The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (10 page)

The speaker held something out at arm’s length, and the inner crowd fell to their knees. Marcus caught the glint of gold. The jeers of the outer crowd increased.

Marcus drew Giforte’s attention to the scene as the carriage went past, and the vice captain glanced at the window and grimaced. He shook his head.

“Sworn Priest,” he said. “Borelgai, by the beard. They’re always preaching down here.”

“Why does he have a whole squad protecting him?”

“His Majesty’s orders are that the Sworn Priests should be free to offer their teachings unmolested. We’re charged with enforcing that.” He watched Marcus for a moment, considering, then added, “It was part of the peace treaty. After Vansfeldt.”

A hundred and fifty years ago, Farus IV had thrown in his lot with the League cities in their rebellion against the Sworn Church of Elysium. The subsequent war, waged simultaneously against the Murnskai legions and a cabal of his own horrified nobles, had come close to costing Farus his crown. The last bloody flames of that revolution had taken a generation to die out, and
atrocities committed on both sides had given the Vordanai people an abiding distaste for the power of the Sworn Church. The Great Cathedral of Vordan had been sacked and left in ruins to guarantee that none of the new Free Church parishes that were rising from the ashes could lay claim to leadership of the others.

The Borelgai had been having their own civil war at the same time, with opposite results. Their king had lost his head for heresy at the hands of an ecclesiastical court sent from Elysium, and since then the interests of the Borelgai throne and the Sworn Church had been tightly entwined. Fifteen decades had served to cool the hatred enough that the Sworn were no longer officially banned from Vordan, but they had never been allowed to preach in the streets, much less with an official Armsmen escort.

After the war.
That would have been just about the time Marcus was leaving for Khandar, at the conclusion of the War of the Princes. He’d gone straight from the disastrous Vansfeldt campaign back to the War College in Grent, two hundred miles from the capital, and he hadn’t paid much attention to politics in those days in any case.

“He didn’t look like he was having much success,” Marcus said.

“There’s always a few Sworn around. Foreigners, mostly, and some of the very poorest.” Again, Giforte gave him an evaluating glance, deciding how much he should say. “All I know is it’s a headache for us. They’re always stirring up trouble.”

Marcus nodded. What Janus had told him about fighting in the streets seemed a bit more plausible now. The Crown’s debt to the Borels was one thing; only merchants cared about that. But foreign priests by the side of the road, with Armsmen protecting them . . .

“It’s getting worse, too, now that this Danton is telling everyone the Borelgai are the source of all their problems.”

“Danton?” Marcus said. That name had come up a few times in the reports.

Giforte waved a hand. “Just a rabble-rouser. He’s been making waves since last week, but he isn’t saying anything we haven’t heard before. We keep an eye on that sort to make sure they don’t try anything stupid.”

“What does he want?”

“The usual. Down with the Last Duke, Vordan for the Vordanai, that sort of thing.” Giforte, watching Marcus’ expression, carefully did not express his own opinion. Marcus suppressed a smile.
He really does have this down to a science, doesn’t he?

Glancing out the window again, Marcus saw they had left the towers of Newtown behind and entered Oldtown, the most ancient of Vordan City’s districts. The architect Gerhardt Alcor’s grand project to rebuild the city along rational lines had ended with his death, leaving a stark divide in the middle of what had once been a uniform rat’s warren of mazy, twisting streets and tumbledown half-timber houses. Nowadays the boundary was called the Cut, a street running south from the Old Ford as straight as a knife wound. On the Newtown side, Alcor’s perfect grid of cobbled roads stretched out until it met the Docks; across the way, there were only medieval cowpaths and meandering lanes. Here and there a stone-walled church loomed amid the sea of flaking plaster and whitewash like a bastion.

Farus V had sponsored Alcor on the theory that a rational city would breed a better class of citizen, but Marcus could see no evidence of this. The residents of Oldtown were hard to distinguish from those of Newtown, perhaps a little bit more frayed in their attire and more desperate in their poverty. When the Armsmen carriage turned off the River Road and began threading its way into the depths of the maze, the streets cleared as if by magic, and every window was covered by a curtain. Here and there a group of young men made a point of not moving, glaring at the vehicle and its escort with undisguised hostility.

“They’re not fond of us, are they?” Marcus murmured.

“Don’t take it personally, sir,” Giforte said. “Take it from someone who’s been at this for a long time. Whenever times get bad, we become very unpopular.” He pointed up the street. “There’s your address, sir.”

It was a two-story house in the old style, plaster rotting and flaking from around the timber frame. The narrow windows were boarded up, but a small curl of smoke rising from the chimney indicated that someone was in residence.

“Did His Excellency indicate what we were likely to find here?” Giforte said. “Anything dangerous?”

“I’m not sure.” If they had someone like Jen in there, a dozen men weren’t going to be nearly enough.
Janus wouldn’t have sent me here if he thought that likely, though.
“Get someone around the back. I don’t want anyone sneaking out.”

Giforte nodded. As the carriage came to a halt, he opened the door and stepped out, already shouting orders. Their escort fanned out, two men slipping around either side of the house. Eisen hopped down from the carriage roof and hurried over, eager to impress.

“Want me to go in first, sir?” he said.

“I’ll go first,” Marcus said. “Eisen, take five men and follow me. The rest of you, make sure nobody gets past us.”

“I’ll join you,” Giforte said.

“Vice Captain—”

“No offense intended, sir, but it would be an embarrassment to lose my new commanding officer on his first day on the job.” Giforte’s expression told Marcus it would be pointless to argue.

The small contingent of Armsmen edged up to the door, a slab of ancient, scarred pine with several peeling layers of whitewash. The latch was broken, and the door hung a half inch open, so Marcus simply prodded it with his foot. It swung inward, creaking, revealing a single shadowy room with a table, a few chairs, and a fire barely glowing in the hearth. Rickety-looking steps in the rear led up to the second story.

“Hello?” Marcus said, stepping over the threshold. Giforte was close behind him, followed by Eisen and another Staff. “I’d like to have a word.”

A wooden groan and clatter gave him a half second’s warning. He caught something huge in motion to his left, and reflex drove him into a dive, pulling Giforte with him. The thing—a wardrobe, one of the ancient oak constructions that was taller than Marcus and weighed as much as four men—toppled across the doorway, catching the door and pushing it closed as it came down. Eisen had the presence of mind to dive forward alongside his superiors, but the second Staff tried to jump the other way and didn’t make it before the door slammed. The wardrobe hammered him to the floor, his surprised shout ending in a nasty crunch.

Marcus pushed himself up at once, clawing for his sword. By the light of the dying fire, he could see a man standing on a wooden crate, recovering from the shove he’d given the wardrobe. He was tall, and impressively bearded, dressed in crude homespun and rags, with a cutlass and a pistol thrust into the scrap of rope he used as a belt. Marcus didn’t want to give the man time to use either, so he rushed him, dragging the heavy cavalry saber out of its scabbard.

The bearded man drew his pistol, but Marcus thrust at his face as he pulled the trigger, making him jerk back. The weapon went off with an earsplitting
crack
and splinters rained down from the ceiling. Before his opponent could draw his cutlass, Marcus aimed a kick at the corner of the crate he was standing on, rocking it backward and spilling the man to the floor.

“Sir!” Giforte said. “Down!”

Marcus spun. Giforte was standing beside the dresser, trying to shift it, while Eisen had retrieved his staff and moved to help Marcus. Another man had appeared on the stairs, bare-chested and hairy, holding a pistol in each hand. Marcus dove for the rickety table, catching Eisen around the knees and dragging him down as well. The first shot caught the young Staff in the forearm, spraying blood against the dresser, and the attacker dropped the empty weapon and shifted the other to his right hand. Giforte grabbed Eisen’s staff dropped by the dead Armsman, moving surprisingly quickly for a man of his age, and ducked as the second pistol went off. The ball
pinged
off the dresser and ricocheted up to punch into the ceiling, producing a shower of plaster.

“Behind you, sir,” Giforte snapped, popping back up and charging toward the stairway, staff in hand. Marcus rolled and regained his feet in time to block a downward cut from the bearded man’s cutlass. Steel rang against steel, the blade of the cutlass sliding down to catch on the saber’s guard. The man shoved, grunting, trying to force both blades into Marcus’ face. He was big and broad-shouldered, and Marcus quickly realized he wasn’t going to win a contest of strength.

Instead he faded sideways, pulling his sword away and letting his opponent’s force carry him forward. The bearded man turned it into a spin, cutlass whipping around at head height, but Marcus had anticipated the move. He ducked, his own weapon swinging low and catching his assailant below the knee with bone-cracking force. The man screamed, his leg buckling, and as he fell Marcus delivered an upward stroke across his chest that left him lying on the floor in a spreading pool of blood.

Marcus turned, looking for Giforte. The bare-chested man had met his charge head-on, grabbing the staff before the vice captain could swing and using it as a bar to push Giforte into the wall. He was of a similar size to his late companion, and Giforte’s face had gone white with the effort of keeping the staff from being pressed against his throat. Marcus ran at them, arm drawn back for a brutal downward cut, which the man only noticed at the last moment. He half turned, taking the blade at the base of his neck, a blow hard enough to break bones. When he staggered backward, the saber came free, and blood exploded from the wound. The bare-chested man took one more step backward, groaning, then collapsed to the floor.

Silence fell, and Marcus could hear his own rapid, ragged breaths. Giforte still held the staff in front of his face, unmoving. His eyes were closed, and his throat worked rapidly.

“Vice Captain?” Marcus said. “Are you all right?”

There was a long pause before Giforte opened his eyes, blowing out a deep breath. “I’m fine,” he said. “Eisen? Jones?”

“I’m all right, sir,” Eisen said, voice a little shaky. “Right through my arm. But I think Jones is dead.”

A moment’s investigation showed that he was right. Marcus tried to shift the huge wooden thing off Jones, the other Armsman, but found that he couldn’t even budge it. Opening the wardrobe door, he found the whole thing was stuffed with sacks of bricks.
It must weigh a ton.

He indicated the bricks to Giforte.

“They were waiting for us,” the vice captain said.

“Or waiting for someone,” Marcus said. “There might be a lookout upstairs.”

They looked at each other, sharing the image of a man with a pistol trained on the stairs, just waiting for someone to ascend. Marcus took a deep breath.

“I’ll take a look,” he said. “See if you can get this door open.”

“Sir—”

Marcus was already crossing the room, bloody saber still in hand. The right move would have been to wait until the others could get inside, but one man was dead already; he couldn’t stomach the idea of sending another into what might be a trap. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Light flickered against the flaking plaster of the roof.
Someone has a fire lit.

He paused, considering his options, then raised his saber and took the stairs at a run, hoping to startle anyone who might be waiting into a hasty shot. The wood creaked alarmingly under his boots, but he cleared the last step and immediately threw himself sideways, out of the line of fire, landing in a crouch.

The second floor was another large room, this one unfurnished except for three dingy straw pallets. At one end of the room was a heavy iron cauldron, with a merry firelight coming from inside it. Standing next to it was a young man in worn leathers, in the act of dropping a small bound notebook into the flames.

“Don’t move!” Marcus growled, hurrying over. The young man raised his hands, no surprise evident in his features, and stepped back. A glance into the cauldron confirmed Marcus’ fears. It was a mass of glowing paper.
Those bastards downstairs were buying time.

“You’re under arrest,” he said, awkwardly aware that there was probably a proper way for an Armsman to arrest someone, and that he didn’t know it. “Keep your hands up and don’t try anything.”

The young man smiled. He had a thin, expressive face, with a neat beard on his chin but smooth cheeks. When he spoke, Marcus could hear just a trace of a gravelly Murnskai accent.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and smiled a little wider. “It’s good to meet you, Captain d’Ivoire.”

WINTER

I
n an effort to calm her jangling nerves, Winter was trying to make an inventory of all the things that were making her anxious. This didn’t
help
, but once she’d started she found she couldn’t stop.

First and foremost was the dress, or “the damned dress” as she thought of it. It had been uncomfortable to begin with, but she’d assumed that it wouldn’t take long before old habits reasserted themselves. Now it had been two days, and while she was able to go for minutes at a time without thinking about it, sooner or later she would turn around quickly or get hit by a gust of wind, and the feel of the long skirt’s fabric brushing against her legs would have her grabbing for it in a panic.

The top was nearly as bad. It was by no standards indecent, but the short sleeves and billowing fit made her feel half-naked. The figure it draped was, while not generous, still clearly that of a young
woman
, and every time Winter caught sight of her reflection in a shopwindow she had to fight a powerful urge to find something with which to cover herself. She even found herself missing the tight pinch of her self-tailored undershirts. At least she still had a hat, even if it was a slouching felt thing instead of the brimmed officer’s cap she’d grown used to.

Second—or maybe it was part of the first—was the constant dread of impending
discovery
. Winter had lived for two years among the men of the Royal Army, knowing that any slip that led to someone finding out her true gender would lead to her being locked up and sent home at the very best. Walking around a crowded city, dressed like this, was worse than walking around naked.
She felt like the most brazen of whores, shouting out her most closely held secret for all to hear. The apparent unconcern of those around her would be shattered at any moment by—someone, some authority, who would drag her away somewhere to answer for her crimes.

Third was the more mundane anxiety that she was not getting anywhere with her assigned task. She had given herself a day of simply walking around in her new garb, getting used to the idea. She’d somehow expected to attract stares from every eye, as though the news would race out ahead of her that here was
Winter Ihernglass
, dressed as a
girl
! In fact, nobody paid her the least attention, aside from a few street vendors who took her relatively well-washed appearance to mean that she had money.

Walking through the streets of a city unobserved was a new experience for Winter. A few vague early memories aside, she’d spent her entire childhood at Mrs. Wilmore’s and had gone more than a decade without venturing farther from the old manor house than the neighboring estates. Then she’d run away to Khandar. The Colonials had had the run of the city before the Redemption, but their uniforms and skin color meant they would always be objects of attention.

It was something they’d all gotten used to, and she’d stopped noticing the feeling until it was suddenly gone. Here she was just a girl, one among thousands, a little out of the ordinary for this neighborhood but no more so than dozens of others. She felt as if some sorcerer had turned her invisible.

The second day, she’d resolved to get down to work. Janus had supplied her with plenty of coin, and she’d rented a room at a hostel, then set about canvassing the town for some sign of the Leatherbacks, the revolutionary group she was supposed to be joining. This proved to be less than successful. Winter found that while people didn’t pay her any mind walking by, the minute she opened her mouth she was irretrievably marked as an outsider. Quite apart from her not knowing any of the locals, her voice lacked their twanging accents, and she was so ignorant of the local dialect that she found some of the patois borderline incomprehensible.

The district was loosely referred to as the Docks, a poorly defined area covering roughly half of Vordan’s Southside. It was bounded in the north by the bank of the Vor and in the south by Wall Street, a broad thoroughfare that was all that remained of Vordan’s medieval city wall. There were more houses beyond Wall Street, but that was widely agreed to be where the Bottoms began,
a swampy, unhealthy district that even the Docks looked down on. In the west the river and the street met at the southern water battery, forming a section of city shaped like a wedge of cheese. To the east, though, the Docks gradually petered out, residential buildings, shops, and wine sinks gradually transforming into the warren of dirt roads and vast warehouses that surrounded the Lower Market.

Life in the Docks had three poles, one of which was those warehouses. Every day, thousands of tons of goods—produce, meat, cereals, animal fodder, and other foodstuffs for the most part—were brought into the city via the Green Road from the south, the wagons forming a line miles long down the swamp-bound causeway. Thousands more tons—almost anything that could fit aboard a ship, including silk and coffees that had originated in Ashe-Katarion—entered the city from the west, shipped upriver by barge from Vayenne at the Vor’s mouth or from another city on one of the river’s many tributaries. More barges, narrower and shallow-drafted, brought stone, cheeses, and wool from upriver. All of these things needed to be moved from boat to wagon, wagon to boat, boat to warehouse, or any combination of the three, and a substantial portion of the people living in the Docks made their living doing exactly that.

The second pole was the Fish Market, hard against the river. People who worked in the Fish Market were easily distinguishable by scent, and mostly lived in their own section of the district known as Stench Row. Every morning before dawn the fishermen laid out the day’s catch, and representatives from kitchens all over the city, from the noble estates to the lowliest slop houses, came to browse. Thriving if whiffy businesses at the edges of the square processed the rotten rejects and unwanted organs into various forms of fertilizer or pig slop.

On the southern side of the Docks was the Flesh Market, which Winter had learned was not nearly as vile as it sounded. It was simply a large square where farmers from downcountry could come to hire extra hands, and as such waxed and waned with the seasons. Right now, at midsummer, business was booming as the planters hired help in advance of the autumn harvest. Farmhands were traditionally paid their first week’s wages in advance, and the presence of large numbers of young men with money in their pockets had encouraged the growth of a complex network of brothels, wine shops, and feuding gangs of thieves.

All of this Winter had been able to discover in the first couple of days, just
by wandering around and observing who went where. That there were discontent and revolutionary activity going on, too, was beyond a doubt, because everywhere she looked there were posters and painted graffiti inveighing against the king, the Last Duke, the Borelgai, the Sworn Church, the tax farmers, the bankers, and any other group that could conceivably hold any power. One intense-looking young man had given her a pamphlet claiming that there was a conspiracy among the greengrocers to take over the city, which even as an outsider Winter had to say sounded a little unlikely.

What she
hadn’t
been able to find was any evidence that the Leatherbacks existed outside of popular fantasy. The broadsheets sold at street corners for a penny were full of their doings, how they’d robbed this shop or beaten up that Armsman, but details were suspiciously few. There were certainly no Leatherbacks chapter houses, no signs saying “Revolutionary Conspiracy This Way!” and by the third day Winter had started to wonder what Janus had been thinking to give her this assignment. She’d spent a lot of time and quite a bit of his money in wine shops and taverns, buying rounds all through the evenings and pumping her new best friends for information, but no one had been able to tell her anything beyond vague rumors.

Nevertheless, focusing on the task at hand had calmed her down a bit, as had the reflection that it could have been much worse. Since that horrible night in the ancient temple in Khandar, she’d played host to a
thing
—a demon, the Church would have it, though the Khandarai word was
naath
or “reading”—that Janus had named Infernivore
.
A demon that ate other demons, that had torn the power right out of the body of the Concordat agent Jen Alhundt. Winter could feel it, deep in her mind, waiting like a river crocodile, placidly but with the coiled-spring potential for sudden violence.

She’d been certain, when Janus insisted she accompany him on the breakneck voyage home, that it was Infernivore he really wanted. Winter had expected him to be sent into battle against Black Priests and supernatural horrors; her current task, while it went against the grain, was certainly better than
that
.

Now she was sitting in a tavern that fronted on the River Road, which was as close as the Docks came to an upscale area. It was a big establishment, built to serve the evening rush of workers coming off their loading shifts, and at midday there were only a scattering of patrons. The plank floor was covered in sawdust (easier to sweep up spilled beer, not to mention blood and vomit) and
the round tables were big, heavy things on wide, solid bases, unlikely to get smashed in the event of roughhousing. The mugs and flatware were of the cheapest clay kind, the sort that would start to flake and fall apart after a few washes, but Winter suspected they rarely survived that long. Clearly, the tavern-keeper knew his clientele.

Winter had one of the tables to herself. Most of the rest of the customers were women, sitting in pairs or small groups and talking quietly. A few older men or odd-shift workers congregated near the fire, where a desultory dice game was in progress. A bored-looking serving girl brought Winter a plate of something she claimed was beef, boiled into unrecognizability and floating in its own juices inside a rampart of mashed potatoes. She attacked it voraciously. Two years eating either army food or Khandarai cuisine had given her a longing for good old-fashioned Vordanai fare, and she’d discovered the tavern meals here in the Docks were exactly the sort of bland, brick-heavy stuff she’d eaten as a girl at Mrs. Wilmore’s. The beer was good, too. The Khandarai made good wine and liquor, but what they called beer was, at best, an acquired taste.

She hadn’t intended this to be an intelligence-gathering stop. That usually came later in the day, as chairs filled up and the drink started to flow freely. She barely looked up at a nearby rustle, and nearly choked on a mouthful of beef when a woman flopped into the chair beside her with a flounce of colorful skirts.

“Hi,” the woman said. “You’re Winter, right?”

Winter sputtered, grabbed for her beer, and gulped frantically. The woman waited patiently while she swallowed, and Winter used the opportunity to look her over. She was a girl of eighteen or a little older, with a broad, heavily freckled face and brown hair in a tightly pinned bun that exuded a halo of frizzy, escaping strands. She wore a long skirt with a red-and-blue pattern and a sleeveless vest, exposing pale-skinned arms and shoulders already showing a hint of red from the summer sun. Her button nose was peeling, and she scratched it absently.

“I’m Winter Bailey,” Winter said, when she’d recovered. That was the name she’d given in the course of her investigations, and she didn’t see any point in denying it. “May I ask who you are?”

“I’m Abigail,” the girl said. “You can call me Abby. Everyone does. Do you mind if I have a drink?”

“I don’t think you need my permission for that,” Winter said, buying time.

“A drink
here
, I mean. I’d like to talk to you.” Before Winter could answer, Abby waved at one of the serving girls and pointed to the mug in Winter’s hand, then held up two fingers. “I hope you’ll join me.”

“Much obliged,” Winter said. She looked down at the remains of her meal and decided she wasn’t hungry anymore. “Would it be fair of me to ask
how
you know my name?”

“Perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances,” Abby said. She gave a smile so sunny Winter could almost feel the warmth on her face. “You’ve been asking questions about the Leatherbacks, haven’t you?”

Winter froze. But, again, she could hardly deny it. She reached for her mug, took a sip, and nodded cautiously.

“And you’re obviously not from around here,” Abby said.

“Neither are you.” Abby lacked the characteristic Docks accent.

“True! I suppose that makes us strangers together.” The serving girl arrived with two more mugs, and Abby took them and set one in front of Winter. “Now, either you’re a Northside girl who has gone chasing the wrong rumors—”

Winter was about to speak up, since that was exactly what she was claiming to be, but Abby went on quickly.

“—
or
you’re a spy. Armsmen, Concordat, something like that. Although, no offense, if you were Concordat I would expect you to do a better job of blending in.”

“So I clearly can’t be a spy,” Winter said. “I’m too incompetent.”

“You can’t be a
Concordat
spy,” Abby corrected. “I wouldn’t put it past the Armsmen to send some clueless girl over to the Docks to ask silly questions. Or you could be a very
good
spy,
posing
as an incompetent one to get your targets to let their guard down.
That
sounds more like Orlanko to me.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

“We were curious which it was. Had a little money on it, in fact. So I thought, well, the quickest way to get an answer is always to ask directly.”

“So you want to know if I’m a spy?” Winter said.

“Exactly!”

“I’m not a spy.”

“Ah,” Abby said, “but that’s exactly what a spy
would
say, isn’t it?”

Winter raised her mug, found it empty, and took a long pull from the new one Abby had ordered. The girl matched her enthusiastically.

“All right,” Winter said cautiously. “I’ve answered the question. Now what?”

“What do you know about the Leatherbacks?”

“Only what I’ve heard,” Winter said. “They stand up to the Concordat and the tax farmers, try to help people. And that the inner circle is all women.”