Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

It wasn’t a bad speech, Raesinia thought, as she worked her way through it. She’d written most of it in preparation for her appearance at the opening of the Deputies-General, which the Last Duke had so rudely cut short. Some of the facts might not have stood up in the cut and thrust of debate at the Blue Mask-for example, the deputies of Farus I’s day had been the wealthy landowners, and their main complaint had been that the barons were infringing their ancient rights of rent and taxation. But it carried everything Raesinia believed, everything she and her friends had worked for, everything Ben and poor Danton had died for.

And it wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t make it work. As she went on, the deputies kept watching, but she could feel the attention of the crowd wandering. Danton could have fired those words with the force of cannonballs, sent them flying out to smash everyone in the square right between the eyes and leave them dumb in wonder. Her father in his prime, though no Danton, could still have made the flagstones ring with lofty sentiments. But coming from her own lips, the words sounded weak, uncertain, pedantic. She closed her eyes for a moment, still speaking, trying to hold back tears of frustration.

We worked so long for this moment. I pushed them into it-Ben, Danton, Faro, all the rest. To get me here. And it isn’t working. She took a deep breath, and began the peroration.

“When the people of Vordan once again called for the Deputies-General, Duke Orlanko and his allies saw it as a crime, an inducement to revolution. But how can that be? The people are sovereign . We rule in their name. How can a ruler revolt against himself? How can a call for the ancient representatives of the people be anything but the exercise of a God-given right?

“This is why I come before you today, as Queen of Vordan, in the humble acceptance of the right of the people to express their will through their gathered representatives. .”

Something was happening, out at the south end of the square. The crowd swirled, some moving toward the disturbance, others fighting to get away. Raesinia could hear cheers, shouts, even screams, but nothing that made any sense. She trailed off, shading her eyes to see what was going on, and caught the glitter of steel.

Saints and martyrs. Are we under attack? She looked over her shoulder at Janus. He was standing at the back of the platform, in the shadow of the statue, looking down at his pocket watch. After a moment, he snapped it closed and looked up.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “your timing is impeccable.”

The crowd was parting, drawing back, but the cheers started to outnumber the shouts of alarm. Men in blue uniforms, a thousand strong, marched in a battalion column across the square. There was another column behind them, and another behind that, and between them came the great gray shapes of guns and their caissons. At their head snapped the Vordanai flag, silver eagle brilliant on a royal blue field, and beside it the battle flag of the First Colonial Infantry.

When the first rank reached the center of the square, just below the podium, the column halted. At a shout from their officers, a thousand men slammed the butts of their muskets against the flagstones of the square with an almighty clatter, then brought their free hands up to salute. A thousand voices spoke at once.

“God grace the queen!” they chorused, in the ancient formula. “And Karis’ favor protect her!”

Janus smiled, just for a moment, and gestured at the crowd. Raesinia spun around and stepped to the edge of the platform, shouting the last lines of her speech.

“I, for one, do not plan to surrender these sovereign rights without a fight! Will you join me?” Looking down at the soldiers, she spread her arms and added, “Will you join us ?”

The people began to shout. Here and there, she could distinguish a few words-“God grace Vordan!” or “God grace the queen!” The noise of the crowd grew and grew, from a murmur to a tumult to a full-throated roar that shook the square, rattling the windows in the shops and startling the pigeons from the rooftops. The soldiers joined in, until it seemed that the noise would shake the great podium to pieces. Raesinia closed her eyes and risked a smile.

WINTER

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to join up.”

“You never will. You’re saying it, but you won’t.”

“I will!”

“Last time you told me there was no point going off to die for some nob.”

“Yeah, but that was last time. This time it’s Vhalnich .”

“He ain’t a nob?”

“He knows what he’s doing, is all. And he’s got some real troops to help. First Colonials, they said. You heard what they did in Khandar?”

“I heard a lot of things. That don’t make ’em true.”

“And you don’t want Orlanko back here, either, with his goddamned Sworn Church and his Borel tax farmers.”

“Yeah, but. .”

“Besides, think about it. This time next week, a man in a blue uniform won’t be able to buy his own drinks. And the girls-”

“Yeah, but you gotta be alive to enjoy it.”

Winter, hands in her pockets, walked beside the pair of youths until they turned off onto a side street. She’d heard that conversation, or one very much like it, at least a dozen times since she left the cathedral.

The deputies had retreated from the cheering mob to the cathedral’s great hall, locked in furious argument. The carefully negotiated alliances of the past week had all gone out the window, as though Janus’ speech and the arrival of the Colonials had upset the checkerboard and spilled all the pieces on the floor. And, in a way, it had. Royal Army troops were in Vordan City for the first time in living memory, and that tipped the balance of power decisively in favor of the man who held their loyalty.

Radical, Monarchist, and Center split into a dozen competing bands. Some cheered Janus on, while others wanted to send a delegation to take command of the regiment and make sure it couldn’t be used against the deputies. Still others argued against doing anything rash, or anything at all, for fear of provoking Janus before Orlanko was dealt with. Some argued that a true constitution needed to be written, clarifying the queen’s position, before any action could be taken.

Maurisk alternately sat in silence and shouted, soothing the worried and beating back the more ludicrous proposals. Eventually he convinced the deputies to pass a resolution of support for Janus and the Colonials, which expressed, in a general way, their hopes that he would defeat Orlanko but didn’t say anything terribly specific about what would happen afterward. Satisfied with this noneffort, the Deputies-General dissolved for the evening.

Winter had hired a carriage to take her to the Docks, but had been forced to abandon it after crossing the Grand Span. The streets were full of people, as if the passage of the Colonials had been a magic signal to come out of hiding. Everywhere torches were burning, men and women were talking and laughing, and children played in the streets and shouted with joy at the unexpected festival.

As she threaded her way through the crowd, Winter learned that there were more reasons for cheer than just the arrival of her old regiment. The Colonials had marched up the Green Road from the south, and they’d brought with them a considerable tail of carts and wagons. These belonged to the farmers and merchants of the area, who’d been frightened off from bringing their produce to the city by rumors of fighting. They’d flocked to the familiar blue uniforms, evidence that authority was being reasserted, and followed the Colonials to sell their wares. The road to the north was still closed, but this influx had helped to fill the food shortage and bring prices to more reasonable levels. Winter saw fresh vegetables, early apples by the barrelful, bushels of corn and sides of bacon, and the whole city seemed full of the smell of baking bread.