Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

It had obviously been locked up until recently, but by the time Marcus arrived the dust sheets had been taken off the furniture and a small squadron of staff was busy mopping the floors, hauling the art out of the attic, and generally making things presentable. Marcus recognized some of them from the Ohnlei cottage, more Mierantai imported by Janus from his home county. If they were intimidated at having the queen in the house, they didn’t show it.

Now it was morning. Marcus’ uniform had been thoroughly washed, dried, and folded overnight, and several of his shoddier pieces of kit, including his boots, had been replaced. His sword, old leather scabbard industriously buffed to a sheen it hadn’t had in years, lay on top of the pile. It was the kind of quiet efficiency that reminded him of Fitz Warus, or for that matter of Janus’ manservant Augustin. I wonder if all servants are like that in Mieran County. Or maybe, he thought, this was what it was like to be a noble-everything just happened , without your intervention or even your knowledge. It made him feel odd, as though the house were inhabited by helpful, invisible elves.

He came down from his bedroom-directly beneath one of the turrets, with a fine east view-and found the queen breakfasting in the dining room, attended by a servant and a pair of Mierantai guards. The table had been laid with an impressive meal, with a great river trout as the centerpiece, its head sitting in front of it on a separate plate and staring at Marcus with a resentful, fishy eye. It was buttressed by ham and bacon, buttered potatoes, diced eggs, and loaves of bread so steaming hot they could only have come from the house’s own ovens. Marcus’ stomach gave a growl at the sight of the food. The queen, he noticed, was only sipping at a glass of water and nibbling a heel of bread.

She was dressed plainly, in a sleeveless black dress with no jewels or ornamentation, her brown hair tied in a simple braid. Her pretty brown eyes were vague, focused on the middle distance, and Marcus could almost hear the brass wheels turning behind them. She looked for all the world like somebody’s younger sister, a skinny girl in her late teens, perhaps a touch too serious for her own good.

As opposed to a woman of twenty, and ruler in her own right of one of the most powerful nations in the world. He shook his head, bemused. Assuming that nation doesn’t fall down around her ears in the next couple of weeks.

“Are you going to join me, Captain?” she said.

They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other on the way over, and Marcus was at a loss for how to begin. He cleared his throat. “Would that be proper, Your Majesty?”

“Seeing as we’re not at Ohnlei, I think we can dispense with formal precedence. Besides, proper is whatever I say it is, isn’t it?”

“As you wish.” He bowed and pulled out a chair to sit beside her.

“And eat something, please. I don’t eat much, and I would hate for the chef to feel like his work had gone unappreciated.”

Marcus needed no urging on that score. His rations in the Vendre hadn’t been a prisoner’s bread and water, but they hadn’t been much better. He helped himself to a slice of the trout- what’s the point of leaving the head there-are we supposed to eat it? — and filled his plate with samples of the rest. Then he engaged in silent contemplation for some time while the queen watched, amused.

“Do all soldiers eat like that?” she said, when he’d cleaned his plate and started on a second round.

“Only when they’ve been locked up for a week,” Marcus said, and then added hastily, “Your Majesty.”

She smiled, took a small bite of her bread, and set it back.

“You’re not hungry?” he said.

“I never eat much,” she said. “Doctor-Professor Indergast says it may be an aftereffect of my illness, along with”-she gestured at herself and grinned ruefully-“my stature.”

“I didn’t know you were ailing, Your Majesty.”

“I was ill. This was four years ago-you would have already been in Khandar, I think. For a while they were certain I would die, but by the grace of God”-she had an odd look-“I survived. I suppose a diminished appetite is a small price to pay.” She waved at his plate. “Don’t let me put you off your food, of course.”

Marcus nodded, uncertainly, and looked down at this plate. It was still half-full, but his appetite had gone. He cut a bit more fish, for the look of the thing.

“They tell me that you’re to escort me to some sort of gathering Count Mieran has planned for this morning,” the queen said while he ate.

“Yes, Your Majesty. He asked for us an hour before noon.”

“The last time you came to escort me somewhere, we ended up jumping out a window.” She looked around the dining room, which was windowless and candlelit. “I hope that’s not the usual procedure, with you.”

“Ah. . no, Your Majesty.”

There was a pause.

“That was an attempt at humor, Captain. A poor one, I admit, but you might at least smile.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m not accustomed to such lofty company.”

She shrugged. “You needn’t be so formal. Being shot at together creates a certain amount of familiarity, I think.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do you have any idea what the count might have planned for us?”

“He mentioned that he was going to make a speech to the deputies, and that you might make one as well.”

“I know. Fortunately, I’ve been composing one in my head ever since they locked me up. I spent last night writing it out.”

“I hope you got some sleep as well.”

“Enough for my needs,” she said. “You don’t know anything else about the count’s plan?”

“The colonel,” Marcus said, “that is, Count Mieran, is not in the habit of letting anyone know the whole of his plans.”

“That must be irritating,” the queen said, smiling very slightly.

“Sometimes. But it makes serving under him more interesting.” Not to mention dangerous , but he didn’t need to tell her that.

“Well. We’d best go find out, then.”

Marcus pushed his plate back and got to his feet. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“I wonder. .” She hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Have you heard from Sothe?” The queen set her jaw. “I’m certain she’s alive, somewhere. But she might need help. I thought you might know something.”

Marcus shook his head. “I’ve only been out of prison for a day and a half myself, Your Majesty, and the Armsmen have more or less disbanded. I don’t have any information, but there’s no reason I should. If you like, I can inquire with Count Mieran.”

“Please do.” The queen pushed herself back from the table and got to her feet. “Let’s be off.”

RAESINIA

A string of three carriages took them the short distance from the Twin Turrets to the edge of Farus’ Triumph, across Saint Vallax Bridge. Raesinia sat in the center one with Marcus and a pair of guards, while the rest of the squad rode in and on top of the other two. Janus clearly remembered what had happened last time, and he’d ordered the escort to take no chances.

Perhaps he has a specific reason to be worried. Raesinia had heard a dozen versions of the story of Danton’s assassination, but all agreed that the killer had worn a strange, glittering black mask. Most people assumed this was only the odd affectation of a lunatic-a man who had vanished in the midst of the crowd moments later-but Raesinia knew better. A mask like that figured in her darkest memories, reflecting the light of dozens of candles ringing her deathbed. The man who’d worn it had led her through an incomprehensible incantation, pausing every few moments as she coughed a little bit more of her life away. Raesinia, terrified and in pain, had done as she was told, even as she felt the binding trying to tear her soul to pieces. And when she’d finished. .