The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  The path curved around the back of the palace and cut up toward the edge of the gardens. Continuing on would bring them to the vast lawns that flanked the Ministry buildings, which she assumed was Marcus’ intention. Instead he grabbed her hand as they passed a stone arch, which marked the edge of a set of walled and hedged gardens called the Bower of Queen Anne, planted by one of Raesinia’s illustrious ancestors in honor of his deceased wife. These were a set of narrow walkways, planted round with hedges, connecting several little clearings set with garden furniture and wound through with carefully manicured streams and beds of flowers. There was another arch at the far end, near the main drive, and one more that led directly into the building. But—

  “He’ll have men out front for certain,” Raesinia said. “We’ll be trapped in there.” She tugged her hand free of his and pointed out toward the lawn. “That way—”

  “The Grays have a cavalry company,” Marcus said. “We can’t risk open fields. You said you would trust me, Your Majesty.”

  She grabbed his hand and followed him into the shadows of the walled garden.

  —

  Raesinia had not spent much time in the Bower of Queen Anne, but evidently Marcus had, or at least he’d done a thorough job of memorizing the layout. It wasn’t exactly a hedge maze, but it had been designed to let small groups have private garden parties in little out-of-the-way spaces, and the hedged-in paths were always going through unexpected switchbacks and right-angle turns and branching at intersections marked with trellises of climbing roses. The hedges were tall enough to cut off the morning sun, so they ran through shadows except when the path curved to the east and Raesinia had to shade her eyes against sudden brilliance.

  Marcus pounded through the first two intersections without even slowing down, and broke out through an archway onto an open section. Raesinia followed, working hard to match the captain’s longer strides. For all his impression of stolidity, Marcus kept up a fair turn of speed once he got going, and it was only the binding’s soothing passes through her overworked legs that let her keep up with him. Something went pop in her ankle—she’d rolled it jumping out the window—but the muscles and tendons reknotted before her foot came down again.

  The Grays were not far behind them. A half dozen of them burst into the clearing when she and Marcus were halfway across, dodging through the garden furniture. Four of the guards kept running, but two dropped to their knees and leveled their bayoneted muskets.

  “Halt!” one of them shouted, with a heavy Noreldrai accent. “Or we fire!”

  “Bluffing,” Raesinia gasped. “No good. To them. Dead.”

  Marcus nodded, swerved around an errant chair, and ducked through the arch at the other end of the clearing. Raesinia flinched at a shattering crack of musketry from behind them, but the shots had been aimed well over her head, and she heard the balls zing merrily past. Someone swore in Noreldrai before the curve of the hedgerow cut them off again.

  It was hard to keep track of directions, but Marcus seemed to be leading them deeper into the Bower. She’d thought they would try to pass straight through, perhaps commandeer a carriage out on the main drive, but he kept turning back toward the palace. There was another exit there, but it would surely be guarded. In fact, they could go around that way and cut us off—

  No sooner had she had the thought than they reached another triangular intersection as a trio of Grays turned up from the opposite direction. The guards were as surprised as Raesinia was, and pulled up short, but Marcus let his momentum carry him into them, narrowly avoiding being skewered on a protruding bayonet. He lowered his shoulder and knocked one Gray off his feet and into the man behind him, then came around with a wild swing of his saber that opened a long cut across the stomach of the third.

  “That way!” Marcus gestured with his free hand toward the third branch of the intersection. “Get to the fountain!”

  That seemed to be the only available direction, and Raesinia was already headed toward it. The word “fountain” filled her with an unexpected chill, though, and she struggled to remember why. Sparkling lights danced in front of her eyes—the binding was working hard to keep her legs functioning, and had no energy to spare for small matters like a lack of blood to the brain.

  The two unwounded Grays disentangled themselves, retreating a bit from Marcus’ furious swings, and were caught off guard when he turned his back on them and ran. Both raised their muskets, trying to get a shot off before he disappeared around a corner, but only one went off—the captain’s bull rush must have knocked the second hard enough to spill the powder from the pan. Raesinia heard the ball zip by and crash noisily into the hedges.

  She rounded the corner and felt flagstones under her feet instead of dirt. Ahead was one of the fountains in the classical style with which Ohnlei was so generously supplied. A broad, low pool, contained by a stone lip, fired jets of water against a stone pedestal that supported an equestrian statue of Raesinia’s great-great-grandfather, Farus V. It was ringed by a circle of flagstones, already cracked and uneven in places where underground roots had wreaked havoc on the builders’ perfect order. A low stone wall, backed by a more imposing hedge, cut the little clearing off entirely from the rest of the Bower.

  The fountain. Raesinia realized, belatedly, what she’d been trying to remember. There’s only one entrance. She skidded to a halt against the lip, and Marcus clomped and jingled his way to a stop beside her, panting hard. Raesinia had to remind herself to breathe, for verisimilitude.

  “We’re. Stuck,” she managed. Marcus, bent over with his hands on his knees, was too out of breath to reply.

  A few moments later, Grays started pouring into the clearing. They were disheveled from the long chase, sweating into their tailored uniforms, and most of them had lost their neat little caps. Half still had muskets, while the others had drawn their swords.

  “That’s about enough, alvaunt,” gasped one, who had a sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and straightened up. “We got you, yes? Sword down, hands up. You come with us.”

  “Captain . . . ,” Raesinia began.

  “Marcus,” he said, “under the circumstances.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve done. But this is enough, don’t you think?”

  Marcus let his sword fall. The clang of steel on stone echoed over the quiet babble of the fountain.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. He was smiling.

  The sound of boots on the flagstones behind them made a couple of the Noreldrai turn. The sergeant gestured angrily for them to keep their eyes on their prisoners, then spun to face the man who’d just sauntered through the archway.

  “What in volse do you think you’re doing?” he barked.

  Janus, wearing his dress blues in place of the civilian costume of the Minister of Justice, put on an innocent expression.

  “Going for a walk?” he said.

  The sergeant snorted. “You can explain that to His Grace.”

  “I think it would be best,” Janus said, “if you and your men would stack your arms and sit quietly against the wall.”

  “Excuse me?” The sergeant looked from Janus to his men. “Perhaps I speak your kishkasse language not as well as I thought.”

  “I just thought I would warn you.”

  The sergeant ran out of patience. He gestured with his sword, and the Grays advanced on Marcus and Raesinia. Two sword-wielding men sauntered over to deal with Janus, who wasn’t even armed.

  Janus sighed, and raised his voice. “In your own time, Lieutenant Uhlan.”

  Everyone froze, looking around to see whom he was addressing. In the same instant, two dozen long rifle barrels slid over the wall that edged the clearing.

  Something hit Raesinia hard in the small of the back. It was Marcus, bearing her to the ground. He courteously put his other arm underneath her to cushion her fall against
the flagstones, so she ended up pulled tight into a kind of embrace. The staccato crack of rifles at close range split the air, and billows of smoke filled the clearing with the scent of gun smoke. One or two blasts, closer to them, indicated that a few of the Grays had gotten a shot off, but in less than a half minute the burbling fountain was again audible.

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” Janus said, in a conversational tone. “Captain?”

  Marcus relaxed his grip on Raesinia’s shoulders. Raesinia took a deep breath—it had been like being hugged by a bear—and got a lungful of smoke, mixed with the scent of his sweat. She coughed, and wiped her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

  “Fine,” Raesinia said, automatically. She’d skinned an elbow in the fall, but the cuts were already closing.

  “No injuries, sir,” Marcus said aloud.

  “Nobody hit here, sir,” said another voice, in a harsh accent Raesinia didn’t recognize.

  “Good shooting,” Janus said.

  There was another shot, not so close, but still loud enough to make Raesinia flinch. Marcus rolled off her, climbed to his feet, and offered her his hand. She took it, feeling a little unsteady. Another couple of shots drifted over the Bower, like distant handclaps. The clearing was wreathed in floating wisps of gun smoke, but she could see men in red uniforms climbing over the wall, long weapons in hand. The Grays were all down, either dead or keeping silent. The red-clad soldiers began to move among them while one bearing a lieutenant’s bars hurried over, saluted Janus, then bowed deeply in Raesinia’s direction.

  “Your Majesty,” Janus said, “may I present Lieutenant Medio bet Uhlan, of the First Mierantai Volunteers. His family has been in the service of the counts of Mieran for four generations.”

  “It’s an honor, Your Majesty,” Uhlan said, in what Raesinia assumed was a Mierantai accent. It sounded as if he spent his days gargling rocks.

  “I owe you my life, sir,” Raesinia said, a slight exaggeration for dramatic effect. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Another couple of shots made both Uhlan and Janus cock their heads, listening carefully.

  “Still just ours,” Uhlan said, and Janus nodded.

  “Quite a few Grays got shaken loose in the chase,” he said to Raesinia. “They ended up wandering around the Bower, and the rest of Lieutenant Uhlan’s men are rounding them up. We should give them a couple of minutes.” He sighed. “I hope a few of them decide to surrender.”

  “We got the bulk of them at their barracks, when Orlanko’s orders arrived,” Uhlan said. “They were ready to fight their way out, but it turned out that some absolute bastard had soaked all the powder in the armory the night before.” His grin was concealed behind a thick woodsman’s beard, but his eyes twinkled.

  Raesinia looked at Janus. “You knew?”

  “Not for certain, but it’s always wise to plan for contingencies.” He frowned. “Though I must admit this seemed a fairly probable contingency. What our friend the duke does not understand is that a perfect record of treachery is just as predictable as one of impeccable loyalty. You simply must always expect to be stabbed in the back, and you’ll never be surprised. Keeping faith occasionally would make him much harder to anticipate.”

  “Orlanko.” Raesinia’s hand twisted into the fabric of her dress, fingers tightening. “Do you have enough men to storm the Cobweb?”

  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” Janus said. “We have it blockaded, but there are too many tunnels and bolt-holes to cut him off completely. It’s possible the duke has already fled.”

  “He’ll hang for this, I swear.” Her breath caught. “What about Sothe? Have you found her?”

  “Her Majesty’s maidservant,” Marcus supplied. “She helped hold off the Grays. Last I saw her, she was running for it with a Concordat agent in hot pursuit.”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Janus said. “But affairs are very confused at the moment. And, unfortunately, we have larger problems.”

  It was hard for Raesinia to tear her mind away from Sothe, but once she did she jumped to the obvious conclusion. “The deputies. Andreas—the Concordat agent who came to arrest us—said they were going to be taken in hand.”

  “It would be a foolish play to take the palace, only to lose it to the mob,” Janus agreed. “And Orlanko is not entirely a fool. I suggest we proceed to the cathedral at once. Lieutenant?”

  Uhlan was consulting with a pair of red-uniformed Mierantai who’d just entered the clearing. He looked up. “We’re clear, sir. Got about thirty prisoners. Carriages are waiting in the main drive, and the sergeant commanding the Armsmen says he’s with us.”

  “He’d damned well better be,” Marcus growled.

  “Don’t be too hard on them,” Janus said. “On days like this, it’s never easy to know which way to jump.” He and Marcus shared a look that spoke of some shared memory, and Marcus grunted. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

  Uhlan barked orders in his harsh, nearly unintelligible dialect, and the Mierantai formed up around them. Marcus drifted back as the column set off, until he was walking beside Raesinia.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “I could have told you earlier that this might happen.” He nodded at Janus. “He insisted that I not say anything until Orlanko tipped his hand. I think he was worried you might panic. But if I’d said something, Sothe might”—he hesitated—“might not have gotten hurt. I can see she’s . . . important to you.”

  Raesinia nodded, walking for a moment in silence. “I can hardly blame you for following orders.”

  “Still. I’m sorry.” Marcus squared his shoulders, as though facing something unpleasant. “Whatever Orlanko had planned for the deputies may have happened already. Giforte is there with as many Armsmen as I could spare, but . . .”

  “I know.” Raesinia was thinking of Maurisk, Cora, and Sarton. Danton, Jane, Cyte, and all the rest.

  “I hope we get there in time to do some good.”

  Raesinia nodded grimly. “So do I.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WINTER

  In the hundred and twenty years since the Sworn Church had first been expelled from Vordan, the Sworn Cathedral had never played host to a congregation large enough to fill its echoing, vaulted hall. For years, when praying in a Sworn Church had been tantamount to being a traitor to the Crown, it had stood empty. Later, more tolerant ages had seen the Sworn Priests return, chase out some of the bats and rats who had taken up residence, and offer services to those few foreigners and die-hards who wanted them.

  The War of the Princes and Borelgai proselytizing had brought a few more into the fold, but Winter was certain the gloomy old building hadn’t seen a gathering like this in living memory. The Deputies-General packed the floor of the main hall—the moldy pews had been hauled outside to clear more space—and members of delegations searching for private space had invaded the warren of rooms, damp corridors, and drafty wooden stairways behind the altar that had once housed the massive administrative staff charged with overseeing the spiritual welfare of all of Vordan.

  Giforte and a band of staff-wielding Armsmen were vainly attempting to keep order, but the most they could manage was to protect the floor of the main hall—which, it had been decided, constituted the actual chamber of the Deputies-General—from being invaded by crowds from outside. Eager to get a glimpse of what was going on, the spectators had found the stairs leading up to the old Widow’s Gallery, a wooden-floored balcony that described a broad horseshoe shape around the back of the main hall, about thirty feet off the ground. Getting up took a bit of daring, since the stairways were in bad shape and the balcony itself was riddled with rotten boards, but it provided an excellent vantage point. From here, the adventurous could get a good view of the proceedings and, in spite of the best efforts of the Armsmen, throw chunks of floo
rboard at speakers they didn’t care for.

  Those proceedings were not, in Winter’s opinion, worthy of all this attention. They had begun well enough, with the crimson-clad Sworn Bishop offering a nervous-sounding prayer, followed by a plea for fellowship and common sense from a pair of Free Priests. Once the clergy had departed, however, the wrangling over the agenda had begun. In fact, as best Winter could tell, things had not yet progressed to the point of arguing over the agenda; the deputies first needed to decide the order of precedence in which they would be allowed to offer points during the debate over the agenda, and this crucial discussion had thus far engaged the entire attention of all parties.

  It was possible that this was taking an overly cynical view of matters. But in Winter’s current mood, she was inclined to see everything cynically. The spectators on the gallery sat near the edge, as far forward as they dared test the rotten boards, while Winter paced in the back, lost in shadows.

  Jane and Abby obviously had . . . something. Of course they did. When Winter listened to Abby talk about Jane, she could see an echo of the way she herself had felt all those years ago. Only willful ignorance had kept her from figuring it out sooner.

  And, she thought, that’s for the best. It’s only to be expected, isn’t it? For all Jane knew, I was dead, or gone away never to return. Hell, I never planned to return. I wouldn’t have asked to her to spend her whole life pining away for me. And since she did find someone, how can I expect her to just drop everything the minute I come back?

  All perfectly reasonable. So why is it that whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is the two of them? Jane’s face, and the little sigh she made as Abby’s lips touched her throat. Abby’s hand, sliding up her flank, pushing up her shirt.