on his fallen comrades in the foyer. And Sothe—

  One of Sothe’s hands was creeping across the floor, toward the hilt of one of her knives. It was only six inches away. Four. Her fingers twitched.

  “I’ll go quietly,” Raesinia said, a little too loudly, “if you’ll let the captain go.”

  Andreas shrugged. “We’ll have to take him into custody for the moment, but I see no reason he could not be released once matters are settled.”

  “Your Majesty . . . ,” Marcus began. His voice was thick.

  “Captain. Please.” She put her hand on his shoulder and went up on her toes, putting her lips as close to his ear as she dared. “Head left. The first door.”

  Marcus, she had to admit, knew how to play a role. His shoulders slumped, as though acknowledging defeat, and he let his sword point fall. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Excellent,” Andreas said, though he sounded a little disappointed. “Take them.” He turned away from Raesinia, as if she didn’t matter, and back toward Sothe—

  Who was no longer there. The knife was a quicksilver blur, flashing across the room and burying itself to the hilt in the skull of one of the Grays on Raesinia’s left, pinning his peaked cap to his head. Sothe herself was rolling toward the doorway and came up on her feet, graceful in spite of the spreading stain on her shoulder and the deathly pallor in her face. She’d already drawn another knife and flicked it at a second Gray, who had half turned at the uproar and took the blade in the meat of his cheek. He screamed and dropped his sword.

  Raesinia ran. There were two doors leading deeper into her suite, but only one that made sense as an escape route. It led to the sitting room at the base of the tower, against the outer wall, with its wide leaded-glass windows. Sothe obviously had come to the same conclusion, since she’d taken care of the two guards in that direction. There was a ring of steel from behind her, and Raesinia risked a look over her shoulder to see Marcus parrying a halfhearted stroke from one of the two remaining Grays, backpedaling rapidly in her wake. Raesinia reached the doorway, grabbed the frame with one hand, and let momentum swing her into the room.

  Andreas had drawn his own sword, but for a moment he seemed unsure what to do. Sothe took advantage of the confusion to vault the injured Gray in the foyer door, picking up a dropped sword as she went. A wild slash scattered the two confused guards near the outer door, and then she was through.

  “Tell the Last Duke,” she shouted over her shoulder, “that if he wants to catch the Gray Rose, he should send someone who will make a proper job of it!”

  Andreas’ lip twisted into a snarl. “I’ll handle her,” he snapped at the nearest Gray. “Kill the damned Armsman, and bring the queen to the Cobweb.” Sothe was running down the corridor, and Andreas sprinted after her, well behind but gaining ground with every stride.

  Marcus backed through the doorway, thrusting to drive back th
e Gray who tried to follow. Raesinia slammed the door in the guard’s face before he could close back in, and shot the bolt, for all the good it would do.

  “Sothe will be fine,” she muttered. “I knew she would be fine. She’s—”

  “We may want to attend to our own problems,” Marcus said. “We have to get to the gardens.”

  “The gardens? Why?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.” He grinned tightly. “Or if not me, then my lord Count Mieran.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Raesinia nodded. “All right. There’ll be men on the path outside, but they may not be expecting us. You go through as soon as I’ve cleared the way.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  There was a thud from the door. They didn’t have more than a few seconds. Raesinia grabbed a heavy brass candelabra from the corner, hefted it thoughtfully, and looked at the windows. She’d often cursed those windows—if they’d only been proper modern windows, with a sash and a latch, she wouldn’t have had to begin every night by throwing herself off the roof. She’d fantasized about this exact moment, if not under these precise circumstances.

  Raesinia pivoted on the ball of her foot and brought the end of the candelabra around in a whistling arc. The delicate repeating pattern of colored glass shattered into thousands of razor-edged shards as the web of lead struts that contained it bent and splayed outward. She was surprised to see that it didn’t give way entirely; a curtain of leadwork hung from the edges of the frame, like torn and tattered lace, with bits of glass still clinging to the edges. She brought the candelabra around again, and the second blow ripped through the soft metal and tore the whole thing away.

  Marcus hurled himself through as soon as the frame was clear. It was a short drop to the gravel path outside, and he absorbed the fall with a crouch, then popped to his feet before the musket-armed Gray standing in his way could do more than raise his weapon. Marcus’ saber caught him in the stomach and doubled him over, and a kick sent him sprawling. Raesinia dropped the candelabra and jumped through, her stupid court shoes twisting under her weight as she landed in the gravel. She kicked them off and started running, and Marcus lumbered into motion after her, the medals and ornamentation on his dress uniform clinking gently. Behind them, a shout had gone up, and she could hear gravel crunching under the feet of more Grays as they took up the chase.