The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  The ground was soft from the recent rain, but not muddy enough to show tracks. Fortunately, the Gray Rose was wounded, and Andreas had been able to keep her in sight. He’d stayed well back, conserving his own strength and letting her exhaust herself, not wanting to risk a pounce that might let her turn the tables on him. He had the highest respect for his quarry.

  Orlanko would be furious, of course. The chase had taken all day, and the light that now slanted through the forest was the soft, golden radiance of late evening. But Andreas was confident the plans he’d laid would be enough to deal with the queen and the deputies, if the Gray Rose was not allowed to interfere. Besides, he’d been looking forward to this for years. Politics would keep. This was . . . personal.

  As the sun sank lower, he’d closed the distance between them. The Gray Rose had slowed, worn down by distance and loss of blood. She’d seemed on the edge of collapse, in fact. He knew he would have to make an end of it before the light disappeared; wounded or not, she might be able to evade him in the darkness.

  Then they’d crested a ridge and come into sight of this tiny cabin. It was a single-room log hut, roofed with crude shingles, and probably belonged to one of the Royal Gamekeepers. No fire was burning, though, and the little stable was empty. The Gray Rose had gone straight to the door, staggering and clutching her shoulder, and stumbled inside.

  Until now, Andreas thought her flight had been random, but she’d obviously been aiming for this place, which meant that she’d prepared it in advance. He’d broken off his pursuit and done a long circuit of the little building, confirming that the door was the only way in or out. Then he’d closed to within a few yards of the door, behind the nearest tree, and listened. All he could hear was birdsong and the rustle of leaves overhead.

  So it’s a bolt-hole, he thought. A hiding place. She’ll have weapons, for certain. Booby traps, perhaps. The Gray Rose hadn’t looked in any condition for a fight, though. Now that she was run to ground, Andreas could go for reinforcements, but that would mean leaving the cabin unobserved for however long it took him to leave and return. He wouldn’t put it past the Gray Rose to feign weakness and make a dash for it while his back was turned.

  No. I have to finish this now. But carefully. He drew a pistol and edged around the tree, then sprinted to the cabin wall, flattening himself beside the door.

  There was no lock, just a simple push latch. Andreas tried to get a view of the interior through chinks in the logs, but it was too dark to see anything. He crept up to the side of the doorframe and stared dubiously at the latch. Was that glistening just the recent rain? Or had some noxious substance been painted on for the unwary finger?

  He retreated a few steps and cast about until he found a suitable stick. Then, shifting the pistol to his left hand, he put his back against the wall again and reached out with his makeshift tool to trip the latch. It took some fumbling, but he got it, and a shove with the stick sent the door creaking inward.

  There was a click when the door had opened wide enough to admit a body. A moment later, a curved blade scythed around the doorframe with spring-driven force, ripping through the spot where an intruder would have been standing at groin height. Its arc continued through nearly three hundred sixty degrees, swinging all the way around to bury itself in the outer wall in a way that would have severely inconvenienced anyone standing cautiously to one side of the door as it opened. It smashed Andreas’ stick to splinters.

  He smiled and shifted the pistol back to his right hand.

  Edging around the blade, he squeezed sideways through the door, not opening it any farther. His eyes scanned the floor for trip wires or caltrops, but nothing presented itself. The interior of the cabin was only dimly lit by the fading light from the doorway, but he could see the huddled shape of a human figure in the center of the dirt floor, beside a heavy stone cooking block. Next to it was a small pit, which looked as if it had been concealed under a dirt-covered board. Andreas, squinting, could make out a pair of pistols inside, but the figure made no move to take them.

  Was that her? It was too dark to tell. But the rectangle of sun from the doorway showed a couple of brilliant scarlet drops on the floor.

  “Did you get all this way, only to collapse on the threshold?” he said aloud. There was no response from the figure. He leveled his pistol at it and edged forward.

  It certainly looked like a woman’s body. It would be safest to shoot first and investigate later, but if the Gray Rose was lying in wait, that would leave him temporarily disarmed. Instead Andreas walked crabwise across the floor, scanning every corner of the cabin. No one was hiding in the shadows, and the body on the floor didn’t move. When he was close enough, he reached out and nudged it with his foot. It shook, slightly, but did not respond.

  He aimed his pistol, rolled the figure over, and stepped hurriedly back.

  The body was . . . not a body. It was a giant doll, a mannequin stuffed with straw and dressed in a woman’s coat. It had no face; where eyes and mouth should have been, there was an embroidered rose, in black and gray.

  “Clever,” Andreas said, turning slowly around. “But not clever enough, I think. You can barely stand. Can we not give up this contest?” He didn’t seriously expect her to give in, of course. But the offer might provoke some kind of response.

  At that moment, the other device that had been triggered by the latch went off. Ten barrels of black powder buried in the dirt floor of the cabin exploded simultaneously, converting the hut and everything in it into an expanding blossom of flame that rose into the canopy and shook burning leaves from the trees. The boom echoed through the hunting preserve, all the way to the distant walls of the palace.

  ORLANKO

  By the time he climbed up a stepladder and into the comfort of his private carriage, Duke Orlanko was sweaty and very out of sorts.

  In hindsight, he’d stayed at the Ministry too long. Once it had become clear that Vhalnich’s Mierantai had overcome the Grays—and how the hell had that happened?—the clerks of the Cobweb had begun their emergency preparations. Vital archives were evacuated, and the incinerators in the lower stories blazed as they devoured less important papers. It was in Orlanko’s nature to prepare for all contingencies, and so there was a plan for everything, even the fall of the Cobweb itself. Nothing there was irreplaceable.

  But Vhalnich’s men had held back, and Orlanko had accordingly hesitated to order the final evacuation. Only when he’d gotten word from the deputies had he accepted that this round, at least, was definitively lost. The mob there had overwhelmed both the men he’d sent to secure them and Vhalnich’s Mierantai, and by the time the news reached him they were only an hour from the gates of Ohnlei.

  With some of Vhalnich’s men still prowling the grounds, he couldn’t leave by carriage. Instead he had gone out via another tunnel, which came up at a hidden post in the royal hunting preserve. Horses had been waiting for him and his guards, and from there it was only a short ride to the Midvale Road. The duke was an indifferent rider at best, though, and his small stature made mounting an undignified process. He cursed every minute they spent in the saddle, first trotting through the woods and then setting a faster pace up the road to where the carriage was waiting.

  Halfway there, an enormous boom had broken the stillness of the forest. Orlanko, watching the column of smoke rising, was at a loss to explain it—it seemed to be coming from the middle of the hunting park, and there was no reason so much powder should have been stored anywhere near there. It was another inexplicable thing in a day that had been full of inexplicable things. Since the duke had prided himself for years on knowing everything there was to know about his city, this frustrated him beyond words.

  Three vehicles waited for them, two big post wagons full of records and a black carriage with shaded windows for Orlanko himself. There were also two dozen mounted black-coats with carbines, and together with the squad that had escorte
d him from the Cobweb, they were enough to make Orlanko feel reasonably secure. He pulled himself into the carriage, muscles already complaining from the short ride, and sank into the cushioned seat.

  Sitting opposite him were two figures in hooded brown cloaks. Brother Nikolai and his charge had been among the first to be evacuated from the Cobweb, bundled up to keep their identities concealed even from the Concordat. Orlanko dared not risk losing his link to the Priests of the Black, not now. But he felt his irritation rising at the sight of Nikolai’s glittering black mask; the story he’d received from the floor of the deputies had been very clear on a few particulars.

  “Your people have made a mess of things, Brother Nikolai,” Orlanko snarled, as the carriage lurched into motion.

  The priest shrugged. “It was not my doing, Your Grace, as you must know. But I believe His Eminence was eager to speak with you on that very subject.” He patted the girl sitting beside him on the thigh. “Is he still there?”

  She drew back her hood. A bandage of black silk was wound around her head, covering her mutilated eye sockets. “Yes. One moment.” Then, in the harsh voice of the Pontifex of the Black, “Orlanko.”

  “Your Eminence,” Orlanko said. “You have received the news, I take it?”

  “I have,” said the distant Pontifex. “I must say I am beginning to have doubts about your commitment.”

  “My commitment? I was promised a free hand.”

  “And you’ve been given one.”

  “Until today! It was one of your people that killed Danton and threw the mob into a fury.”

  “There was no other option,” the pontifex said, the girl’s mouth stretching oddly to speak his words. “He was possessed, as you should have been aware, and his demon was a particularly dangerous one. He needed to be eliminated.”

  “I had the situation in hand.”

  “I doubt that. I’m told your men were ready to go over to the rebels as soon as Danton started speaking.”

  Orlanko pursed his lips. He’d long suspected that the Priests of the Black had pawns in the city other than himself, but it was galling to get confirmation nonetheless. He was also uncomfortably aware that the pontifex was probably right. The Special Branch were, after all, nothing more than mercenaries, not like his own carefully trained Concordat men. And if Danton had a demon . . .

  He regretted, for the first time, sending Jen Alhundt to Khandar. At the time, he’d been pleased to rid himself of the arrogant Church agent, but if there were demons on the loose, having one on his side would have been a comfort.

  “Well,” Orlanko said, after a moment of silence. “What’s done is done. The mob appears to have turned on Vhalnich, so perhaps things are not as bleak as they appear—”

  “They are bleaker,” the pontifex snapped. “Vhalnich is no common enemy. He has the Thousand Names at his disposal. Now that you and your men have been driven from the city, there is nothing left to stop him from becoming another Demon King. Your failure runs deep, Orlanko.”

  Orlanko’s fists clenched. Someday, Your Eminence. Someday you will pay a heavy price for every slight. He kept his tone calm.

  “I am taking steps to retrieve the situation as we speak. By morning, I will be at Midvale—”

  “Do whatever you think best,” the pontifex said. He sounded dangerously dismissive.

  “Your Eminence,” Orlanko said, “I hope you understand that, in spite of our setbacks, we’re still very close to achieving our goal. We can break this rabble, and once we have Raesinia in hand, everything will be under control.”

  “So you have always assured me,” the pontifex said. “I am losing confidence in you, Vordanai. I will not allow another kingdom of darkness to be established on these shores, do you understand? So by all means, get matters in hand. Because, if you do not, I will be forced to take . . . other steps.”

  “I—” Orlanko began.

  “He’s gone,” the blind girl said.

  We’re so close, the duke thought. All these years, I’ve worked for this, and we’re so close. If not for Danton and Vhalnich, it would have gone smoothly. Now there would be fighting and bloodshed, but there was no helping that. I will not let that pious old fool ruin everything I’ve built, either.

  —

  The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the carriage and its accompanying wagons rattled off the Midvale Road and up a gentle slope to a high, grassy hill. From here Orlanko could see the town of Midvale a few miles off, a prosperous, tidy-looking community of a few hundred shingled houses. Closer to was the regular grid of long, low barracks that comprised the Royal Army camp. Midvale was the permanent camp of the Eighth and Tenth Infantry regiments, as well as the Osthead Cuirassiers. They formed a second town of seven thousand souls—not counting wives, servants, whores, and other hangers-on—that had grown up alongside the first, more uniformly laid out but not nearly so clean.

  Another carriage was pulled up in the grassy parade ground, which by its luxuriant growth of weeds had not seen a great deal of parading recently. A squadron of cuirassiers was deployed around it, resplendent in polished steel breastplates and plumed helmets. A pair of them rode alongside Orlanko’s carriage as it pulled in, and the Concordat troops spread themselves out among the cavalry.

  In the center of the ring was Count Torahn, dismounted and standing by a folding table covered in maps. With him were several other officers Orlanko didn’t recognize. The Concordat kept files on every military man of any consequence, but Orlanko didn’t concern himself with any not likely to turn up at court. It probably didn’t matter. The Midvale garrison was not considered a promising post in the army, and thus the men assigned to command it were likely to be nonentities.

  He waited to get down until one of his men had placed the stepladder so he could descend without an undignified jump. Torahn and the military men looked at him coldly, as though he were something slimy that insisted on worming its way across the lawn instead of rotting quietly under a rock. And, in truth, Orlanko felt uncomfortable, here in the open, under the eyes of these big, haughty men with their gleaming spurs. He had always preferred to employ the small, quick, and clever. But desperate times demand desperate measures, I suppose.

  “Your Grace,” Count Torahn said. “I am pleased to see you unharmed. When we got no news from the palace, we feared the worst.”

  “Not the worst, thankfully, but bad enough,” Orlanko said. “The city is in open rebellion, thanks to the traitor Vhalnich.”

  The colonels made noises of consternation, but Torahn cut them off with a gesture.

  “The queen?” he said.

  “A prisoner,” Orlanko said. “She will be well treated, I think. The rebels claim to fight in her name. They need her to awe the common people.”

  Torahn frowned. “I hope they don’t think to hold her hostage.”

  “I have a hard time believing any Vordanai would do such a thing,” Orlanko said. “Rebels or not.”

  “True.” Torahn glared at the three colonels. “In spite of my orders, it appears that preparations here have not yet been completed. It will be a day or two before we’re ready to march, I’m told.”

  “The sooner the better,” Orlanko said. “Every moment the rebels have to dig in works against us.”

  An icy look passed between Orlanko and the Minister of War. It was uncertain who ought to be giving the orders—as a duke, Orlanko had the advantage of rank, but the Ministry of War took precedence over Information, especially in a situation like this one. For the moment, neither chose to make an issue of it.

  Orlanko turned to the three colonels. “Gentlemen. I have written a short statement, which I would like your officers to read to the men.” He took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “In addition, I want to make sure every man in your regiments is impressed with both the importance of this operation and its legitimac
y. Whatever their claims, the rebels have imprisoned our queen and taken illegal possession of the seat of Her Majesty’s government. I want no wavering or vacillation when the time comes to confront the traitors!”

  All three saluted and barked out assurances of their loyalty, but Orlanko was no longer listening.

  If we can recapture Raesinia, he thought, and clear Ohnlei of traitors, then we can reestablish order in the city. He would need to apply the whip with a firm hand, especially in the seditious districts south of the river and by the University. The mob thinks it has nothing to fear from Concordat. It must be taught otherwise. He wondered what had happened to Andreas, and hoped he hadn’t been killed. His talent for bloodshed would be useful in the days to come.

  Most of all, though, it all had to happen soon. Too long, and the Borels might start to wonder if their loans would be repaid. Too long, and the Pontifex of the Black would act, and what form that action would take Orlanko hardly dared to imagine. Time, time, all I need is time. A few days, a few weeks, and the rebellion would be crushed. The queen would be taught proper obedience.

  And Janus bet Vhalnich will be dying a slow, painful death.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WINTER

  Eight fresh bodies hung in front of the cathedral, roped by the neck and suspended from the rooftop crenellations. Four of them were Borelgai, three men still in their long fur capes and a woman in the shredded remains of an elegant dress. The other four, two men and two women, wore the drab clothes of Vordanai commoners. More Concordat, Winter supposed. The city seethed against the minions of the Last Duke, and more people were imprisoned as Concordat agents every day, on increasingly flimsy pretexts.

  Armed men flanked the main entrance in the sashes of the Patriot Guard, Greens on the left and Reds on the right, regarding each other with mutually hostile stares. Winter, wrapped in the plain black sash of a deputy, was admitted after only a cursory inspection.