Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“How is the Cobweb?”

“Buzzing.”

Raesinia smiled in the darkness.

MARCUS

Marcus had never really understood the point of inspections by senior officers. It certainly made sense for a sergeant to turn out his men now and again to make sure everyone’s kit was in order, but the deficiencies of individual rankers were generally beneath the notice of a captain. At the War College, he’d known some officers who liked to play the martinet, find some tiny deficiency and fly into a frothing rage to show that they weren’t to be trifled with, but Marcus had privately considered such performances to be more trouble than they were worth.

He would gladly have dispensed with the whole ritual, but the men seemed to expect it, and so he found himself walking along a line of well-turned-out Armsmen an hour or so after officially taking over his new command. At his side was Vice Captain Alek Giforte, who’d served as acting commander since the dismissal of the previous Minister of War. The vice captain seemed to know the name and service record of every man in the unit, and he kept up a running commentary as Marcus went along the lines, accepting stiff salutes and dispensing nods and smiles.

“That’s Staff Gallows, sir.” “Staff” was apparently a position in the Armsmen equivalent to “ranker,” named for the tall wooden staves they carried that served as both weapon and badge of office. The man the vice captain had pointed out was tall and broad-shouldered, standing at rigid attention, a pair of unfamiliar decorations glittering on his chest. “He won the Blue Order for his bravery in breaking up a riot in the Flesh Market in ’oh-five.”

Gallows pulled himself up even straighter, and Marcus felt that something was expected of him. He cleared his throat.

“Well done,” he said. When that didn’t seem to be enough, he added, “Glad to have men like that on the rolls.”

“Yes, sir,” Giforte said, guiding Marcus down the line. “This is Sergeant Mourn, the longest-serving sergeant in. .”

And so on. The unfamiliar green uniforms gave Marcus the odd feeling of being in a foreign land, a visiting dignitary inspecting the local honor guard. He kept adjusting his own uniform, which was uncomfortably tight and encrusted with gilt buttons and bits of dangling gold braid. At least it had a loop for a proper sword so he could wear his familiar cavalry saber.

When, at last, they reached the end of the line, Marcus let Giforte dismiss the men. They trooped out in single file, leaving the two officers alone.

“Thank you, Vice Captain,” Marcus said. “That was very. . informative.”

“Of course, sir.” Giforte stood with his hands behind his back, the picture of alertness. He was an older man, with gray at his temples and shot through his neatly trimmed beard, and his face had the lined, leathery look of a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors. Marcus was still trying to figure out what to make of him.

“So,” Marcus said, when Giforte didn’t seem inclined to offer anything further. “Do I have. . an office, or something like that?”

“Of course, sir,” the vice captain said. “This way.”

They were in the Guardhouse, a rambling ruin of a building on the grounds of the Old Palace. Farus II, son of the Conqueror, had built his stronghold just outside Vordan City, the better to keep his eye on his fractious nobles. His great-grandson, Farus V, had desired something grander and more detached from city life, and had moved the court and the center of government to the manicured gardens of Ohnlei. The Old Palace had been stripped of anything valuable and allowed to fall into disrepair, but the Guardhouse-once the headquarters of the king’s personal guard-had proven a convenient base for the Armsmen.

Marcus’ new office turned out to be on the top floor, with an excellent view of the overgrown hedges and scrub that had once been the palace grounds. Giforte stepped in front of him to open the door, putting his shoulder against it and pressing hard.

“There’s sort of a trick to it,” he explained as it groaned open. “It sticks in the summer, so you’ve got to press it and lift a bit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marcus said, going in. The office was cleaner than he’d imagined for a place that hadn’t been used in months. There was a desk, an enormous oak thing dark with layers of polish that had to be a hundred years old. On its gleaming surface were several neat stacks of paper, thick with ribbons and seals. Otherwise, the room was empty, without even a bookcase. It didn’t look like a place anyone had spent any amount of time in.

Giforte stood beside the door, hands behind his back. Marcus walked over to the desk, pulled out the ancient chair with a squeal of rusty casters, and sat down. He looked at the papers, fighting a mounting sense of déjà vu.

“What’s all this?” he said.

“Documents for the captain’s approval,” Giforte said. “Duty rosters, punishment details, reports from each of the subcaptains, incident summaries-”

“I get the picture.”

Marcus took the top document off the pile. It was a warrant for the arrest of a Vincent Coalie, on charges of housebreaking and theft. At the bottom right was the seal of the Armsmen, a hooded eagle pressed into green wax. Below it was a signature that Marcus could just about make out as Giforte’s.

He flipped through the next few pages. Giforte’s name was on most of them.

Marcus looked up at the vice captain, who was still standing in rigid silence. “And I need to read all these?”

“If you like, sir,” Giforte said.

“And. . approve them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What if I find something I don’t approve of?”

Was that just the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of Giforte’s lips? “You can inform me, of course, and I will investigate the matter at once.”

“I see.” Marcus paused. “May I ask you a personal question, Vice Captain?”

“Of course, sir.”

“How long have you been with the Armsmen?”

“Nearly twenty-three years now, sir.”

“And how many captains have you served under?”

Giforte paused, as though calculating. After a moment, he shrugged. “Fifteen, I think. But I may be forgetting one or two.”

Marcus thought he’d finally gotten a handle on what was happening here. It was an old, old army game called Manage the Officer, discovered by subordinates everywhere when called on to deal with a superior who was in over his head.

At first, he’d wondered if Giforte’s stiff attitude was concealing bitterness that he himself had been passed over for the top job. Looking at the stacks of papers, though, Marcus understood that Giforte was exactly where he wanted to be. Captain of Armsmen was a political appointment, made and dismissed at the whim of the king or the Minister of Justice. Fifteen in twenty-three years. With such frequent changes, it was no wonder that the vice captain, a solid, dependable lifer, had accumulated all the actual authority.

He expects me turn up for the inspection, glance through all of this, and then scurry back to Ohnlei to get on with my life. Marcus gave a rueful smile. More fool him. He doesn’t know I haven’t got a life. And if Janus was correct, Giforte’s carefully tended organization was going to be turned upside down. Marcus felt sorry for the man.

“All right,” he said aloud. “I’ll take a look. I’m sure you have better things to do than stand there and watch me read.”

“As you wish, sir,” Giforte said. “Staff Eisen will be posted outside the door, should you require anything.”

After three hours, the notion of scurrying back to Ohnlei was definitely starting to look more attractive, especially since green-vested scribes had already come in twice to add new piles before Marcus had even finished the first one. He ran his finger along the lines of an incident report, frowning at the cramped handwriting and twisted grammar of someone as uncomfortable with the written word as himself.