The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “—the gathered representatives of the nation, assembled in the light of hope, are here to discover if the great issues of our time can be resolved, not through royal fiat or the horror of war, but rather by men of good sense coming together in friendship to discuss the things which divide them—”

  There were some good turns of phrase there, and Winter—watching with new appreciation—wondered who had written them for the orator. He was pleasant, reasonable, somehow both unremarkable and spectacular. What he said was convincing, not because it was him saying it, but because it just made such good sense.

  And yet . . .

  At first Winter thought it wasn’t working. He was good, but not that good. It was hard to believe that this was the Danton who had sparked all the trouble. She had a moment of panic, wondering if his magic had somehow failed.

  Then she took in the slack-jawed expressions on the faces of Cyte and Cora beside her. The hall below had gone absolutely silent, every face turned up toward the gallery with wide, staring eyes. Danton’s voice rose, his stentorian baritone ringing through the chamber. His hands came up, punctuating his address with sweeping, slashing gestures, as he moved from the high purpose of the assembly to the strength of the forces that would inevitably oppose it.

  “They will slander us, they will bribe us, they will crush us underfoot and blast us with cannon,” Danton boomed. “The corrupt forces that have infiltrated the state will bring against us every instrument at their disposal. But I am not afraid. Let them come! It only shows that we are what they fear, the people united to drive them from their filthy pits and into the unforgiving light of day—”

  It’s just me, Winter realized. The tingling feeling had spread from her hands throughout her body, as though all her limbs had fallen asleep and had pins and needles. She wondered if it was the Infernivore actively protecting her, or if its mere presence made her immune to the spell Danton wove with his voice. For one absurd moment, it made her feel left out, envious of whatever profound emotion everyone else was clearly in the grip of. She felt, suddenly, very alone.

  But not entirely alone. Someone was moving, down among the sea of frozen faces. The Special Branch thugs had put their pistols away or simply let them fall, and stood side by side with their erstwhile prisoners, trapped like flies in amber by the power of Danton’s voice. Even Brack and the other black-coats didn’t seem to be able to move. But one man walked freely, threading his way through the mob toward the altar. He wore a full-length robe with long sleeves, but instead of the gray of a Free Priest or even the pure white of the Sworn preacher, he was in black from head to heel. His face was obscured by a black, faceted mask, which sparkled like glass in the light from the braziers.

  Winter shot to her feet. “Look out!”

  No one heard, of course. Not the enthralled people down below; not Danton, who seemed oblivious; and certainly not the man in black. His hand came out of his sleeve, holding a pistol.

  “Ahdon ivahnt vi, Ignahta Sempria. In the name of God and Karis the Savior, we stand against the darkness.”

  Danton had reached his peroration. “We will fight them,” he promised. “I will not let those who died at the Vendre have sacrificed in vain. I will lay my life down alongside theirs, in the name of Vordan and the queen, and I know that every one of you would do the same! If our determination remains unbroken, then we can never—”

  Winter fumbled for her own pistol. But, of course, she hadn’t thought to reload it when she had the chance.

  The masked figure fired. Danton halted in midsentence, as the boom of the pistol echoed around the hall. The orator brought one hand to his chest and held it up, slick with blood. His face went slack, and he looked at Winter and Cora with a frown.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, and toppled backward.

  Smoke rose from the barrel of the masked man’s pistol. He tossed it aside, turned to face the crowd, and spread his hands as if in benediction.

  The mob went mad.

  MARCUS

  Marcus had never thought to find himself in the royal carriage of the king of Vordan. It was as opulent as he’d expected, but all the cushions and velvet couldn’t manage to disguise the fact that it was, basically, a box on wheels, not that far removed from the meanest hired cab. He felt oddly disappointed.

  It was certainly roomy, but it wasn’t far into the journey when Marcus started to feel that it wasn’t big enough. He sat on the backward-facing bench, sinking into the thick cushions, and Janus sat beside him. Opposite them, prim in her black mourning dress, was the young queen. Apart from an exchange of courtesies when they’d mounted, none of the three had said a word.

  The carriage proceeded down the Ohnlei Road toward the city at an unhurried pace. Spread out in front and flanking it on either side were Janus’ Mierantai Volunteers, followed by a tighter wedge of Armsmen. The Mierantai driver kept the horses to a walk to allow these escorts to keep pace.

  Marcus had questions for Janus, but hesitated to ask them in front of Raesinia. After a few minutes, however, he decided anything would be better than more tense silence. He leaned toward the colonel and cleared his throat.

  “Hmm?” Janus looked up. “Is something wrong, Captain?”

  “I just thought, sir . . .” Marcus hesitated, glancing at Raesinia, but the queen was looking pointedly out the window. “I think you owe me some kind of explanation.”

  Janus’ lip quirked. “I suppose I do, at that.”

  “Why arrest Danton? You must have known what would happen.”

  “It seemed the best way of bringing the anti-Borelgai feeling to a head.” Janus leaned back in his seat. “It was also based on my reading of Orlanko. The duke has always operated from a position of strength, and he has a corresponding tendency to arrogance.”

  “So you stirred up the mob—”

  “In order to turn them against the Borels and Orlanko,” Raesinia said. “With the help of . . . revolutionary elements in the city. I must say I never thought Orlanko would go so far as to try to seize Ohnlei itself. Though you obviously did, my lord Mieran.”

  Janus waved a hand. “It was always a possibility. I thought it best to be prepared.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Raesinia ground out, “if, in the future, you would share these possibilities with me.”

  Marcus gave a hollow laugh. “Best of luck with that, Your Majesty.”

  Janus flashed a smile. Marcus leaned back against the velvet, trying to keep his head from spinning as he worked through the implications.

  Eventually he said, “So, what happens now? If you would care to enlighten us.”

  “Now?” Janus shrugged. “Orlanko has attempted to capture the deputies, but we have enough men”—he tapped the window glass—“to overwhelm his hirelings. God willing, there’s been no bloodshed, and we ought to be able to convince most of them to surrender. Then the queen will give the assembled representatives of the people the news of the duke’s fall, and swear to abide by whatever decisions the deputies ultimately arrive at.” He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “After that, I suppose, we’ll have to turn our attention to the financial situation. We dare not abrogate our debt to the Borelgai outright, but—”

  Raesinia cut him off. “I’d feel better if we had Orlanko himself in chains. And I’m worried about Sothe.”

  “Unfortunately, the Cobweb is eminently defensible, and no doubt stuffed full of booby traps as well. I’m hopeful that Orlanko can be convinced to accept a comfortable exile, once it becomes clear he’s lost. Digging him out by force would cost a great many lives.” Janus covered his mouth and yawned. “Apologies. It’s been a long few days. As for Miss Sothe, from what I know of her reputation, I suspect she will manage.”

  Raesinia frowned, but before she could say anything there was a rap on the carriage door. Janus leaned over and opened it. One of the Mierantai had hopped on the running board,
and saluted with one hand while hanging on with the other.

  “Sir! We’re approaching the Saint Dromin Bridge, as you requested.” He paused. “It looks like it’s blocked, sir. There’s a bit of a . . . mob.”

  “Here?” Janus frowned. “Stop the carriage.”

  The soldier relayed the command to the driver, and the carriage rolled to a stop. With the door open and the wheels still, Marcus could hear the sound of the mob, an indistinct murmur that put him in mind of the sea. They were stopped at the intersection of Saint Dromin Street and Bridge Street, and one row of buildings still blocked Marcus’ view of the river to either side. Straight ahead, however, the street mounted the footings of the high, double-arched bridge, and the bridge was dark with the press of humanity.

  The mob had sighted them, too. There was a collective roar, and those in the lead broke into a run. They packed the bridge from edge to edge, crowding dangerously against the railings. A complete cross section of the city of Vordan seemed to be represented: nobles draped in colorful silks, prosperous merchants in somber, well-cut coats, laborers in leather vests and ragged trousers, all the way down to vagabond wretches wrapped in patched homespun. The crowd that had besieged the Vendre had been mostly Docksiders, but here the South Bank residents were outnumbered by well-dressed North Bankers.

  “They must have come from the deputies,” Janus said, stepping out of the carriage and shading his eyes with one hand. “Most of them are in their Sunday best.”

  “Sir.” Lieutenant Uhlan came forward, gesturing to his men. “Please move back.”

  Red-and-blue-uniformed Mierantai were forming a line in front of the carriage. The first rank of men knelt while another rank formed up behind them, and rifle barrels fixed with gleaming bayonets swung into position. There were enough of them to block the street in front of the carriage, but they made for a very thin line. Marcus was forcibly reminded of the Battle of the Road, watching a horde of Khandarai peasants charge the Colonial lines under the goads of their mad priests. That time, the line had held. But in Khandar I had the Preacher and a battery of twelve-pounders.

  The sergeant leading the palace Armsmen caught Marcus’ eye, looking for orders. Marcus grimaced and gestured him forward, and the green-coated men spread out uncertainly behind the soldiers. The mob was still coming, approaching the footing of the bridge, though their front ranks were slowing at the sight of all those rifles.

  “Sir,” Marcus said. “What now?”

  Janus looked over his shoulder at Raesinia, who was just emerging from the carriage. She paused for a moment on the running board, looking over the heads of the Mierantai at the advancing mob.

  “I take it this was not part of the plan?” she said.

  “No,” Janus said, calmly. “Something has gone wrong. Badly wrong, I should say.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Raesinia squared her shoulders. “Wait here, then. I’ll go find out.”

  Janus flashed a smile. “You know I can’t do that, Your Majesty.”

  For a moment Raesinia looked as though she might object, but in the end she only shrugged. “Do what you like.”

  Janus caught Marcus’ eye, and they hurried forward to take up positions on either side of the queen. Lieutenant Uhlan barked an order and a narrow path opened through the disciplined Mierantai. Janus threaded his way through first, followed by the queen and Marcus.

  The leading edge of the mob had come to a stop about a hundred yards away, where the bridge touched solid ground again. Those in front were hesitating to move closer to the threatening line of bayonets, while the mass behind who couldn’t see pressed forward. The bridge’s arch acted as a kind of amphitheater, and Marcus found himself looking up into rank after rank of staring faces. Every eye was on Raesinia as she came forward in the company of the two uniformed officers.

  Some kind of a scuffle was taking place at the front of the crowd. Eventually three people forced their way through to emerge onto the bare cobblestones. It took them a moment to get their bearings, but before too long they squared off and walked out to meet Raesinia and the others halfway. In the lead was a young man with a bright green coat and a rapier on his hip, marking him as a noble. His two companions were more soberly dressed, and neither was armed. All three were disheveled from their trip through the mob, but the leader made an effort to brush some of the dirt from his coat before stepping forward to introduce himself.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing very low. “I am Deputy Alfred Peddoc sur Volmire, at your service. This is Deputy Dumorre and Deputy Maurisk. We are here to speak on behalf of the Deputies-General.”

  Marcus saw Raesinia go stiff as a board, just for a moment. Whatever had afflicted her, she soon snapped out of it and inclined her head graciously.

  “Deputy Peddoc. This is Count Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, my Minister of Justice, and Captain of Armsmen Marcus d’Ivoire.” She paused. “But I must admit to some confusion. I was on my way to address the Deputies-General, which I was under the impression was in session at the cathedral.”

  Peddoc hesitated. Maurisk was absorbed in studying Raesinia’s face, but Dumorre stepped forward into the silence.

  “The deputies came under attack. Mercenaries in the employment of the Minister of Information attempted to illegally take the entire assembly into custody.”

  “I take it the attack failed,” Janus said.

  “It was thwarted,” Peddoc said, “by Deputy Danton Aurenne. He took the floor and made a speech so moving that everyone present threw down their weapons and embraced one another like brothers in the service of Vordan.”

  “Until he was assassinated,” Maurisk said.

  “Assassinated?” Raesinia stepped forward, and Marcus caught a slight hitch in her voice. “Danton is dead?”

  Peddoc nodded solemnly. “He was a martyr to our cause, and his sacrifice will not be in vain. The Deputies-General will be established.”

  “Of course,” Raesinia said. “But what are you doing here?”

  “The deputies are nothing but a polite fiction so long as the Last Duke and his supporters control the city,” Maurisk said. “His Concordat have terrorized us for long enough.”

  “I quite agree,” Janus said. “In fact—”

  “As such,” Maurisk went on, cutting him off with a glare, “the Deputies- General will assume its proper place over all the essential functions of government. Until a proper vote can be taken, we must ask that all armed men, in whoever’s service, submit to our authority.”

  “Y . . . yes,” Peddoc said, glancing uncertainly at Maurisk. “Well. It seemed best, under the circumstances. We don’t know how deep the Last Duke’s influence extends, but it must be cut out, root and branch. All who surrender their weapons will be treated with courtesy. Your Majesty, of course, will accompany us as an honored guest.”

  “I can assure you,” Marcus said, “my lord Mieran had nothing to do with the Last Duke—”

  “That is for us to decide,” Maurisk said. “And he would do well to remember that it was his order that led to the arrest of Danton and the fall of the Vendre.”

  “I have not forgotten,” Janus murmured. “May I have a moment alone with Her Majesty?”

  Maurisk looked sour, but Peddoc interrupted him. “I don’t see why not.”

  Janus took Raesinia’s arm—a shocking breach of protocol, under other circumstances—and the three withdrew a few steps.

  “If we run,” Marcus said, keeping his voice low, “we can make it back to the carriage. A few volleys will slow them down, and we ought to be able to get it turned around before—”

  “Are you suggesting I should ask Count Mieran’s men to fire on the crowd?” Raesinia said.

  “They would, if Your Majesty required it,” Janus said.

  “I’m just suggesting an option,” Marcus said.
“I don’t like the way this Maurisk is talking.”

  Raesinia had an odd smile on her face. “I don’t, either. But I don’t see what choice we have. Even if we make it away, Lieutenant Uhlan and his men would be slaughtered. And then what? Back to Ohnlei?”

  “I’m forced to agree.” Janus looked over his shoulder at the mob. “I . . . was not expecting this.”

  Coming from Janus, this was a shocking admission. Marcus let out a sigh. “Then we go along quietly?”

  Raesinia nodded, decisively. She turned around and went back to face Peddoc.

  “I want you to guarantee fair treatment for these officers and their men,” she said.

  “Of course,” Peddoc said.

  “We will hold them for a time,” Maurisk said. “But when things are settled, they will be released.”

  “Very well.” Raesinia drew herself up, though she still made for a tiny figure. “I place myself in your care, then. Count Mieran, would you ask your men to stack arms?”

  Janus turned to address Lieutenant Uhlan. His orders were almost drowned out by the cheers of the mob. Shouts and hurrahs started at the front, where people could see what was happening, but they spread backward through the vast mass. Like sparks down a powder trail, the news and the exultation passed back over the bridge and spread outward in ripples, through the heart of the city.

  PART FIVE

  ANDREAS

  The little cabin seemed dark and dead. Andreas, his booted footsteps inaudible on the soft, leafy ground, put his back to the trunk of a massive oak and checked his pistols, then paused a moment in thought.

  The Gray Rose had led him quite a chase. That was to be expected, of course. He would have been disappointed by anything less. They’d left Ohnlei behind and climbed the forested slope at the edge of the gardens into the royal hunting preserve. This swath of ancient forest, untouched by axes since the days of Farus the Conqueror, was the domain of huge, spreading oaks and stands of skinny birches, with little underbrush to impede men or horses.