The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (13 page)

“Broadsheets and pamphlets, sir. All printed since last night. Take a look.”

Marcus flipped through the stack, looking at the front pages. The inking had a smudged, hasty look, with lots of big blocks of barely readable text. They differed in what they considered important, but the phrase “One Eagle and the Deputies-General” appeared in nearly every headline. Marcus tapped it and looked up at Giforte.

“What does this mean?”

“‘One Eagle’ refers to the traditional price of the four-pound loaf, sir. It’s over four eagles now. And the Deputies-General was the assembly that first offered the crown to Farus the Conqueror after—”

“I know what they
are
, Vice Captain. Why have they got everyone so worked up?”

“It’s Danton,” Giforte said. “That’s his new slogan. Cheap bread and political reform.”

“Fair enough. So what’s the problem?”

“He’s drawing big crowds, sir. Bigger every day. People are starting to take notice. They say the Exchange is getting skittish.”

“I don’t think protecting people from falling share prices is in our jurisdiction.”

“No, sir,” Giforte said. “But I’m starting to hear talk.”

“Talk from whom?”

The vice captain’s features froze into a grimace. “Leading citizens, sir.”

Ah. In other words, someone’s been leaning on him.
Marcus himself hadn’t been in place long enough to attract that kind of pressure—presumably it was easier to ignore him and go straight to the man with the real authority. “Has Danton done anything illegal?”

“Not that I can see, sir. Although we could probably come up with something if you wanted to have a chat with him.”

“If he hasn’t done anything wrong, then I don’t want to worry about him just yet.” Catching the vice captain’s expression, he sighed. “I’ll pass your ‘talk’ on to the minister. He can decide whether there’s anything to be done about Danton.”

“Yes, sir.” Giforte looked relieved to have passed the burden up the chain of command.

“Is there anything else pressing this morning?”

“Not particularly, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus pushed his coffee away. “I’m going to have a chat with our prisoner. See if a night in the cells has done anything to loosen his tongue.” Giforte’s interrogators had questioned the man; they’d taken all evening, to no avail.

Giforte’s face froze again. He could give Fitz a run for his money, Marcus thought, in the carefully-not-saying-how-stupid-you-are-sir department.

“Are you certain you want to do that yourself, sir?” the vice captain said. “My men are more . . . experienced with that sort of thing. He’ll talk eventually.”

“The minister wishes me to ask some questions that need to be kept as quiet as possible,” Marcus lied. “If he’s uncooperative, I’ll ask His Excellency if I can brief you.”

“As you say, sir. Be careful. We searched him thoroughly, but he may still be dangerous.”

Marcus remembered a discordant tone, like the world tearing apart, and ripples in the air that shattered solid stone statues like toys.
You have no idea.

—

The majority of the prisoners kept by the Armsmen were distributed among several old fortresses in the city, more convenient than the old palace grounds. The city’s most notorious prison, the Vendre, belonged to Duke Orlanko’s Concordat, but some of the most dangerous Armsmen prisoners went there as well. The cells in the Guardhouse were for captives of special interest, who had to be kept separate from the general prison population for one reason or another. Marcus had directed that the young man they’d taken in the Oldtown raid be kept in a cell as far as possible from any others, with a guard on his door at all times. So far, he seemed utterly mundane, but Marcus didn’t want to take chances.

The guard was waiting in front of the solid iron-banded door, and he saluted at Marcus’ approach.

Marcus nodded acknowledgment. “Has he said anything?”

“No, sir. Not a peep. He takes his meals readily enough, though.”

“All right. Let me in. Then make sure we aren’t disturbed until I call for you.”

“Yessir.” With another salute, the green-uniformed Staff turned a key and swung the door open. Inside was a small room, divided in half by iron grillwork. There were no windows, and an oil lamp hanging from a wall bracket provided
the only illumination. A small hatch at waist height provided a way that food and water could be passed in without unlocking the cell door.

Marcus’ half of the room was empty. The other half had a cot with a sheet and a lumpy pillow, a bucket, and a three-legged stool. The prisoner, now dressed in black-dyed linens, sat beside the grille, looking comfortable. He glanced up as Marcus entered, and smiled.

“Captain d’Ivoire,” he said, in his faint Murnskai accent. “I thought I would see you eventually.”

Marcus shut the door behind him, the latch audibly snicking closed. He regarded the young man for a long moment, then shook his head. “Have you got a name?”

“Adam Ionkovo,” the young man said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“How did you know my name?”

“You featured centrally in the reports from Khandar. There was even quite a good likeness.”

“Whose reports?”

Ionkovo waved a hand. “The reports His Grace the duke was good enough to share with us, of course.”

“Then you don’t deny it. That you work with the Concordat. That you’re one of—”

“The Priests of the Black?” Ionkovo nodded. “No, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to argue the point. Though of course I am not an ordained priest, merely an . . . adviser.”

The Priests of the Black.
Jen Alhundt, the Concordat liaison who had become Marcus’ lover, had turned out to be a member of that order, long thought extinct. More than a member—one of the
Ignahta Sempria
, the Penitent Damned, with powers that Marcus could hardly comprehend. His stomach crawled as he looked into Ionkovo’s bright, beaming eyes.

“Why did your men try to kill us?” Marcus said, after a moment.

“They weren’t ‘my men.’ They were protectors assigned to us by the order, and they took their assigned duties very seriously. I advised them to surrender, but . . .” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry it had to come to bloodshed.”

“So am I.”

Silence fell again, stretching on until it became awkward. Ionkovo scratched his chin and yawned.

“Come, now, Captain,” he said. “We both know why you’re here. Save yourself a lot of trouble and just ask your question.”

“This was a mistake,” Marcus said. “I shouldn’t have come here. How could I possibly trust anything you tell me?”

“If you won’t ask, I will.” Ionkovo leaned forward. “Our reports said you were very close to Jen Alhundt. But we have no record of what happened to her, in the end. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“No? I worked closely with her for years. We were practically family. It’s only natural to ask about family, don’t you think?”

He’d hit the word “family” a little too hard.
Or did he?
Marcus glared through the bars, anger mixing with a roiling uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

A lifetime ago, when Marcus had been only a boy going through his first round of education at the War College, a fire had ripped through the d’Ivoire estate. His mother, father, and little sister had lost their lives, along with most of the servants. It had been an accident, they told him, a tragic, stupid accident that had destroyed his life when it had barely gotten started.

Except . . . Jen had as good as told him it
wasn’t
an accident. That there was some truth, buried in the burned-out wreckage, that he’d been too young and too blinded by grief to see. She’d been doing her best to enrage him, and he’d tried to dismiss it, but . . .

Are you certain?
she’d asked. It nagged at him, like a half-lifted scab he couldn’t help picking at, no matter how much it hurt.
Does he know something?

“You want to ask, Captain,” Ionkovo said. “It’s written in your face. How about a trade, then? Answer my question, and I’ll tell you the truth.” He spread his hands. “What’s the harm? It’s not as though I’m going anywhere.”

The truth.
It was tempting, so tempting.
He certainly
isn’t
going anywhere. What would be the harm?
But something deep in Marcus’ soul stopped him. He’d disobeyed orders even to come down here; telling Ionkovo what he knew of that horrible night in the temple would be a betrayal of Janus’ trust he wasn’t sure he could live with. Slowly, he shook his head.

Ionkovo leaned back, his face hardening. “Fair enough. Let me ask you something else, then. Did Jen just lead you on, or did she actually let you fuck her?”

Marcus’ head snapped up, color rising in his face.
“What?”

“Ah, I see that she did.” Ionkovo’s smile had changed to a predatory leer. “I ask only out of professional interest. I’d guessed that with a simple man like yourself, she would stick to the most basic methods.”

“That’s enough.”

“You’re a lucky man, Captain. Jen is very skilled.” His smile widened. “I can attest to that personally.”

“Shut
up
.” Marcus slammed a hand against the grille, producing a ringing, metallic tone and a stinging pain in his knuckles. “We’re done here.”

“If you like. My offer remains open.”

“I hope it entertains you,” Marcus said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here until you rot.”

Ionkovo chuckled. Then, as Marcus thumbed the latch, he said, “May I offer a suggestion?”

Marcus pulled the door open, teeth clenched.

“You did answer a question, after a fashion, so I owe you something. Call it a show of good faith.”

Marcus wanted to slam the door in his face and keep walking, but the nagging at the back of his mind wouldn’t let him.

“What?” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Have you been back to your old estate? Since . . . well, you know.”

“No,” Marcus said.

“It might be worth your time to have a look. Just for nostalgia’s sake.”

Marcus paused, deliberately, then stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. The Armsman outside saluted nervously.

“No one is to speak to him without my permission,” Marcus growled. “Not Giforte,
no one
. Understood?”

“Ah, yessir.”

“Good.”

ORLANKO

D
uke Orlanko tossed the broadsheet onto his desk, where it bumped a stack of paper and sent the crisp white sheets sliding a few inches across the wood. To those who knew him, the gesture was as emphatic as if he’d put his fist through a window in a rage.

“‘One Eagle,’” the Last Duke read, “‘and the Deputies-General.’”

Andreas stood, in his long black coat, as impassive as ever.

Orlanko tapped his finger on the paper, smearing the ink slightly. It was still warm from the printer’s. “As though the two were somehow connected.”

“Nonsense,” Andreas offered.

“It’s brilliant nonsense,” Orlanko snapped. “The poor of this city are cynical enough not to trust someone who promises nothing but cheap bread and times of plenty. But toss in a bit of mumbo jumbo about politics, just enough to sound confusing, and the rabble will believe anything. Most of them wouldn’t know the Deputies-General if it convened in their outhouse, but they’ll shout for it in the streets because it means bread at an eagle a loaf.”

“Yes, sir,” Andreas said.

“What do we know about this Danton?”

“Almost nothing.”

“‘Almost’ nothing?” Orlanko controlled his temper with an effort. “The man must have come from somewhere.”

“Of course,” Andreas said. “But nobody knows where. We got a few bits and pieces about some kind of adopted brother named Jack, but he seems to
have left the city. As far as anyone knows, Danton appeared out of thin air that day in front of the cathedral.”

“And since then?”

“He stays at the Hotel Royal, near the Exchange. Keeps to his rooms and only comes out to give speeches. The staff brings him his meals.”

“Who visits him?”

“Only couriers.”

“You’ve followed them, I assume?”

Andreas nodded. “He receives a great many every day. They all come and go from the Exchange Central courier office.”

“Have you traced the messages back from there?”

“We don’t have the men. That office handles ten thousand messages a day.”

Orlanko drummed his fingers on the broadsheet, heedless of the ink smearing under his palm. “Someone is trying to hide from us, Andreas. Like a snake in the long grass.”

“Yes, sir. But I can’t set a man on every trader in the Exchange.”

“Even if we could, it would be a bit obvious.”

This attempt at humor, feeble as it was, went completely past Andreas’ head. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “May I offer a suggestion?”

Orlanko cocked his head. This was unusual, coming from Andreas. “Speak.”

“This business with the couriers, sir. It reminds me of the Gray Rose.”

“She had contacts at the Exchange Central?”

“No, sir. But it’s the
kind
of trick she liked. Hiding a tree in a forest, if you like.”

Orlanko considered. If the Gray Rose
was
involved, that meant the matter went a great deal deeper than he’d thought. On the other hand, Andreas had been working on the Gray Rose case so long he was developing an unhealthy obsession with her, and had a tendency to see her fingerprints on anything mysterious. He was a fine operative, diligent and extremely persistent, but analysis was not his strong point.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Orlanko said. “For the moment, focus on Danton’s backers.”

“Backers, sir?”

“Staying at the Hotel Royal costs money. Couriers cost money. Printing these”—he tapped the broadsheet again—“costs money. He must be getting it from somewhere. Find out where. If it’s his own, find out where it comes from. If someone is bankrolling him, I want to know who. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir. I may need to borrow some clerks from the finance section.”

Orlanko waved a hand and settled back in his chair with a chorus of squeaking springs. “Take whoever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I received your report on that other matter, incidentally.”

“Vhalnich, sir?”

“Yes, our friend Count Mieran. It seemed . . . thin.”

“All the relevant information was included, sir.”

“Unfortunate that the accounts are so contradictory.”

Andreas shrugged. “Matters in Khandar were apparently quite confused.”

“You say that Vhalnich brought two officers back with him aboard the fast packet, Captain d’Ivoire and a Lieutenant Ihernglass. I’ve met the captain. What’s happened to this lieutenant?”

“It’s not quite clear, sir. Vhalnich hasn’t given him any official orders, but he hasn’t been seen for several days.”

“Away without leave, perhaps?”

“If so, no one has reported it to the Minister of War.”

“An oddity.” Orlanko frowned down at his hand and wiped it on his sleeve. “But we have too many oddities lately, and the situation is approaching a crisis. See what you can find out.”

“Of course, sir.”

The Last Duke took a large gold watch from his pocket and snapped it open. He liked clocks and watches. There was something about the sight of all those little wheels, rushing around and around in perfect order, that made him feel . . . peaceful.

“And now, Andreas, you must excuse me,” he said, and snapped the watch closed. He levered himself out of the chair with another chorus of squeaks. “I have an appointment.”

—

Even here, deep beneath the Ministry where only a few were permitted to tread, the halls were clean and free from damp or pests. They were not well lit, but that was unavoidable, since candles or torches required menials to tend to them, and no menials were trusted enough to work down here. He’d considered having gas laid on, but the main city lines were still miles from Ohnlei, and the expense would be colossal.

Perhaps, he thought, after the coronation, the Crown might be persuaded to bear the expense.

For now he carried his own lantern. He opened an ornate wrought-iron grate with a black iron key from a pocket on the inside of his shirt. The lantern made the shadows of the bars stripe the corridor beyond, canting back and forth as it swayed in his hand. The grate opened with the squeak of well-oiled hinges, and Orlanko continued down the hall, his padded shoes shuffling on the flagstones.

He didn’t like this place, or the alliance it represented. It represented a certain untidiness in the nature of the world. Only weakness had forced him to resort to it. But the Last Duke was nothing if not pragmatic, and he had long ago committed himself to using whatever tools were necessary.

Nine hundred years ago, when Elleusis Ligamenti had laid down the foundation stones of the Elysian Church, he had ordained that it would be ruled by a council of three, each the head of an order with distinct responsibilities. The Pontifex of the White concerned himself exclusively with spiritual matters, the relationship of Man to God, and the moral well-being of the Church’s flock. The Pontifex of the Red was responsible for the physical maintenance and upkeep of temporal Church power and authority, and its relations with the secular world and its rulers. And the Pontifex of the Black’s remit was the endless quest against the demons of the world, as enjoined by the Savior Karis’
Wisdoms
.

As the Church’s dogma had become the law of the land, the power of the Priests of the Black had expanded until they had become a vast and terrible inquisition obsessed with the discovery of doctrinal heresy as well as supernatural evil. In their obsession with destroying the demons of the world, they began to make use of the supernatural as well, recruiting fanatics who volunteered themselves for eternal punishment by playing host to a demon in order to help the Church’s crusade against evil. These were the legendary
Ignahta Sempria
, the Penitent Damned.

It was this overreach by the Black Priests as much as anything else that had provoked the great schism between Free and Sworn churches, and in the aftermath of the wars sparked by that terrible rebellion the Black Priests had been greatly reduced in power. Bit by bit, they had died out, until the death of the last Pontifex of the Black had officially ended the order. To the extent that they thought about it at all, most modern people viewed this as ancient history.

After all, they would say, everyone knew there wasn’t
really
any such thing as demons.

Brother Nikolai was waiting on the other side of the second grate. There
was no key to this one, so it could only be unlocked from the inside, by Brother Nikolai or one of his successors. In his more whimsical moments, the Last Duke wondered what would happen if Brother Nikolai were to suffer an apoplectic fit and die without anyone noticing. Presumably they would have to smash the grate down, if only to retrieve the body.

Brother Nikolai wore soft black robes that fell in deep folds from his shoulders and shrouded him in silence, like a patch of moving shadow. His dark hair was bound in a thick queue, in the Murnskai fashion, but the most striking thing about him was the mask that obscured his face. It was a flattened oval with narrow slits for the eyes and mouth, surfaced with a thousand tiny chips of black volcanic glass, like a dark gem with innumerable facets. A tiny spot of light from Orlanko’s lantern was reflected in each facet, so Brother Nikolai’s face was alive with a thousand pinprick fireflies that danced and wove in unison as the lantern swung from the duke’s hand.

He was a Priest of the Black. Or a subpriest, or sub-subpriest, or something similar. Orlanko had never been able to parse the arcane hierarchies of Elysium, but he assumed that Brother Nikolai must be fairly lowly to be given such a dull assignment. He was something like a lighthouse keeper, for a very peculiar lighthouse, one that lived in the dark below the Cobweb.

“Brother,” Orlanko said, with a polite nod.

“Your Grace,” Brother Nikolai returned, and opened the grate. Beyond it the corridor ended in a pair of facing doors. One led to the little room where Brother Nikolai lived, studied, and prayed. The other held his charge.

Orlanko followed the priest and waited while he worked the lock on the cell door. Besides Orlanko’s lantern, the only light was from a candle in Brother Nikolai’s room. No illumination came from the prisoner’s cell, as she had no need of any.

Brother Nikolai opened the door and stepped aside. “You are punctual as always, Your Grace.”

The duke favored him with a thin smile and stepped inside. The cell was generously sized, and though spare it was kept scrupulously clean. A bed and a privy were the only furniture the prisoner required.

She sat cross-legged in the center of the room, a girl not past her early twenties with short, dark hair and the pallid skin that came from years without sunlight. Her robe was similar to Brother Nikolai’s, but gray. In front of her was an open book, which she was carefully passing her finger across, line by line, as though she were painting.

Brother Nikolai had once explained the procedure. The priests began with two young people. Any pair who shared a strong bond would work, lovers or even very close friends, but Black Priests preferred siblings so they could begin work at an early age. Twins were ideal. Once the pair had been chosen and carefully studied to ensure that they were free of physical or mental defects, they were both given the name of a demon to read.

From that moment forward, the two would be as one, two minds melting into each other under the vile creature’s irresistible pressure. The pairs would undergo training and instruction together, and then eventually one of the two would be shipped in great secrecy to some hidden outpost of the Priests of the Black, like this one, while the other remained in the endless dungeons under Elysium. Then they would wait until they were needed, to throw the voice of the pontifex across thousands of miles in an instant, receiving reports and delivering instructions.

There was a danger in this, of course. If the member of the pair who went abroad fell into the hands of the Church’s enemies, additional bonds might be created, additional minds added to the loop, with potentially disastrous results. The research theologians of the Black Priests had determined that eye contact was necessary for this procedure, and so whichever of the siblings was sent away had them removed, for safety’s sake.

The girl raised her head at the sound of Orlanko’s entrance, and the light of the lantern played for a moment on her pale, empty eye sockets. The Last Duke gritted his teeth at a sudden wash of nausea and set the lantern down, leaving her mutilated face mercifully in shadow.

“Hello, Your Grace,” she said. She had a lilting voice with a singsong Murnskai accent.

“You recognize the squeak of my shoes?” Orlanko said, venturing a slight smile.

“Oh yes.” She shrugged. “But that is no great feat, since only you and Brother Nikolai ever open that door.”

Orlanko glanced at her book, which lay near where he’d set the lantern. It was a copy of the
Wisdoms
, of course, a special one made for the blind, with thickly embossed letters that could be discerned by a passing finger. The Black Priests taught the children to read in this way, after they were bonded, so that their souls might receive some measure of grace. The pages of this one were almost blank, the painted letters worn away by the passage of her fingers.

“Would you like a new one?” he said.

“A new what?”

She couldn’t follow his gaze, of course. “A new copy of the
Wisdoms
. Yours seems to be worn out.”

She shrugged again. “No, Your Grace. I know the words by heart anyway.” She shifted slightly, robe rustling. “His Eminence is arriving.”

“Very well.” The Last Duke drew himself up a little, though of course there was nobody to see in the little cell.

The girl’s face twisted slightly, her mouth gaping like a landed fish’s for a few seconds. Then—and this was the part of the procedure that the duke always found most disturbing—a new voice emerged. Her lips moved to shape the syllables, but the sound was that of a man, his voice thick, breathy, and heavily accented. The words of the Pontifex of the Black, spoken in some dungeon fifteen hundred miles away, flashed across the continent by magic to emerge in this tiny cell.

“Orlanko,” the pontifex said.

“I’m here, Your Eminence.”