Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“I hate to seem callous,” Marcus said, “but what of it? If all this is true, Orlanko must be well prepared by now.”

“Indeed. In fact, I’m certain he’s planning on it. The revolt will be bloodily suppressed, and the subsequent crackdown will cement his control. Then there will be no stopping him.” Janus cocked his head. “You see now why we had to hurry? If the king had died while we were en route, we would have arrived too late to take a hand in matters.”

“Balls of the Beast,” Marcus swore. “No offense intended, Colonel, but I’m not sure I want to take a hand in matters. You make it sound like Vordan is as bad as Ashe-Katarion, and you remember how that turned out. Maybe we should have stayed in Khandar.”

“That might have been an option for you, Captain, but not for me. If Orlanko consolidates his power, he will have no more reason to fear me. A mere ocean would not be enough to blunt his reach.” Janus did not appear particularly discomfited by this thought, but Marcus thought of Jen, glowing with coruscating, unnatural power, and shuddered. “Besides,” Janus went on, “I have a duty to my king, and my future queen.”

“So, what did the king tell you? Giving you Justice when there’s going to be fighting in the streets seems like setting you up for disaster.”

“Fortunately, the situations are not exactly analogous,” Janus said. “The king has always been aware of Orlanko’s ambitions, of course. He asked me to serve as a counterweight on the Cabinet. To protect Raesinia, and try to ensure that she gets a genuine chance to rule in her own right.”

“He doesn’t ask for much, does he?” Marcus muttered.

“He’s desperate,” Janus said. “And he knows that Orlanko has ways of getting to even the best people. He needed someone who already had the Last Duke’s enmity. The fact that our victory in Khandar has gained us something of a reputation is all to the good.”

“All right,” Marcus said. “Fair enough. So, what’s the plan?”

“I’m still working on it,” Janus said, with another fast smile.

“What?”

“We’ve been here less than a day, Captain. All my information is weeks old. It will take time to receive new reports from my sources, and more time to formulate a course of action.”

“Wonderful,” Marcus growled.

“One thing is for certain, however. We must discover the depth of the connection between the duke and the Priests of the Black. That may shed light on. . a great many things.”

Are you certain? she’d said. Marcus nodded slowly. “How?”

“Putting you at the Armsmen was the first step. The more friends we have among the city authorities, the better.”

“Making me captain doesn’t put the Armsmen in your pocket,” Marcus said. “Not if we’re talking about fighting in the streets. When both sides wear the same uniform, the chain of command can get a little. . confused.” An image of Adrecht came to him, scared and defiant, clutching the flap of his empty sleeve.

“Of course. And I have no doubt the Armsmen are liberally salted with Concordat agents. But you will do what you can. In the meantime, you will have the legal authority to investigate the activities of the Black Priests, once we uncover them.”

“Do you think that’s likely? With Orlanko’s backing, I imagine they’ll be well hidden.”

“I have a lead that may prove fruitful. You get accustomed to your new command, and I will do what I can. For the moment, I suggest you get some sleep. A rest in a real bed will do wonders for your disposition.”

After all this, Marcus thought, I’d better learn to sleep with one eye open.

“Before you do,” Janus said, sipping his tea thoughtfully, “you might wake Lieutenant Ihernglass. I would like to have a word with him.”

WINTER

She awoke from a warm, jumbled mess of a dream. The feel of a body pressed against her, soft skin, fever-hot, and delicate fingers running across her. Lips pressed against hers, hesitantly at first, then with mounting enthusiasm. Hot breath against her neck, her hands running through long red hair, spiky with the sweat of their exertions. Green eyes, boring into her like daggers.

Jane. Winter groaned, half-awake, and opened her eyes. The air was stuffy and smelled of dust, and she lay in the peculiar semidarkness of a room with heavy curtains drawn against the daylight. The bed underneath her was titanic and sinfully soft, and she was surrounded by a nest of silk pillows. The one beneath her head was damp with sweat.

Ever since that horrible day at the Desoltai temple, she’d traded one set of nightmares for another, though. The new ones had begun as a vague feeling of confinement, of being trapped in darkness while distant voices droned on and on. On the journey from Khandar, they’d gradually sharpened until she could nearly make out the words. She knew, somehow, that these visions welled up from the pit of her being, where the thing Janus had called Infernivore slumbered like a quiescent predator digesting its meal.

Dreams of Jane were almost a relief, a familiar ache in her chest. Jane, whom she’d fallen in love with and then abandoned to an awful fate. Whose memory she’d fled across a thousand miles of ocean to escape.

And now I’m back. Under a different name, wearing a different identity, but. .

The knock at the door came as something of a relief. Winter tried to sit up, but the deep feather bed thwarted her efforts, and she ended up half rolling, half flopping until she got to the edge. The knock repeated.

“Lieutenant Ihernglass?”

It was Captain d’Ivoire. Winter managed to escape from her mattress, kicked off the ensnaring sheet, and got to her feet.

“I’m awake,” she said. “Just one moment.”

There was a full-length mirror in one corner, a luxury she’d rarely had in Khandar. Winter went through an automatic self-examination to confirm that her male disguise was intact. While Janus knew the truth of her gender, Captain d’Ivoire did not, and there would be servants and guards as well. She found that she was still wearing her uniform, though a couple of buttons had come loose as she tossed and turned. Apparently she had barely managed to get her boots off before collapsing.

She fixed the buttons, adjusted her collar, and tugged a bit at her cuffs. Once she felt reasonably presentable, she went to the door. Doors with proper latches-that was something else to get used to. Khandarai mostly made do with curtains.

Captain d’Ivoire was waiting in the corridor. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Winter sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the colonel had let her sleep. D’Ivoire looked about ready to fall over.

“He wants you,” the captain said. No need to specify who “‘he” was. “Downstairs, in the parlor.”

“Yessir.”

“If he needs me, I’ll be over”-he gestured vaguely toward the doors to the other bedrooms-“there. Somewhere.”

“Yessir.”

He staggered off. Winter stepped out into the hall and shut the door behind her, looking around curiously. She hadn’t gotten much more than a cursory look at the cottage when they came in, tired as she’d been. Now, making her way down the stairs, she let its fundamental weirdness sink in. It was huge, ceilings far higher than necessary and corridors far broader, and what wall space wasn’t occupied by vast paintings was taken up by glass-shielded braziers, ablaze with candles even in the middle of the day. The art was mostly moody, sweeping landscapes, with the occasional nautical scene thrown in for variety, all set in fantastically carved gilt frames. The carpet underfoot was thicker and softer than her army-issue bedroll.