“I’ll see if he’s willing, sir. If he is, I think we can trust him. His daughter is part of the group associated with Lieutenant Ihernglass’ contact.”
“I see. Excellent.” Janus clapped Marcus on the shoulder and smiled. “Off with you, then, Captain. We both have a great deal to do.”
—
It was, indeed, a busy day.
Giforte was nowhere to be found. According to the servants at the vice captain’s house, he hadn’t returned since the day the queen had surrendered to the deputies. Apart from that, though, his errands went swimmingly. The deputies had been a good deal more polite than Marcus had anticipated, which he suspected had a lot to do with the twenty armed Mierantai who accompanied him. Their uniforms were a bit rumpled, but they were well disciplined and made a sharp contrast to the sloppy Patriot Guard. Afterward, he’d managed to pass the word to Ihernglass before hurrying back to the Vendre to retrieve the queen.
Retrieve the queen. Marcus shook his head. Wouldn’t Mother be proud? Me, escorting the queen. Sleeping under the same roof as the queen, even!
The Twin Turrets occupied a very fine address, south of First Avenue and on the west side of Saint Vallax Street. It was a three-story stone manor set on a round, flat green, which was surrounded by a dense belt of colorful trees that mostly screened it from the view of its neighbors. The turrets that gave it its name were round and open-topped, rising from either end of the house and giving it a vaguely horned appearance. There had been surprisingly little looting and disorder on this side of the river, and along the front of the house the gardens were in full bloom.
It had obviously been locked up until recently, but by the time Marcus arrived the dust sheets had been taken off the furniture and a small squadron of staff was busy mopping the floors, hauling the art out of the attic, and generally making things presentable. Marcus recognized some of them from the Ohnlei cottage, more Mierantai imported by Janus from his home county. If they were intimidated at having the queen in the house, they didn’t show it.
Now it was morning. Marcus’ uniform had been thoroughly washed, dried, and folded overnight, and several of his shoddier pieces of kit, including his boots, had been replaced. His sword, old leather scabbard industriously buffed to a sheen it hadn’t had in years, lay on top of the pile. It was the kind of quiet efficiency that reminded him of Fitz Warus, or for that matter of Janus’ manservant Augustin. I wonder if all servants are like that in Mieran County. Or maybe, he thought, this was what it was like to be a noble—everything just happened, without your intervention or even your knowledge. It made him feel odd, as though the house were inhabited by helpful, invisible elves.
He came down from his bedroom—directly beneath one of the turrets, with a fine east view—and found the queen breakfasting in the dining room, attended by a servant and a pair of Mierantai guards. The table had been laid with an impressive meal, with a great river trout as the centerpiece, its head sitting in front of it on a separate plate and staring at Marcus with a resentful, fishy eye. It was buttressed by ham and bacon, buttered potatoes, diced eggs, and loaves of bread so steaming hot they could only have come from the house’s own ovens. Marcus’ stomach gave a growl at the sight of the food. The queen, he noticed, was only sipping at a glass of water and nibbling a heel of bread.
She was dressed plainly, in a sleeveless black dress with no jewels or ornamentation, her brown hair tied in a simple braid. Her pretty brown eyes were vague, focused on the middle distance, and Marcus could almost hear the brass wheels turning behind them. She looked for all the world like somebody’s younger sister, a skinny girl in her late teens, perhaps a touch too serious for her own good.
As opposed to a woman of twenty, and ruler in her own right of one of the most powerful nations in the world. He shook his head, bemused. Assuming that nation doesn’t fall down around her ears in the next couple of weeks.
“Are you going to join me, Captain?” she said.
They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other on the way over, and Marcus was at a loss for how to begin. He cleared his throat. “Would that be proper, Your Majesty?”
“Seeing as we’re not at Ohnlei, I think we can dispense with formal precedence. Besides, proper is whatever I say it is, isn’t it?”
“As you wish.” He bowed and pulled out a chair to sit beside her.
“And eat something, please. I don’t eat much, and I would hate for the chef to feel like his work had gone unappreciated.”
Marcus needed no urging on that score. His rations in the Vendre hadn’t been a prisoner’s bread and water, but they hadn’t been much better. He helped himself to a slice of the trout—what’s the point of leaving the head there—are we supposed to eat it?—and filled his plate with samples of the rest. Then he engaged in silent contemplation for some time while the queen watched, amused.
“Do all soldiers eat like that?” she said, when he’d cleaned his plate and started on a second round.
“Only when they’ve been locked up for a week,” Marcus said, and then added hastily, “Your Majesty.”
She smiled, took a small bite of her bread, and set it back.
“You’re not hungry?” he said.
“I never eat much,” she said. “Doctor-Professor Indergast says it may be an aftereffect of my illness, along with”—she gestured at herself and grinned ruefully—“my stature.”
“I didn’t know you were ailing, Your Majesty.”
“I was ill. This was four years ago—you would have already been in Khandar, I think. For a while they were certain I would die, but by the grace of God”—she had an odd look—“I survived. I suppose a diminished appetite is a small price to pay.” She waved at his plate. “Don’t let me put you off your food, of course.”
Marcus nodded, uncertainly, and looked down at this plate. It was still half-full, but his appetite had gone. He cut a bit more fish, for the look of the thing.
“They tell me that you’re to escort me to some sort of gathering Count Mieran has planned for this morning,” the queen said while he ate.
“Yes, Your Majesty. He asked for us an hour before noon.”
“The last time you came to escort me somewhere, we ended up jumping out a window.” She looked around the dining room, which was windowless and candlelit. “I hope that’s not the usual procedure, with you.”
“Ah . . . no, Your Majesty.”
There was a pause.
“That was an attempt at humor, Captain. A poor one, I admit, but you might at least smile.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m not accustomed to such lofty company.”
She shrugged. “You needn’t be so formal. Being shot at together creates a certain amount of familiarity, I think.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do you have any idea what the count might have planned for us?”
“He mentioned that he was going to make a speech to the deputies, and that you might make one as well.”
“I know. Fortunately, I’ve been composing one in my head ever since they locked me up. I spent last night writing it out.”
“I hope you got some sleep as well.”
“Enough for my needs,” she said. “You don’t know anything else about the count’s plan?”
“The colonel,” Marcus said, “that is, Count Mieran, is not in the habit of letting anyone know the whole of his plans.”
“That must be irritating,” the queen said, smiling very slightly.
“Sometimes. But it makes serving under him more interesting.” Not to mention dangerous, but he didn’t need to tell her that.
“Well. We’d best go find out, then.”
Marcus pushed his plate back and got to his feet. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“I wonder . . .” She hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have you heard from Sothe?” The queen set her jaw. “I’m certain she’s alive, somewhere. But she might need help. I thought you might know something.”
Marcus shook his head. “I’ve only been out of prison for a day and a half myself, Your Majesty, and the Armsmen have more or less disbanded. I don’t have any information, but there’s no reason I should. If you like, I can inquire with Count Mieran.”
“Please do.” The queen pushed herself back from the table and got to her feet. “Let’s be off.”
RAESINIA
A string of three carriages took them the short distance from the Twin Turrets to the edge of Farus’ Triumph, across Saint Vallax Bridge. Raesinia sat in the center one with Marcus and a pair of guards, while the rest of the squad rode in and on top of the other two. Janus clearly remembered what had happened last time, and he’d ordered the escort to take no chances.
Perhaps he has a specific reason to be worried. Raesinia had heard a dozen versions of the story of Danton’s assassination, but all agreed that the killer had worn a strange, glittering black mask. Most people assumed this was only the odd affectation of a lunatic—a man who had vanished in the midst of the crowd moments later—but Raesinia knew better. A mask like that figured in her darkest memories, reflecting the light of dozens of candles ringing her deathbed. The man who’d worn it had led her through an incomprehensible incantation, pausing every few moments as she coughed a little bit more of her life away. Raesinia, terrified and in pain, had done as she was told, even as she felt the binding trying to tear her soul to pieces. And when she’d finished . . .
The masks belonged to the Priests of the Black, the inquisitors of the Church, supposedly extinct for a hundred years. Where they’d struck once, they could strike again.
Of course, it would take more than a pistol for them to assassinate me. But getting shot in public would be extremely inconvenient, and it made her glad of Janus’ precautions.
The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun beat down with all the force of late summer. Farus’ Triumph was crowded, as it had been when Danton made his speeches, but something in the air had changed. Those assemblies had possessed a palpable, crackling energy, leaping from man to man, cresting in wild waves whenever the great orator reached a crescendo. Today the people looked tired and suspicious, wilting in the heat. The enthusiasm had been replaced by fear.
They’d demanded Vhalnich, and now they had him. But, each man asked his neighbor, what could even Vhalnich really do? They had no troops, no weapons, just a few hundred fools in black sashes and a lot of empty promises, and bread was more expensive than ever. Wouldn’t it be safer to hand the whole lot over to Orlanko? Hadn’t things, some might say, been better under the Last Duke? Say what you like, he’d made things work. The Concordat might have been brutal, but they were certainly efficient.
With the windows closed, Raesinia could hear none of this, of course. It was only a story she constructed in her mind, watching the sour faces as the carriages rolled past and imagining the whispers that followed in her wake. Marcus was staring out the windows, too, though she guessed he was more focused on potential threats. She felt better, having him along. There was something very solid and reliable about the captain, although she still missed the comforting knowledge that Sothe was out there watching.
The crowd was densest around the central fountain with its speaker’s rostrum. At Marcus’ suggestion, they halted the carriages and disembarked, the Mierantai guard forming around the pair of them in a tight cordon. People drew back from the unfamiliar uniforms, and protected by this flying wedge of soldiers Raesinia and Marcus made their way to the base of the fountain, where a clear space had been carved out by a ring of Patriot Guards. There was a moment of tension as the Mierantai and the Patriots faced off, but Janus’ orders had been specific. Most of the Mierantai peeled off, reinforcing the outer cordon, but four of the soldiers stayed with the queen and the captain as they passed beyond the ring of Patriots.
Inside the cordon of Guardsmen, the Deputies-General were milling around, staring up at the still-empty rostrum and fingering their black sashes. Raesinia saw Maurisk, his sash edged with gold, in the center of a knot of deputies. Winter and Cyte would be in there, too, she thought, but this wasn’t the time to seek them out. Let’s see how the speech goes over first.
A few eyes were turned in her direction, but for the most part people took little notice of her. There was nothing to mark out this girl in mourning dress as the queen. No great nobles or retinue attended her, just a few of Janus’ men and one blue-uniformed captain. Marcus drew more stares than she did; Royal Army uniforms were an uncommon sight in the city.
The agitation of the crowd warned her of Janus’ approach, accompanied by another wedge of Mierantai. There were even a few cheers, though these died quickly, like sparks falling on damp tinder. Janus himself strode ahead of his men, stopped in front of Raesinia, and bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“It seemed polite,” she said, “after your men rescued me from the Vendre.”
His lip quirked. “Do you have your speech ready?”
“I do.” It was written out on a few folded pages in her pocket. “Would you like me to start?”
“Please.” Janus clicked open his pocket watch, frowned, and returned it to his pocket. “A reasonably brief address would be best.”
“Why?”
He smiled again but said nothing. Raesinia exchanged a knowing look with Marcus, and shook her head.
“Captain,” she said, “would you do me the honor of introducing me, and asking for quiet?”
Marcus bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
They started up the circular staircase that led to the platform halfway up Farus V’s fantastic monument. It was, Raesinia noted inanely, quite high off the ground. For someone who had jumped from a tower roof on a regular basis, the little thrill in the pit of her stomach seemed ridiculous, but she felt it anyway. Two of the Mierantai stationed themselves at the base of the stairs, while the other pair followed her and Marcus up to the rostrum and waited just out of sight.
A startled, unsteady cheer rose from the crowd when she appeared, and people finally realized who they were looking at. For most of the people, she knew, this would be their initial look at the new queen. For the first time in her life, she wished that she were wearing something more impressive.
Marcus stepped to the edge of the rostrum and held up his hands, waiting for the cheers to die away. A hush fell over the square, a silence full of murmurs and rustles. When Marcus spoke, his words dropped into it like pebbles tossed into a bottomless pit.
“Welcome,” the captain said, then cleared his throat. “I have the honor to present Her Majesty Raesinia Orboan, Queen of Vordan. May God grace her and Karis’ favor protect her.”
The archaic form was echoed, first by the deputies, then by the crowd, in a ripple of muttered words spreading out from the fountain. Marcus bowed low to Raesinia and stepped out of the way. She squared her shoulders and walked to the edge of the platform.
She’d never done this. Arguing in the back of the Blue Mask was one thing, with a few friends who were half-drunk and wouldn’t hesitate to shout you down if they thought you were being a bore. Trying to convince the crowd in its gathered thousands, while they stared up in respectful, quizzical silence, was quite another. Raesinia felt her heart flutter, and she thrust one hand in her pocket and closed it into a fist around the folded copy of her speech. Down below, lined up at the edge of the fountain, the deputies waited. Maurisk’s piercing eyes were in the front row, glittering with rancor.
“The Kingdom of Vordan,” she said. She hated the sound of her voice, a little-girl voice, not the voice of a queen. At the moment, she would gladly have parted with her right arm for Danton’s effortless, rolling baritone. Concentrate on the words, she thought. Those, a
t least, had always been hers.
“The Kingdom of Vordan is the only nation in the world that came into being through the will of its own people. In the year nine hundred ninety-two, the year of the Great Flood, the people of Vordan became fed up with the petty barons who liked playing at war better than serving their people. They elected the Deputies-General to speak for them. Those deputies went to the one baron whom the people trusted, the one ruler whose land had prospered, the man who had defended his people in times of war and cared for them in times of trouble. To this man, they gave the crown, and said, ‘Please rule over us. Care for all the people, as you have cared for your own.’
“That man was Farus Orboan. Farus the Conqueror, we call him now, but it is important to remember that the deputies chose him before he won his fame on the battlefield. They chose him because they trusted him with the crown, in the name of the people. He would care for them, as a father cared for his children.
“The Sworn Church tells the King of Borel and the Emperor of Murnsk that they rule by divine right, that they are appointed by God and answer to no earthly authority. In Hamvelt and the League cities, rule is by the strongest or the richest, who think of nothing but lining their own pockets at the expense of others. Only here, in Vordan, do we understand that the Crown belongs to the people. My father understood that, and his father before him, and his father, all the way back to Farus the Conqueror. It is what has given us our strength in our most desperate hours. And my father taught me well . . .”
It wasn’t a bad speech, Raesinia thought, as she worked her way through it. She’d written most of it in preparation for her appearance at the opening of the Deputies-General, which the Last Duke had so rudely cut short. Some of the facts might not have stood up in the cut and thrust of debate at the Blue Mask—for example, the deputies of Farus I’s day had been the wealthy landowners, and their main complaint had been that the barons were infringing their ancient rights of rent and taxation. But it carried everything Raesinia believed, everything she and her friends had worked for, everything Ben and poor Danton had died for.
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 52
