The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  Raesinia privately thought that Cora would be happy she was alive, rather than angry at being fooled. But for Maurisk, finding out that Raesinia had been putting up a false front all this time was only one more example of the base treachery of the people in power. Out of all the cabal, he had burned the hottest with the ideological fire of rebellion.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave a curt nod. “As you say. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

  MARCUS

  Marcus guessed their plan was working when his guards delivered a freshly laundered uniform, soap, and a razor. He spent an hour making himself as presentable as he could with a basin and a hand mirror, stripping off his old, sweaty things with considerable relief. The new uniform—that of a captain in the army, not the green of the Armsmen—didn’t quite fit, but it was close, and when Marcus looked in the mirror and saw a neatly trimmed beard and white stripes on his shoulders, he felt closer to being himself than he had in a long time.

  Not long after, a polite young Patriot Guardsman came to fetch him. Accompanied by a squad of a half dozen men, they left the Vendre and made their way to the cathedral. But not directly, Marcus noticed. That would have taken them through Farus’ Triumph and Cathedral Square. Instead they circled around via Water Street and approached the cathedral from the rear, slipping in through an entrance to the long-disused kitchens. Marcus thought he could hear the roar of a mob, somewhere nearby, and he smiled.

  The Deputies-General reminded him of his visit with the Prince of Khandar at Fort Valor—a desperate attempt to recreate the trappings of something important, but assembled in such haste that it was little more than a lick of whitewash over rotten wood. They clustered on half-built bleachers, carrying on a dozen arguments at once, while overhead crude blue-and-silver banners covered up the Sworn Church emblems carved into the walls. The altar was screened behind a curtain.

  No one seemed to take any notice of him until the man at the rostrum called for silence. The guards on either side of him beat their muskets against the floor until everyone quieted down, but that only made the shouts of the crowd audible. They were muffled by the walls, but he could make out a rhythmic chant, repeated by thousands of voices.

  “Captain d’Ivoire,” said the president, a hollow-faced young man Marcus remembered vaguely from the fall of the Vendre. “I’m glad you could join us, and I apologize for the circumstances, and for your own confinement. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” Marcus inclined his head. “I am always prepared to serve Vordan.”

  He scanned the rows of anxious faces on the bleachers until he found Ihernglass. He was still in his feminine disguise—honestly, Marcus thought it wasn’t terribly convincing, but he hadn’t had the heart to say so—wearing a dark coat and the black sash of a deputy. When he caught Marcus’ eye, he nodded, very slightly. Marcus worked hard to keep a straight face.

  “It is good to see such loyalty in a military man,” the president said. “I regret to say that many of your colleagues have chosen to betray this assembly, proclaimed by the queen herself and chosen by the people. You may have heard that several regiments of the Royal Army are on their way to the city as we speak.”

  “I have heard that,” Marcus admitted.

  “One of our own, the valiant Deputy Peddoc, took it on his own initiative to try to stop them. This assembly did not give its approval”—here the president glared at a cluster of deputies on the left—“and his actions were therefore illegal, but no one can question his courage, or that of those who marched with him. Unfortunately, it appears that they have been . . .” He searched for a word.

  “Crushed?” Marcus said. The president winced but nodded. Marcus shrugged. “I’m not surprised. As a military man, I could have told you that taking an untrained militia into the field against heavy cavalry was foolish in the extreme. I imagine they broke at the first charge of the cuirassiers.”

  “So it would seem,” the president said. “Captain, I hope you can see our dilemma. It is our charge to protect the people of this country, this city, against the foreigners who would usurp the throne and impose their taxes and religion on us. Those most capable of doing this are obviously the officers of Her Majesty’s Royal Army. And yet—”

  “You don’t trust us,” Marcus said.

  “I would rather say—”

  “Say what you mean. I don’t fault you, because you’re right. When it comes down to it, I suspect most officers would obey an order from the Minister of War over one from a self-appointed ‘assembly’ holding the queen hostage.”

  Someone stood up on the right side of the bleachers. “Her Majesty is not a hostage!”

  “Is she free to leave, then?” Marcus said.

  “She will be,” the deputy said, “once our new constitution is written and the status of the deputies is confirmed. But ‘hostage’ implies that we might bring her harm, and I for one would resign from this assembly if that were even suggested!”

  “That’s how we can get rid of you, then!” said a voice from the left, followed by chuckles and shouts of disapproval.

  “The status of the queen,” the president cut in, “has yet to be determined. But I remind you that she sanctioned the deputies, voluntarily ceding power to the representatives of the people—”

  “You can explain that to the colonels of those regiments, then,” Marcus said. “I’m sure the Last Duke won’t mind.”

  More laughter. The Guards slammed their muskets for quiet.

  “And what about you, Captain d’Ivoire?” said the president, once the tumult had calmed. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

  “With the queen and the nation, of course,” Marcus said. “And the men under my command.”

  “That’s a nicely elliptical response.”

  “Look,” Marcus said. “We all know that’s not the question you brought me here to answer. Why don’t you come out and ask it?”

  The president snorted. “As you wish. The suggestion has been put to this assembly that there is an officer of exceptional ability in the city, and that we ought to place our defense in his hands.”

  “And?”

  “You served with him, I understand. In your opinion, is he all he is said to be?”

  “That, and more,” Marcus said. “I haven’t read everything that’s been written on the Khandarai campaign, but what I’ve seen in the papers if anything understates the case. Anyone who was there could tell you.”

  “People who were there are hard to come by,” the president said dryly. “So you think he would be up to the task?”

  “I would be willing to try it, under him,” Marcus said. “And that’s more than I can say for anyone else.”

  “But the more important question, Captain, is can we trust him?” The president waved toward the main doors. “He is . . . a hero. Beloved of the people. Will he accept the authority of the deputies? Or would he be another Orlanko, and seize power for himself?”

  “I believe he is loyal to his queen and his country.”

  “That’s not good enough!” said a deputy from the right.

  “If he serves only the queen,” said one from the left, “she might have the power to overturn everything we’ve accomplished—”

  “Gentlemen!” Marcus said. “Could I ask you to open those doors?”

  The Guardsmen looked at the president, who looked at Marcus for a long moment, then nodded. Two Guardsmen by the main doors pulled them open, and the sound of the crowd outside redoubled.

  “You claim to represent the people,” Marcus said, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Well, there they are! I think they’ve made their wishes clear.” He looked up at the president. “Unless one of you would like to go out there and explain it to them?”

  The president’s sunken eyes met Marcus’. His lips tightened until they were white.

  “It see
ms,” he said, “that we have no choice.”

  “Vhalnich!” The roar of the crowd crashed through the cathedral like ocean waves. “Vhal-nich, Vhal-nich, Vhal-nich!”

  “No,” Marcus said. “I don’t think you do.”

  On the way back to the Vendre, the Patriot Guard walked behind him, an escort instead of a prisoner detail. It was a subtle difference, but one that Marcus could appreciate. They left in the same roundabout manner they’d arrived, so as not to get bogged down, but Marcus could hear the cheers of the crowd as the good news was announced.

  The look the president had given him before sending him off had been pure poison, though. I’ll have to tell Janus to watch out for that one.

  The Guards at the Vendre had gotten the news, too, and they stood aside as Marcus entered. Some of them even saluted inexpertly as he passed. He went directly to the third floor of the tower, where a large room directly underneath the queen’s had been given over to the Vendre’s second most important prisoner.

  The guard by the door unlocked it and stepped formally out of the way. Marcus put his hand on the latch, hesitated, then knocked.

  “Come in,” Janus said.

  Marcus opened the door. The cell was much like his own, though larger and slightly better furnished. Janus was sitting at a round table with a stack of letters. He signed the page under his hand with a flourish, set his pen aside, and sprinkled the ink with fine sand from a dish. Only then did he look up and favor Marcus with one of his there-and-gone-again smiles.

  “Ah, Captain. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, sir.”

  Marcus felt as though it had been ages since he’d laid eyes on the colonel, but Janus behaved as though he’d stepped out of the room only moments earlier. He, also, was clean-shaven and in a fresh uniform, not the fancy courtier’s getup but the plain blue field uniform of an army colonel. The silver eagles on his shoulders gleamed.

  Janus put his letter carefully on top of the others. “You’re here, I assume, to tell me that the deputies have decided to put me in charge of the city’s defense?”

  Marcus felt his mouth hang open for a moment. He closed it, firmly. “Someone’s already told you, sir?”

  “Not at all. The guards are very careful when they speak to me.”

  “Then—” Marcus gritted his teeth. “Don’t tell me this was part of the plan all along.”

  Janus looked up at him, surprised. After a moment, he laughed. “Oh no, Captain. No, only simple logic. After the arrests, there were only two logical courses for the deputies to take, and one of them was to put me in charge.”

  “What was the other?”

  “To have me executed, obviously. But if they were going to do that, they’d hardly send you to bring the news.” He tidied the edge of the stack of letters, picked it up, and got to his feet. “Shall we go?”

  In the corridor outside, they waited while the Guard fetched Janus’ sword, and Marcus explained what he knew of what had been happening, including Peddoc’s march and Orlanko’s subsequent victory.

  “It’s too bad they didn’t send for you sooner,” Marcus said. “After what happened to Peddoc, it’s not going to be easy to get people to fight.”

  “True,” Janus said. “On the other hand, it buys us time.”

  “How so? There’s nothing stopping Orlanko from marching on the city.”

  “He won’t do that if he can possibly avoid it. Fighting in the city itself could lead to a long battle, and give his troops the chance to change their minds about their allegiance, not to mention causing considerable damage. Peddoc gave him exactly what he wanted, a nice quick victory in the open field. Now that he has it, he’ll try to convince the deputies to surrender.”

  Marcus nodded. “That makes sense. Quite a few of them looked a little queasy with the way things are going. If Orlanko gave them an out, they’d probably take it.”

  “And end up on the scaffold just as soon as he got things under control. We need to make it clear to them that the Last Duke is not to be trusted, whatever he offers.”

  The guard returned, carrying not only Janus’ thin sword but Marcus’ battered old saber. He buckled it on and was surprised at how much better he felt with the familiar weight on his hip.

  “Incidentally,” Janus said, “I’m impressed that you managed to persuade the deputies to order my release so quickly. I was worried they might wait until it was too late.”

  “I had help with that, sir. Lieutenant Ihernglass is still on assignment”—he waggled his eyebrows suggestively—“and he’s made some very useful contacts. They were able to spread the notion that putting the hero of Khandar in charge would be just the thing.”

  “I . . . see.” Janus had an odd expression for a moment, then shook his head. “You’ll have to bring me up to date on the lieutenant’s activities, but some other time. Are Lieutenant Uhlan and his men being held here at the Vendre?”

  Marcus glanced at one of the guards, who gave an awed nod. Janus fixed the man with those huge gray eyes.

  “Bring them down to the common room, if you would, and find me a candle and a stick of sealing wax.” He flourished the stack of papers. “I have messages that need delivering.”

  “You wrote all those out on the assumption they were going to put you in charge, rather than execute you?” Marcus said, as they went downstairs.

  “Indeed. I had time on my hands, so I thought I might as well get something accomplished. If they decided the other way, well, no harm done.”

  “No harm done.” Marcus shook his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but you can be very odd at times.”

  Janus cocked his head. “Really, Captain? It seems perfectly logical to me.”

  —

  An hour later, about a dozen of the Mierantai had been mounted on horses from the prison stables and sent riding in various directions, though to what end Marcus had no idea. The rest—almost a hundred men—had been returned their red-and-blue uniforms and their long hunting rifles. Lieutenant Uhlan led them out in a double column through the front gate, with Janus and Marcus strolling between them.

  “The deputies asked me to bring you to the cathedral,” Marcus said. “I imagine they want you to swear eternal loyalty and listen to speeches.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint them,” Janus said. “There is a great deal to be done, and time may be very short. Can I rely on you for a few of the more sensitive tasks?”

  Marcus instinctively straightened to attention. “Of course, sir.”

  “First, you must deliver my regrets to the deputies. Tell them I would be honored if they would join me in Farus’ Triumph tomorrow, an hour before noon, and that I will be more than happy to swear any required oaths there in public.”

  Marcus nodded. “They may not like that.”

  “If we survive the next few days, I’ll happily take up the issue with them. For now, time is of the essence.”

  “Yessir.”

  “After that, get in touch with Lieutenant Ihernglass. Ask him to spread the word among his Southside contacts that the new commander will be giving a speech in the Triumph tomorrow. We’ll want a crowd.”

  Marcus nodded. Privately he wondered what, exactly, Janus had in mind, but he knew better than to ask. The colonel would share his plans when he thought it was important, but he had a taste for the theatrical, and he loved to whip away the bedsheet at the last minute to show that the lady had vanished. It was a failing in a senior officer, Marcus thought, but as such things went, a fairly minor one.

  “After that,” Janus went on, “I need you to fetch the queen from the Vendre.”

  Marcus blinked. “The queen, sir? I mean . . . I’m not sure . . .”

  “Lieutenant Uhlan will assign you a squad, but if the Guards give you any trouble, please direct them to me. And I would think you would be on famil
iar terms with Her Majesty after your adventure in the palace garden.”

  “That’s true, sir. I’m sorry. It caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Marcus had a space in his mind labeled “Queen,” and he couldn’t quite make the waifish young woman he’d escorted from the palace fit into it. “Where would you like me to take her?”

  “There’s a manor house called the Twin Turrets on Saint Vallax’s, not far from Bridge Street, that I happen to own. I’ll send another squad there to make sure it’s secure, and we’ll use that as our headquarters. You can take Her Majesty there, and bring her to the Triumph in the morning.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “After that . . .” Janus paused. “Your vice captain of Armsmen. Giforte, was it?”

  “Yessir. Alek Giforte.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He’s . . . a good man, I think. Cautious. The men have—had—a great deal of respect for him. He’s been vice captain a long time, and quite a few captains have come and gone. He more or less ran the place. But . . .”

  Janus quirked an eyebrow. Marcus hesitated.

  “He’s been doing jobs for Orlanko. ‘Fixing’ things.”

  “Logical, I suppose,” Janus said. “He’d need someone in the organization. I assume Orlanko had some hold over him?”

  Marcus nodded. “Debt.”

  “Ah, the old standard.” Janus fixed Marcus with a curious stare. “His credibility with the Armsmen would be an asset. Do you think we can use him?”

  “I . . .” Marcus paused again. “I think his loyalty is in the right place, sir. But the Armsmen don’t really exist anymore. Some of them joined up with the Greens, and they’re probably Orlanko’s prisoners. The rest are lying low, I would think.”

  “We’re going to need them, Captain. Along with every other man in the city with any kind of military training. Track down Giforte and sound him out, see if he’d be willing to serve the queen against the duke. If you think he’s trustworthy, have him start rounding up Armsmen. Not just the current ones, either. Any retired men who can still hold a musket would be welcome.”