The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (17 page)

Marcus hurried down the street, past the beeches, until what had been the d’Ivoire estate came into view. Two visions of it competed in his mind. One was the real thing, as he’d last seen it, with ivy creeping up the stone walls and the ancient leaded glass his father preferred to the modern kind. The other was
something he’d constructed in his mind over the intervening years, a blackened ruin of scorched beams and tumbled stone.

Instead he found himself looking at another house entirely. It was squarer, larger, higher-ceilinged than his old estate, with big single-pane windows and a high, arched doorway. The grounds were the same—even the ancient oak, its limbs spreading above the roof—but someone had replaced the house itself with an imposter. Marcus stared at it for a moment, blinking.

Of course it’s different.
He’d been stupid. The old place had burned, but prime land in Vordan City never went idle for long. Someone else had bought the property, cleared the ruin, and put up their own house. He’d had the vague idea that he could poke around, discover something in the wreckage that everyone else had missed, but of course that was ridiculous.
After this long, it’s not even wreckage anymore.

Ionkovo told me to come here. Why?
The Black Priest agent might have just been having a laugh at Marcus’ expense, of course.
But he doesn’t seem the type. He wanted me to find
something
.

“So what the hell am I doing here?” Marcus said.

“Sir?”

He shook his head and looked at Eisen, embarrassed to have spoken aloud. “Nothing. I thought there might be something left, but that was stupid.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It must be difficult.”

Marcus turned, scanning the surrounding houses. “I can’t imagine many people still remember much of the fire, either.”
So what’s the
point
?
He felt like going back into the cell and throttling the smirk off Ionkovo’s face.
He knows something, but all he’ll give me is riddles.

“Are you looking for information on what happened, sir?”

“I suppose.” Marcus shrugged, feeling defeated. “I’m just not sure there’s anything to find.”

“I think,” Eisen said, “I may have an idea.”

—

The Fiddler occupied a dignified space at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Saint Dromin Street. It was not a tavern or a wine shop but a true public house of the old school, less a business establishment than a club for the respectable men of the neighborhood. The building was old brick, patchy with overlapping repairs, and twined here and there with climbing ivy. The front door was open, but Eisen, leading the way, stopped beside it and pointed with his good hand.

“You see, sir?”

Marcus peered closer. A small brass plaque, much tarnished, read
17TH ROYAL VOLUNT
EER FIRE COMPANY, HEA
DQUARTERS. EST. 1130 YHG
.

“My uncle was in the Twenty-fourth Company,” Eisen said, “over by the Dregs. He always said it was mainly an excuse to spend evenings away from the family. Not as many fires as there used to be, north of the river. But he told me every company has one old bastard who’s been a member for fifty years and can tell you every house that ever burned down on his watch.”

“Worth a try,” Marcus said, though privately he thought it was a bit of a thin reed to hang any hope on. “Let’s see if we can find them.”

Eisen led the way into the common room. It was a long way from the Khandarai taverns Marcus was used to, with a feel closer to a family sitting room—big, solid tables, polished to a blinding sheen, and genuine carpet underfoot instead of boards and sawdust. Marcus paused, embarrassed, and backtracked a step or two to make use of the boot scraper by the door.

It was midafternoon, and only a few of the tables were occupied, mostly by small groups of older men who looked as though they never left. Eisen went to the bar, a vast expanse of scarred wood dark with resin and polish, and talked for a moment with the bespectacled gentleman behind it. When he came back, he was smiling.

“We’re in luck, sir. He knew exactly who I wanted to talk to. Come on.”

They went through a doorway into another room, lined with bookshelves bearing weather-beaten, mismatched volumes. There were more tables here, but only one was occupied, three men sitting at a big round table much too large for them. Another small plaque marked it as reserved for the Seventeenth Company.

Two of the men were younger than Marcus, in their twenties, but the third matched Eisen’s description almost exactly. He was bent over a tall pint glass, head bowed as though his neck didn’t want to support its weight, and the fingers that curled around the drink were stick-thin and mottled with liver spots. The dome of his head rose through a crown of snow-white hair, like a mountain pushing up past the tree line. When Marcus stood in front of the table and cleared his throat, the old man looked up, and his deep-sunken eyes were dark and intelligent.

“You’re the Seventeenth Fire Company?” Marcus said, feeling awkward.

The old man pursed his lips but said nothing. One of the younger men got to his feet, taking in Marcus’ uniform, and nodded respectfully.

“We are, though we’re not on duty at the moment,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m not here officially,” Marcus said. “I was just hoping I could have a word about an . . . incident. Something that happened quite a while back.”

The young man looked at his older companion, who caught Marcus’ eyes and held them for a moment. When his voice emerged, it was surprisingly deep and smooth, as though polished by the years.

“You’re the new captain of Armsmen, then? D’Ivoire.”

Marcus nodded. The two young men exchanged a look—they obviously hadn’t recognized his rank.

“I wondered if you might come around,” the old man said. “You may as well sit down.”

“Staff Eisen,” Marcus said, “would you please buy these gentlemen a drink?”

“Of course, sir.” Eisen extended a hand, and with a last look at Marcus the two young men followed him. Marcus pulled back one of the heavy chairs and sank into the ancient, cracking leather.

“Marcus d’Ivoire,” he said.

“Hank,” the old man said. “Or Henry, if you’re feeling formal. Henry Matthew.”

“You said you were expecting me?”

“Just a thought.” The old man shrugged. “I saw your name in the broadsheets, and I figured you might come looking. It’s been a long time.”

“I’ve been away,” Marcus said. “Khandar.”

Hank nodded. “And it’s not like there was much left for you to come back to. It was a terrible business.”

“You were there?”

“I was. That was back when I went out on calls. Now I sit here and let the young’uns buy me drinks, and tell stories.” He tapped his half-empty glass, and gave Marcus a crinkly smile. “Not a bad life, to be honest. But yes, I was there.”

“What happened?”

“Didn’t they tell you about it?”

“Not much. Only that it was an accident, and that nobody . . . got out.” Marcus’ voice hitched. He swallowed hard, irritated.

Hank peered at him kindly. “You want a drink?”

“No, thank you. Just tell me what happened.”

“Well. It’s not easy to say. When a house burns, ’less everyone’s asleep,
usually somebody notices. They run from the flames and come out the other side, you see? Sometimes if a place is a real tinder trap, it’ll go up all suddenlike, and sometimes there’s no other way out and people get trapped. That’s bad luck.”

Marcus remembered the Ashe-Katarion fire, the swarms of determined people pressing tighter and tighter to get through the gates into the inner city, or throwing themselves into the river to drown instead of burn. He swallowed again. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“The d’Ivoire place—your place—it was old, but it wasn’t a tinder trap. It took time to burn. And there were plenty of doors. So how come nobody got out?”

Marcus shook his head. He didn’t even know if the fire had been during the day or at night, he realized. No one had volunteered any information, and he’d been just as happy to avoid the details.

“When we got there,” Hank went on, “it was obvious there was no saving the place. I led my boys in as soon as we could, but that fire burned hot. We never found more than bits and pieces of the folk who lived there.” He caught Marcus’ eye and shook his head. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said it like that. What I mean is the fire was odd.”

“What do you mean, odd?”

“As best we could tell, it started in three places at once. Oil lamp by the front door, fireplace near the back door, spark in the straw by the stable door. Three doors, three fires. That’s
real
bad luck.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re sure about that?” Marcus said, voice dull.

“There’s no
sure
, with fires. But I had a look, and I talked to the people who were around. I’d been at this twenty years, even then.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I did.” Hank’s wrinkled face was a mask. “Went to the Armsmen, said I thought it was passing strange. They bounced me around for a while, and finally somebody told me they didn’t want to hear it, and they didn’t want anybody
else
hearing it, either. I got the message.”

“You’re telling
me
,” Marcus pointed out.

“It never sat right with me,” Hank said. “And they were your people.” He smiled slyly. “Besides, him that told me to shut my mouth, you outrank him now. I reckon it’s your right to know, don’t you think?”

“Outrank—” Marcus stopped, abruptly. “I see.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Marcus murmured, his mind a whirl. “You’ve been . . . very helpful.”

—

Giforte.
It had to be Giforte.
The vice captain had been effectively running the Armsmen since well before the time of the fire. Captains came and went, but Giforte stayed on, bending to the winds of politics and keeping the ship running.

Hank told him the fire wasn’t an accident. Couldn’t have been an accident. Someone killed them. His mother. His father. Ellie. Ellie!

Marcus realized he was holding his breath, hands clenched tight. He forced himself to relax.

It wasn’t an accident.
The thought ran around and around in his head.
Not an accident. Murder.
Three doors, three fires.
Cold-blooded murder.

Someone had murdered his little sister, barely four years old. He wanted to scream.

Who?

Giforte knew. Or at least he knew
something
. But he had no reason to tell Marcus anything. There was nothing like proof, just the ramblings of one old man. The vice captain’s position was secure; the Armsmen couldn’t run without him, and he knew it.
No wonder he’s been so cagey around me. I thought it was just about the politics, but he must have been wondering if I’d found out.

There was another option.
Ionkovo’s “trade.”
The Black Priests’ agent obviously knew enough to send Marcus here, and he might know the rest. But he would want something in exchange.
Which is obviously why he sent me here in the first place.
The very fact that he wanted to know so badly what had happened in Khandar implied that telling him was dangerous.

I could ask Janus . . .
There was a certain comfort in the thought of appealing to the colonel. But that would mean revealing that he’d talked to Ionkovo in the first place, and Marcus wasn’t sure how Janus would react to that.

Hell.
Anger squirreled around inside him, searching for a target, finding nothing. He tasted bile.

“Sir?” Staff Eisen said.

Marcus blinked and came back to himself. He was standing outside the
Fiddler, facing the ivy-covered brick wall, one hand pressed flat against it. When he let it fall, bits of grimy mortar clung to his palm.

“It’s all right,” Marcus said. “I’m all right.”

“Did you find out what you wanted, sir?” Eisen said.

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
I have no idea.

RAESINIA

R
aesinia’s candle had burned down to a stub, floating in a saucer of molten wax. Her hand was splotchy with ink, and there was a spot on her index finger where the pen had rubbed it raw that would be a blister tomorrow.

Or, at least, it would be if she were a normal, living person. She set down the pen and felt the binding twitch, and the itchy pain was replaced with a cool numbness. The red spot faded away as though it had never been, leaving plain, unblemished skin.

She’d been working on the speech for nearly six hours straight. After they’d found Danton, Sothe had insisted she spend a day at Ohnlei, putting in appearances and playing the dutiful daughter. Raesinia hated it. Her grief was a palpable thing, a tight, hot ball in her throat, but
parading
it in front of everyone made her feel like a fraud. She’d visited her father’s bedside with Doctor-Professor Indergast, but the king hadn’t awoken. His breathing was terrifyingly weak under the duvet.

I’m sorry, Father.
She’d spent a long time by the bedside, gripping his hand.
I’m sorry I have to lie to you. I’m sorry I can’t stay.
Then, once darkness fell, it was time for another fast trip down from the top of the tower so Sothe could smuggle her into the city.

Raesinia didn’t get tired anymore, in the normal sense of the word, but she was still subject to a kind of mental exhaustion. Too many hours of concentration left her feeling as if her eyeballs had been boiled in tar. She grabbed her elbows behind her head, arched her back, and stretched, feeling tiny pops in her shoulders and all up and down her spine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ben raise his head, eyes surreptitiously locked on her breasts. Raesinia hurriedly unbent and crossed her arms over her chest with an inward sigh. Ben’s infatuation, which she had regarded at first as a curiosity, was getting more and more problematic. He tried to act like the soul of courtesy, even when it meant getting in her way, and he was more insistent that she not expose herself to anything that might be dangerous. Raesinia, who went out of her way to do anything that
was
dangerous on the ground that it was better for
her
to be in the middle of it than anyone else, was left in an awkward position.

And what if he just comes out with it?
She’d seen a look in his eye a couple of times that seemed to indicate he was on the verge of a confession of love, and only a hurried change of subject had distracted him. If he ever managed to spit it out—
Then what? Break his heart, and risk him leaving the group?
That didn’t sound like Ben, but Raesinia didn’t have much experience when it came to men and romance.
Or else . . . play along? How?
That possibility was just a blur in her mind, a vaguely unthinkable gap.
I don’t think I could fake love well enough to fool him.

It would have been easier for all concerned if she had actually fallen in love with him. She wasn’t certain she was still capable of that, though. Aside from Cora, he was probably her best friend among the conspirators. She could see, objectively, that he was kind, honest, idealistic, even handsome. But love? No.

Maybe the binding sees love as an illness, like drunkenness, and purges it before it has a chance to settle in.
She wouldn’t mind that, on the whole. As far as she could tell, love was mostly good for making people act like morons.

Oh well.
She looked down at the paper, where the ink had dried by now, and picked it up carefully to add to the stack.
That should do it.

“Finished?” Ben said.

“I think so,” Raesinia said. “You two will have to look it over.”

Maurisk, who had his own portable writing desk set up in a corner of the room, gave a derisive snort.

“You already decided not to use my version,” he said. “So I don’t see what good my advice will do.”

“We all agreed that your version was excellent,” Raesinia said, trying to be soothing. “It would have done credit to a University symposium. It’s just that the common people aren’t up to your level, that’s all.”

Not to mention that your version was three hours long.
Raesinia had no doubt
that Danton could make an exhaustive history of the practice of banking in Vordan sound riveting, but she personally wouldn’t have been able to stand it.

“We should be educating them, then, instead of lowering ourselves to the lowest common denominator.”

“You’re still sore about the slogan,” Ben said.

“‘One eagle and the Deputies-General,’” Maurisk said, and sniffed. “What does that even
mean
? Our grievances go far beyond the price of bread, in any case, and it’s no good calling for the deputies without saying what you want them to
do
.”

“It’s caught the popular attention,” Raesinia said. “And you’ve been writing those broadsheets. That’s what will educate people in the end.”

“If you’d let me give a proper speech, instead of letting that lummox do everything, we might be farther along now,” Maurisk said. “He doesn’t read what I write properly.”

Raesinia wanted to point out that Maurisk’s writing was as dry as week-old bread crusts, but she refrained. The door opened and Faro came in, the noise of the common room of the Blue Mask following him for a moment before he shut the door behind him. He’d covered his customary finery with a heavy black cloak, and carried a thick leather satchel under one arm.

“God,” he said, “I never want to do that again. I felt like everyone on the street was watching me.”

“You look ridiculous in that cloak,” Maurisk said. “You might as well carry a sign saying ‘I’m up to no good.’”

“I’d be happy to,” Faro said. “Much safer than one saying ‘I’m carrying enough money to buy a small city.’ Besides, it’s essential. Cloak-and-dagger work, you know? Cloak”—he pushed the cloak back, revealing a steel gleam at his belt, opposite where he normally buckled his sword—“and dagger! I wouldn’t feel properly dressed otherwise.”

“You didn’t have any problems?” Raesinia said.

“Not unless you count the pounding of my heart.” Faro handed her the satchel. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have all gone, in daylight.”

“We would have been noticed.” Raesinia undid the tie and riffled through the contents.
Everything seems to be in order.

“I thought we
wanted
to be noticed,” Faro said.

“Not until tomorrow morning,” Raesinia said, retying the satchel. “All right. I’ll take this on to Cora.”

This, as expected, drew a protest from Ben. “I really wish—”

She cut him off. “I know. But let’s face it: I’m a lot less threatening than you are. We don’t want to spook anyone. I’ll be perfectly safe.” She couldn’t tell them that, in addition to her own personal immortality, she’d have Sothe riding escort. “You concentrate on going over the speech and getting Danton ready for tomorrow.”

“All right.” Ben got to his feet and met her by the door, catching her off guard. He wrapped his big arms around her in a tight hug, crushing her against his chest. “Be careful.”

Raesinia forced herself to relax, waiting patiently until he let go. She fussed awkwardly with her hair for a moment, then turned to the others and nodded.

“See you in the morning.” She paused. Something more seemed needed. “This is going to work. I can feel it.”

—

“He’s getting too forward,” Sothe said, from the darkness beside the Blue Moon’s entrance.

“Who? Ben?” Raesinia didn’t bother to ask how Sothe had been watching. Sothe seemed to know everything. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s besotted with you.” Sothe fell into step beside Raesinia. “That can be dangerous if you let him take liberties.”

“Given everything we’re involved in,” Raesinia said, “I think Ben is more or less the least of my worries, don’t you?”

Sothe frowned but didn’t answer. She led Raesinia around into an alley beside the tavern, where one of Vordan’s ubiquitous hired cabs was waiting. The driver tipped his hat respectfully, which Sothe ignored, vaulting into the carriage and turning to help Raesinia up after her. She rapped on the wall, and a snap of the driver’s reins coaxed the horses into motion.

This wasn’t a new cab, so they clacked and jolted over the cobbles. Raesinia patted the satchel again, to make sure it was still there, feeling an echo of Faro’s anxiety. It was an awful lot of money. Certainly enough to kill for, or try to, if anyone knew what they were doing.

“I’m worried about our security arrangements around Danton,” Sothe said after a while, apropos of nothing.

“I don’t think he’s a target,” Raesinia said. That had been preying on her mind. Danton went along cheerfully enough, but he’d never
asked
to be a part of any of this. “He’s too public a figure now. If he were arrested, or someone took a shot at him, the backlash would be worse than anything Danton himself could accomplish. That was the whole point of bringing him out in the open.”

“I’m not worried about
him
. I’m worried about us. It’ll be obvious that someone is pulling Danton’s strings, and Orlanko will be looking.”

“I thought your trick with the couriers was supposed to cover that.” Once they’d ensured that a steady stream of uniformed couriers was coming and going from Danton’s hotel suite, it was easy to slip an extra one through, letting the cabal members come and go without being followed.

Sothe waved a hand dismissively. “It won’t hold for long. It makes it too obvious we have something to hide. He’ll figure out a way through, depend on it.”

“It doesn’t have to hold for long,” Raesinia said. “Just long enough. My father is not getting any stronger.”

“Nevertheless—”

A splashing sound from outside drowned her out for a moment. They’d been following the Old Road south from the Dregs, avoiding the bridged section of the river around the Island. Just south of the University, the road ran across the Old Ford, a wide stretch of river that was only ankle-deep in places, made more passable over the years by the addition of large, flat stones to form a sort of causeway. The barrier to river navigation this created required a time-consuming portage for most vessels, and according to legend this blockage had been the original seed that had sprouted into the city of Vordan itself.

Beyond the ford lay Oldtown, a tangle of timber-and-plaster buildings and mazy cow paths. It was a hard place to find your way around during the day, much less in darkness. This cabby apparently knew his business, however, and once the carriage had splashed out of the ford it picked up a little speed and proceeded confidently into the curving streets.

Raesinia glanced at Sothe. “All right. You’re worried. What do you want to do about it?”

“I’d like to take a little more overt action against a few of Orlanko’s watchers.”

Raesinia winced. With Sothe, “overt action” usually meant “body parts floating in the river.” “Won’t that just draw his attention?”

“We’ve already got his attention. That goes double after tonight. I want to slap his hand, make him think a little harder before he sticks it out again.”

“Well. Security is your bailiwick.” Raesinia had been amazed at how naive the rest of the cabal could be. Perhaps she was paranoid, or perhaps she just knew Orlanko. Ben and Maurisk appeared to think that they could get away with giving false names and speaking in low voices. Without Sothe running
interference, she was sure they’d all have ended up in the Vendre long ago. “Do what you need to do, but be careful.”

Sothe snorted. “I don’t need
you
telling
me
to be careful.”

The carriage came to a halt, and a rap from the driver indicated that they’d arrived at their destination. Raesinia opened the door and hopped down, looking back at Sothe. “Where will you be?”

“About.” Sothe waved vaguely. “I’ll be close if you need me.”

“Just don’t do anything precipitous. We can’t afford for this to get out of hand.” Raesinia hesitated. “And if anything
does
go wrong, make sure to get Cora out of there first.”

Sothe grimaced, but she could see the logic in this.
After all, she can always fish me out of some drainage ditch if it comes to that.
Cora
could get hurt.
Sothe nodded, and Raesinia turned to face the building she’d been driven to.

It was a big one, by Oldtown standards, two stories high and as long as several ordinary houses. It had once had real glass windows, too, though these had long ago been covered over with boards and canvas tarpaulins. Its stone walls and the brass double-circle bolted over the doorway identified it as a church. A few crumbling statues that might have been saints before the local boys had made a game of throwing stones at them perched over the gutters.

The big double doors at the front were tightly closed, but a side door was invitingly open, shedding a warm orange glow into the shadowed street. Raesinia picked her way toward it, carefully; the streets of Oldtown were packed earth, liberally sprinkled with horse dung. She could make out sounds from inside as she got closer. A group of people were singing, not particularly well but with considerable spirit.

The church—the Third Church of the Savior Karis’ Mercy, as the blackened metal letters on the door proclaimed—was the domain of a Mrs. Louise Felda. Her husband, Father Felda, had been the Free Priest to the Third’s congregation for well over forty years. Technically, he still was, though his declining energies in his old age had restricted his duties. As he became bedridden, his wife had taken over his duties, until she was more fully in charge than he had ever been.

Mrs. Louise Felda was a large and vigorous woman who looked like a giantess beside the shriveled form of her husband. Nowadays, she split her time between making sure his needs were cared for and bringing her idea of Karis’ mercy to the people of Oldtown, as best her resources would allow. This meant beds for the sick and the desperate, helping hands for those who weren’t right in
the head, and warm meals for as many as she could manage. Raesinia had often thought that the city could do with more priests along the lines of Mrs. Felda.