The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “This is ridiculous,” Winter said, as they climbed toward the third floor. “We could break someone out of this place with a gang of eight-year-olds.”

  Jane rolled her eyes in agreement. They walked down a short corridor and stopped in front of the door they wanted, which was guarded by an older man wearing a red-striped sash. He straightened up when he caught sight of them, bringing his musket to his shoulder and trying to pull in his sagging belly.

  “We need to speak to the prisoner,” Winter said, as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Ah . . . ,” he managed.

  “Deputies’ business,” she deadpanned.

  He nodded. “I . . . that is . . . whose business, exactly?”

  “I’m Deputy Winter Ihernglass,” Winter said. “And this is Deputy Jane Verity.”

  The first name obviously meant nothing to him, but the second brought him up short. “Jane Verity? You mean Mad Jane?” His eyes flicked to Jane. “That’s her?”

  “That’s right,” Jane said, smiling in a way that was not particularly friendly. “Mad Jane.”

  He was sweating, but he managed a salute and started fumbling for his keys. “Let me get the door open, sir. Ma’am. Miss.”

  The room beyond was less a cell than a small bedroom, with a narrow gun slit for light and a worn but serviceable bed, desk, table, and chairs. At the desk sat Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, looking a little bit worse for wear. His uniform was creased and sweat-stained, his beard was ragged, and his cheeks carried a week’s worth of stubble. Winter’s stomach did a nervous flip at the sight of him, and before he could look up she grabbed Jane’s arm and pulled her away from the door and the guard.

  “You remember what I told you, right?” Winter whispered urgently. “About me.”

  “I think so,” Jane said. “He knows you’re you, but he thinks that you’re dressed up as a girl to fool me.” She smiled wickedly. “Maybe he’s right, and you’re just doing a hell of a job—”

  “I know it’s ridiculous, all right? Just . . . don’t say anything. I’ll work it all out later.”

  “Does he know that I know that he knows you are who he thinks you are?” Jane cocked her head, trying to think about that, and went cross-eyed. “Never mind. I’ll be good.”

  “All right.” Winter took a deep breath, smoothed her shirt, and stepped into the room. Jane followed and closed the door behind her.

  “Good . . . morning,” Marcus said, slowly. He looked from Winter to Jane, obviously trying to work his way through the same mental gyrations as Jane had done a moment earlier, and wondering what he should admit to knowing.

  Winter decided she would never laugh at the plot of those penny-opera farces again. She gritted her teeth for a moment, then said, “Hello, Captain. This is Jane Verity. She knows I’m with the army, so speak freely.”

  “I see.” Marcus blinked and scratched his ragged beard. “All right. Hello, Ihernglass, Jane.” He paused. “You wouldn’t be this ‘Mad’ Jane that everyone—”

  “That’s me,” Jane said. “I think we met the last time I was in this place, but I don’t blame you for being preoccupied.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Marcus said. “I’m assuming you’re not just here to check on me? There seems to be some kind of commotion outside.”

  “Do you get any news in here?” Winter said.

  “Not much. The guards let things slip sometimes, but it’s mostly rumor.”

  Winter gave him a condensed explanation of what had been happening at the Deputies-General in the week since the queen’s surrender. Jane also listened with interest, adding a few colorful expletives and comments on the situation in the Docks. By the end, Marcus was shaking his head.

  “Saints and martyrs,” he said. “I never thought it would get so bad.”

  “It gets worse,” Winter said. “This morning we got the news that Orlanko’s left Midvale with the Royal Army troops quartered there. Peddoc is out in the square right now gathering a force to go and meet him.”

  “To meet him? He must be crazy.” Marcus glanced at the window, which looked to the north, out over the river. “Assuming the regulars will fight—”

  “I think they will,” Jane said. “At least, if we meet them armed, in an open field.”

  “So do I,” Marcus said grimly. “It’s going to be a slaughter.”

  “I had a plan,” Winter said. “I thought we might be able to persuade the deputies to name you commander of the Guard, if Jane threw her weight behind you. A lot of people remember the way you acted at the Vendre, how you protected the prisoners. But Peddoc seems to have stolen a march on us.”

  “Peddoc,” Marcus said to himself. “I knew a Peddoc at the College. Count Volmire’s son. It’s not him out there, is it?”

  “I think so,” Winter said.

  “Hell. He was always a twit. Never made it through his lieutenancy.”

  “Now he’s claiming command of the Guard based on his ‘military experience,’” Jane put in.

  There was a glum silence.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Jane said.

  “The deputies obviously can’t stop Peddoc from leaving,” Winter said. “Or they would have already. Once he’s gone, though . . .”

  “You think you can convince them to put Captain d’Ivoire in charge of the leftovers?”

  Marcus held up his hands. “I’m touched by your confidence, but I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  “I thought . . .” Winter took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sensation of the plan that had seemed so good this morning crumbling around her ears. “If we could train the Guard, properly, I mean, we might be able to keep Orlanko out of the city.”

  “Vordan won’t stand a siege,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Too many mouths to feed, and there aren’t any defenses.”

  “Then what? Just give up?”

  Marcus shrugged. “It’s a possibility. Speaking as someone who’d probably lose his head, I’m against it.”

  Winter glanced at Jane, and her lips tightened. Speaking of people who would lose their heads . . .

  “I’m open to suggestions,” she said.

  “Look. We both know that even if you’d managed to put me in charge, I wouldn’t be able to stop Orlanko.” He paused. “And we both know that if you did want to try, there’s only one person I’d put money on.”

  Winter bit her lip. “Janus.”

  “Janus,” Marcus said.

  “Janus, as in Count Mieran?” Jane said. “The Minister of Justice?”

  “He beat thirty thousand Khandarai with one regiment of infantry,” Marcus said. “If you’re looking for someone to put in charge, he’s your man.”

  “I don’t doubt that he’s a genius,” Jane said, in a tone that implied she doubted it very much. “But can we trust him? He’s a noble, after all, and obviously he was close to the old king.”

  Winter and Marcus exchanged a look. Winter could tell the captain was thinking along the same lines she was, about the temple in the desert and the Thousand Names.

  Can we trust him?

  “I can’t speak for the long run,” Winter said, slowly. “But I know for certain that he hates Orlanko and the Borels.”

  Marcus nodded. “His head is on the block, too, if Orlanko returns.”

  “But I don’t think the deputies would agree,” Winter went on. “Janus is too popular with the mob.”

  “Even after he ordered Danton’s arrest?” Marcus asked.

  “In the streets they’re blaming that on the Last Duke,” Jane said. “Janus is still ‘the conqueror of Khandar.’ That counts for a lot right now.”

  “All right, he’s a hero. So much the better, I would think,” Marcus said.

  “It means the deputies won’t trust him,” Jane said.

  Winter nodded. “The
y were terrified of handing over leadership, even to someone like Peddoc, for fear that he would turn the Guard against them. As far as they’re concerned, someone with Janus’ reputation might try to set himself up as king.”

  “We need him,” Marcus said. “Even if you could convince the deputies to put me in command, I wouldn’t take it. Better to surrender than to fight and give Orlanko an excuse for brutality. If we had Janus . . .” He shrugged. “I would fight, if he thought it could be done.”

  “Maybe if we had him address the deputies?” Winter said. “He’s not Danton, but he can speak when he needs to.” She was thinking of the mutiny in the desert, and by his wince Marcus was, too. “But—”

  “You’re going at it backward,” Jane said.

  Winter and Marcus both turned to her.

  “You’re thinking of the deputies like a kind of collective king,” she said. “But it’s different. They have only as much power as the people are willing to give them. We don’t have to argue them into it. We just have to convince them.”

  —

  The commotion had calmed down by the time Winter and Jane left the Vendre. Those Guards who were going to join Peddoc had gone, leaving mostly Reds with a scattering of unconvinced Greens. A few of these had regained enough alertness to give odd looks to the two young women strolling out of the prison, and Winter smiled at them serenely.

  As they passed out through the main gate, Jane said suddenly, “Do you really think this will work?”

  Winter blinked. “It was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Not that part. Once Janus is in command, do you really think he can stop Orlanko?”

  “If he can’t, no one can.”

  Jane shook her head. “That’s not good enough. Captain d’Ivoire was right. We could surrender.”

  “Assuming Peddoc loses . . .”

  Jane snorted.

  “If we surrender, Orlanko will certainly round up any traitors he can catch. That means you and me.”

  “We could get away.” Jane grinned wickedly. “You escaped from Mrs. Wilmore. How much harder could it be to get away from the Last Duke?”

  “And leave everyone behind? The Leatherbacks, your girls?” Winter hesitated only slightly. “Abby?”

  “If we don’t surrender, they’ll fight, and maybe die. And if we lose, you know what Orlanko would do to the city.”

  It was all too easy to picture. Blue-uniformed soldiers in the streets, and black-coats smashing down doors, dragging people into the night . . .

  “I don’t want to pull everyone into that,” Jane said, “just to save our skins. Not if you don’t think we can win.”

  Winter thought about this for a long moment. “I’ll give Janus this much. If he thinks we can win, then it’s possible. And if he doesn’t think so, he’d say it. I think the best we can do is put him in charge, one way or another.”

  “All right.” Jane stretched and cracked her knuckles over her head, the old wicked smile creeping across her face. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RAESINIA

  The setting sun painted a pale crimson line through the gun slit in Raesinia’s chamber on the top floor of the Vendre. It was a spacious room, and some effort had been made in the way of hangings and furniture to make it into a fit habitation for a queen. No amount of carpets or tapestries could conceal the thickness of the stone walls, though, or the fact that the door was locked from the outside and watched by the Patriot Guard day and night. The gun slit was not large enough to squeeze through, even for a prisoner like Raesinia who was willing to chance the four-story fall.

  It was from just above here, after all, that she’d fallen with Faro.

  She wondered if she could have avoided that, somehow. Was there some point on the twisting path where she could have taken a different turn, so that Ben wouldn’t have been killed, Faro wouldn’t have turned traitor? So that it wouldn’t have come to this, waiting in a cell barely a week after her father’s death. Some history the reign of Queen Raesinia will make.

  Still. Better the Deputies-General than Orlanko. Better the mob than the Church and its demons. It was a small comfort, but it was all she had. If that wasn’t true, if the people weren’t better off, then everything she’d done was both monumentally selfish and ultimately pointless, given how it had ended up. She wasn’t sure she could live with that.

  Not that I have a choice in the matter.

  There was a knock at the door. Raesinia sat up in bed. Servants came and went all the time, but they didn’t knock. She’d had no other visitors.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you have a moment to see me, Your Majesty,” came a voice from outside. It took Raesinia a moment to recognize it as Maurisk’s. He sounded hoarse.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come in.”

  She stood up and crossed to the table as he entered. There was a crystal pitcher of water there, and a bowl of fruit.

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer much in the way of hospitality,” she said. “But help yourself.”

  Maurisk didn’t smile. His thin face didn’t seem made for smiles, and since she’d last seen him it had grown even less cheerful. His eyes were sunken and dark, almost bruised, and his cheekbones stood out sharply through his thin, pale flesh.

  He was dressed more respectably than in their Blue Mask days, complete with the black sash of a deputy, trimmed with a band of cloth-of-gold. One hand tugged at the sash constantly, adjusting it this way and that. His lips were tight and cold.

  He said nothing while the guard shut the door behind him, only stared hard at Raesinia’s face. She felt herself flush under the scrutiny, and put on her haughtiest expression.

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said flatly. “Raesinia Smith. It was you all along. I got a look at you on the bridge, and I thought . . . But I wasn’t sure.”

  Raesinia put a hand on the table to steady herself, and said nothing.

  “I can see how you thought no one would notice,” Maurisk said. He started to pace, as he had done a thousand times in the back room of the Mask. “After all, who actually meets the princess? Only courtiers at Ohnlei. So you sneak out in the middle of the night for—what, a bit of fun?”

  “Fun?” Raesinia’s cheeks colored. “You think I did this for fun?”

  “Why, then?”

  “For all the reasons I told you! Because if someone didn’t stop him, Duke Orlanko was going to take the throne and end up selling the country to the Borels. Because my father was dying and there was nobody at Ohnlei I could trust.” Except Sothe, she added silently, and felt her throat thicken. Sothe, where are you?

  “But you couldn’t trust us with who you really were?” He shook his head. “No, of course not. You never really trusted us. If you’d let us in on your plans, things might have gone differently.”

  “I did the best I could.”

  Maurisk laughed mirthlessly. “The world’s most popular epitaph.”

  Raesinia glared at him, her fingers tightening on the tabletop. Maurisk reached the wall, turned around, and started back toward her.

  “What happened, that night on the wall?” He stopped just in front of her and brushed the hair back from her temple. “I saw Faro shoot you. I know I did. And yet—”

  “I had a . . . double.” Raesinia had had plenty of time to think about her story. “Lauren. A girl who looked like me. We used her at court, sometimes, when I needed to get away. That last night, when Rose planned to unmask Faro, she told me I should stay behind and Lauren should go in my place. I didn’t want to, but . . .”

  “I guessed it would be something like that,” Maurisk said. “So it’s just another body to lay at your door. Along with Ben, and Faro, and poor, stupid Danton.”

  “We did what we needed to do. You know tha
t.” Raesinia waved a hand at the door and the Patriot Guard beyond. “All this was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe that is why it vexes me,” Maurisk said. “You . . . you used us. But, in the end, it came out right.”

  “Perhaps God has a sense of irony.”

  “Perhaps.” Maurisk put his hand in his pocket, and she heard the crinkle of paper. “Or perhaps not. Orlanko is on his way back, you see, with seven thousand Royal Army regulars. A group of our men went off to try to stop them, and we’ve just heard the results of the battle.” He shook his head. “If you can call it a battle. The deputies are terrified.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” He sighed. “That’s why I came to see you. Tomorrow morning the deputies will meet, perhaps for the last time. They may want you to come out and take charge of the city yourself. Or they may decide we ought to hand you over to Orlanko and save our skins. Either way, I thought this might be our last chance to . . . talk.”

  “What do you want from me?” Raesinia said. “An apology?”

  “You know, I have no idea. I thought I would come here, confront you, force you to break down and admit the truth. After that . . .” He shrugged.

  “Are you going to tell everyone, now that you’ve got it?”

  “I suppose I can’t, can I? What good would it do now?” Maurisk stalked back and forth. “You ought to pay for treating people like they were . . . like they were game pieces, but the truth is we still need you for our game.”

  “Will you tell me something?”

  He turned, eyes burning. “What?”

  “Are the others all right? I know Danton died at the cathedral. What about Sarton, and Cora?”

  Maurisk snorted. “You expect me to believe that you care?”

  “Please,” Raesinia said, quietly.

  He paused, then shook his head. “They’re all right. Sarton is working with the Guard on some secret project. Cora sits in the Deputies and doesn’t say much.” He scowled. “She loved you like you were her own sister, you know. If I told her what you’d done . . .”