“I know.” Cora leaned back against the desk, studying Raesinia more closely. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Raesinia admitted. Not physically—she couldn’t sleep, much less get tired—but there were other kinds of weariness. She sat down heavily on the bed, which creaked. “It’s just... it never ends, you know? While we were fighting a war it was hard for everyone, but it felt... worthwhile, I guess. If we could get to peace. Now we’re there, almost, and...” And I can see the rest of my life stretching out in front of me, formal dresses and balls and arguing with the Deputies. Until I have to fake my own death and leave forever.
“I wish I could help.” Cora looked haunted.
“You are helping,” Raesinia said. “This place would have fallen apart without you. Honestly. You’re a hero, Cora.”
“I’m...” Cora flushed, pale face turning a brilliant scarlet. She changed the subject, her smile turning wicked. “Speaking of heroes. Have you seen Marcus?”
“We’re having dinner tonight. Assuming nothing comes up.”
“You sound worried. What happened?”
“Nothing.” Raesinia sighed. “That’s the problem, really.”
Cora was the only one Raesinia had thus far told about what she and Marcus had shared. For Cora, it was storybook romance, plain and simple, the queen and heroic general and a love for the ages. Sometimes Raesinia agreed with her. When she looked back on that night, the horrible moment when she’d thought he’d turned her down, the first, tentative kiss, it made her feel warm and giddy both at once. The feeling of having done something unspeakably dangerous and survived. And there were times, looking at Marcus, when she wanted to grab hold of him and never let go.
Somehow, when they actually met, things were always more complicated. Marcus was... polite. Always polite, always courteous, and always just the slightest bit distant. Even when they managed to get out of sight for a few moments to steal a kiss, it was so careful. It was as though, having admitted their love for each other, they were each waiting for the other to make the next move.
“It’s Ohnlei,” Raesinia said. “Something about this place. I grew up here, and being back makes me... remember who I am. And I think it reminds Marcus of the same thing.”
“You need to tell everyone,” Cora said. “You don’t have to sneak around behind your parents’ backs. You’re the queen.”
“It’s not that simple,” Raesinia said. “Things are fragile right now. Marcus is a hero, and he’s the highest-ranking officer in the army. If I announce that we’re—engaged, the Deputies-General might think I’m trying to secure my authority and displace them.”
“You love him, and you’re worried about what the Deputies will think?”
“And the people. The press. Other countries.” Raesinia gave a wan smile. “That’s what it means, being queen.”
Besides, she thought, it isn’t like he’s pushing to take things further. It wasn’t as though she wanted Marcus to toss her on the bed and tear her dress off—not really, I suppose—but she had to admit she would have appreciated a little more evidence of... interest. Maybe it’s that I look closer to Cora’s age than his. She always pushed that thought away, but it came back every time she saw herself in the mirror.
Cora flopped down next to her on the narrow bed and put an arm around her shoulders. Raesinia felt faintly ridiculous—here’s the Queen of Vordan, weighed down with boy troubles, being comforted by the Deputy Minister of Finance—but she leaned against Cora’s shoulder nonetheless.
“It’ll be all right,” Cora said. “Things will calm down eventually.”
“How long do I have, though?” Raesinia’s voice was a whisper. “Before someone starts asking questions. Five years? Ten?”
“You’ll deal with it when they do,” Cora said. “I’ll help, and so will Marcus.”
“Thanks.” Raesinia took a deep breath. “And you’re right. Once the treaty is signed, Marcus and I will have to... move forward.”
“Or,” Cora said, “when he comes over tonight, you could—”
She whispered the rest, like a guilty schoolgirl, and Raesinia laughed out loud. “Can you imagine the look on his face?”
“All too easily,” Cora said. She puffed out her cheeks and lowered her voice. “Hum, hum. I hardly think that’s appropriate, Your Highness.”
“He’s not that bad,” Raesinia said, still laughing. “He’s just... cautious.”
There was a knock at the door, and Eric’s voice came from outside. “Your Highness?”
“Damn.” Raesinia gave Cora a squeeze. “Thanks. Really. Being queen is a little suffocating sometimes.”
“We could always sneak out, like in the old days. I hear they’ve rebuilt the Blue Mask.”
“Are you sure you’re old enough for that?”
They dissolved into laughter again, ignoring Eric’s plaintive voice for a few moments longer.
*
Thank God for Cora. With Sothe gone, there was no one else Raesinia could talk to honestly. It felt like a clean breath after a smoke-shrouded room.
“Deputy d’Andorre will be waiting,” Eric complained as they walked quickly through the corridors of the palace.
“It won’t kill him to wait for the queen,” Raesinia said.
“It might annoy him,” Eric said. “And we need his help. While the Liberals hold the balance of the Deputies, d’Andorre is in charge.”
“As much as anyone is.” The Liberals were less a political party than a menagerie of tiny factions, united only by their dislike of the old, entrenched structures of power. They had emerged as the leading force mostly by default—the Conservatives had been broken with the fall of the Directory, and the Radicals, opposed to the war, had seen their support wither as the tide turned in Vordan’s favor. “D’Andorre can’t keep his own people in line, much less unite the rest.”
“He’s still very influential.”
“I know.” Raesinia sighed. “I’ll apologize, all right?”
There were a variety of royal receiving rooms, where the monarch could meet anyone from a peasant to a full delegation from a foreign court. This was one of the less ostentatious ones, the furniture expensive but not gilded, the walls hung with portraits of kings past. Raesinia spent a moment in the small anteroom making sure she still looked presentable, then bustled in with Joanna and Barely in her wake.
“Deputy d’Andorre!”
He stood smoothly from the sofa and gave her a deep bow. Fashion among the Liberals had tended toward the patriotic of late, and d’Andorre was dressed accordingly in a sober, dark blue suit with silver piping and an almost military cut. He was a short, solidly built man with wings of gray in his hair and a fashionable queue. By the standards of the new Vordanai politics, Chrest d’Andorre was an elder statesman, having survived the rough-and-tumble of the Deputies since the very beginning, mostly by not being important enough to notice. The Liberals had a reputation for being more interested in abstract political philosophy than in taking power, which had kept them safely out of the fray during the revolution and the Directory’s attempted coup. Now that the wheel of politics had come full circle, Raesinia wondered what d’Andorre would do with his newfound authority.
“Your Highness.”
“I apologize if you were kept waiting.” The passive non-apology, an ever-useful tool of statecraft. My old tutors would be proud. “Please, sit.”
She took a chair opposite the sofa, and d’Andorre sat stiffly across from her.
“I don’t intend to take up much of your time, Your Highness,” he said. “I’ll be frank. My constituents—and many of my colleagues in the Deputies—have urged me to come and ask certain questions directly. I have enormous respect for the Crown, so I have been hesitant, but our deliberations have reached a point where your position must be made clear.”
“I see,” Raesinia said, keeping her expression carefully bland. She wasn’t sure if he was beating around the
bush for a reason, or if d’Andorre was one of those politicians constitutionally incapable of coming directly to a point. “By all means, then, ask your questions.”
“They concern the nature of the authority of the Ministry of War. I understand that in the late campaign you undertook to issue orders directly to the commanders of the Grand Army?”
“In an emergency,” Raesinia said. “The army was on the point of starvation, and both the First Consul and Column-General d’Ivoire were missing.”
“The army has a chain of command for a reason,” d’Andorre said. “We—my colleagues and I—feel that this sets a dangerous precedent. Do you, at the present moment, consider yourself still in command of the Grand Army?”
“Of course not,” Raesinia said. “And I’d be happy to say so officially to the Minister of War, but as I understand it, you still haven’t managed to decide on one.”
“Negotiations on that point are proceeding,” d’Andorre said. “But I’m glad to hear your answer. Some of my colleagues intend to propose legislation more precisely defining the monarch’s role with respect to the army, and strengthening the principle of civil control over the military. Soldiers must, in the end, answer to the people, as embodied in the Deputies-General. Would you oppose such legislation?”
Raesinia, who’d been waiting patiently for the actual question, decided that d’Andorre couldn’t be putting her on—he was just intrinsically boring. “I’d have to read it, of course,” she said carefully. “But not in principle, no.”
“And where do you stand on a reduction in the size of the army, now that the war has been concluded? I believe it has become a considerable drain on the public purse.”
“I think it may be a little premature,” Raesinia said. “Once the final peace with Borel is signed, it might be worth investigating.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” D’Andorre got to his feet. “It’s been an honor to meet with you.”
That’s it? Raesinia suppressed a sigh. This is going to be my life, isn’t it? Listening to d’Andorre or someone like him blather on. Until it wasn’t her life anymore, of course. And maybe that won’t be such a bad thing after all.
“Thank you, Deputy d’Andorre,” she said, standing to acknowledge his bow. “I am eager to work with the Deputies, now that we have peace.”
When the deputy was gone, Raesinia turned to Eric. “Is he always such a bore?”
Her assistant swallowed, looking uncomfortable. “He’s considered an excellent speaker in the Deputies. His most famous speech kept the chamber spellbound for nearly four hours.”
“I bet it did.” Raesinia shook her head. “I need to change before Marcus arrives. Is there anything else?”
To her surprise, Barely spoke up from the doorway. She had a lilting Deslandai accent, which gave her a musical tone at odds with her hard-edged attitude.
“There’s a Colonel Giforte who wants to see you, Your Highness,” she said. “He’s waiting in the hall. Says it can’t wait.”
“Alek?” Raesinia frowned. “Bring him in.”
Alek Giforte had been Vice Captain of Armsmen before the revolution. He’d served in various capacities since then, most recently as chief of staff for Marcus during the Murnskai campaign. Now that they were settled back in Vordan, Raesinia had put him in charge of the Armsmen again and unofficially given him the task of rebuilding the intelligence apparatus that the revolution had smashed.
The Murnskai campaign had aged him, Raesinia thought as he came in. His salt-and-pepper beard had gone fully white, and his hairline was receding. At the moment he looked as serious as she’d ever seen him, even when they’d been surrounded by hostile armies. Something is very wrong.
“Colonel?” Raesinia said.
“You need to see this,” he said, gesturing with a single sheet of folded paper. “Alone.”
Raesinia hesitated, then nodded at Eric and her guards. They filed out, and she took the page from Giforte. It was only a few lines, but she read it three times over, just to be certain.
“This is reliable?” she said, her voice carefully controlled.
“We’ve gotten it from three different sources,” Giforte said.
“Find Marcus.” She handed the note back to him. “Tell him I want to see him in my apartments. Now.”
2
Marcus
Marcus stared at the page, written in a neat, dispassionate hand. He wondered what clerk had copied it somewhere and whether he’d known what it portended.
Janus bet Vhalnich is in Yatterny, with one division of the Grand Army and several battalions of Murnskai soldiers. He has given a speech announcing that the Queen of Vordan has betrayed him and in so doing she has forfeited her right to rule, as he is the true embodiment of the people’s will. Prince Cesha Dzurk is with him, and says that his father the emperor is dead, leaving Murnsk in chaos. Janus claims he has no choice, at the urging of those around him, but to assume the title of Emperor of Vordan and Murnsk. He calls on all loyal citizens of both countries to support him and all true soldiers of either crown to follow his orders.
He appears to have the complete support of the forces here and considerable popularity among the Murnskai civilians. He is already preparing to march on Talbonn, and from there declares his intention to move south.
“Madness,” Marcus said. “Utter nonsense.”
“It’s been confirmed in every way we can think of,” Raesinia said. “And rumors are already spreading. In six hours everyone in the city will know.”
“Then there has to be some kind of mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because Janus would never do such a thing!”
Raesinia squared her shoulders and faced him. “Are you certain? Absolutely certain?”
Just for a moment Marcus was back in the barn that had been Janus’ makeshift prison, watching the rage grow in those huge gray eyes when the general realized that Marcus, too, had turned away from him. It had been one of the hardest moments of Marcus’ life. But Janus had calmed quickly, as he always did. Too quickly? Could he have already been planning this?
“I’m certain,” Marcus grated, “because it doesn’t make any sense. What can he possibly gain?”
“Aside from the throne? The mob still considers him a hero, and the soldiers worship him. If he walked in here tomorrow, could we stop him?”
“We could stop him,” Marcus said, more confidently than he felt. “And why would he call himself Emperor of Murnsk as well?”
“Cesha Dzurk has obviously thrown in his lot with Janus. Maybe he’s popular enough to make that stick.” Raesinia tapped the note. “It seems to be working so far.”
Marcus sat down. They were in Raesinia’s private apartments, not yet restored to the lavishness of the prerevolution royal chambers but still comfortably furnished. The crushed-velvet sofa was absurdly soft and enveloping, but he hardly noticed. Raesinia stood by the table. Her expression was the forced calm she wore when she would rather be screaming.
“I still don’t believe it,” Marcus said. “Janus doesn’t want the throne. He told me himself.”
“Maybe he used you like he uses everyone else,” Raesinia said. “Or maybe his plans have changed.”
“Or maybe something’s happened to him.” Marcus bounced to his feet again. “Last we saw him, he was on his way back to Mieran County. Maybe someone got to him, and now he’s got a gun to his head. Hell, Orlanko could be using him to try to get to you—”
“Do you really think Janus would do this for Orlanko, even with a gun to his head?”
“Either way, we need to know for certain,” Marcus said. “I’ll leave tonight. If I use the courier posts, I can be in Talbonn—”
“No.”
There was enough emotion in the word that it brought Marcus up short. He turned back to look at Raesinia, and found that her calm had cracked. Her eyes were shimmering.
“Marcus, please,” she said. “You have to think.”
; “Think about what? If Janus is a captive—”
“You don’t know he’s a captive. What happens if you get there and he’s sincere?”
“Then I’ll try to talk some sense into him.” But Marcus’ conviction was already fading.
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I’d...” He shook his head. “I’d come back here, of course. I made my choice, Raes. You know that.”
She took a deep breath, blew it out, and nodded. “I know. But what about everyone else?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Janus declares himself emperor. As soon as the news breaks, Marcus d’Ivoire, Janus’ closest ally and right-hand man, immediately decamps to go to his old friend’s side. Surely you see how that’s going to look?”
“Ah.” Marcus had the distinct feeling of an unexpected pit opening beneath his feet. All the strength seemed to go out of him, and he sat back down abruptly. “Oh. I...”
“I know this is hard,” Raesinia said. “He’s your friend.”
“It’s more than that,” Marcus said. “He’s... Janus.” He paused, then looked up at Raesinia. “You don’t trust me.”
“I do.” She grabbed his hand in both of hers. “Please, Marcus. Believe that if you believe nothing else. I have always trusted you with my life, and I always will.”
He squeezed her fingers, tentatively, and she squeezed back. Marcus swallowed.
“Sorry. I’m just... a little off-balance.”
“I know,” Raesinia said. “Shove over.”
Marcus obligingly slid sideways, and Raesinia sat down next to him. She bent her head, looking at her hands.
“The thing is,” she said, “it’s not my trust you need to worry about. The Deputies-General is going to suspect you on principle, along with anyone else who worked closely with Janus. You can’t do anything that would give them ammunition.”
“Right.” Marcus’ hand clenched tight around his knee. Raesinia was next to him, distractingly close, practically leaning against him. “So what are we going to do?”
The Infernal Battalion Page 3
