Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“-a small crowd having gathered to hear the speech of the orator Danton, a band of pickpockets belonging to the Red Snip crew claimed the right to work in the area. This being the case, the Gnasher crew took offense, saying it was their territory, and the two groups commenced to fighting. Staves Popper and Torlo restored order, and the following injuries were reported-”

Marcus shook his head and flipped the page onto the finished pile. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly, only that he didn’t intend to command the Armsmen and not know what they were doing. He had to admit, though, that the task was daunting. He pictured something like the period when command of the Colonials had been forced on him-after all, the Colonials mustered more than four thousand fighting men, while the Armsmen had only a bit over three thousand. But the Colonials had mostly kept together, doing one or two things at a time, and thus didn’t require much in the way of complex administration. The Armsmen, by contrast, were spread all over the city in a complicated web of patrols, stations, and details, each of which generated a stream of paper that flowed up the chain of command. He guessed there were probably as many scribes copying out reports and signing off on expenses as there were Staves on the streets.

There was a knock at his office door. Another scribe, he guessed, with another load of paper. There must be some way to get Giforte to sort this stuff. But the vice captain obviously wanted to see Marcus snowed under. Marcus gritted his teeth and shouted, “Come in!”

Staff Eisen, a pleasant young man with a scruffy beard and dirty blond hair, opened the door and saluted briskly. He brandished an envelope.

“Got a message for you, sir,” he said. “From His Excellency. One of his men delivered it personally.”

Marcus found his heart leaping at the prospect. A good excuse to get out from behind the desk and away from the mountain of papers would be welcome. He accepted the envelope from Eisen and broke the seal, finding two scraps of notepaper inside.

One read:

Captain-the inquiries I mentioned earlier have borne some fruit. I believe this to be the location of a cell to which our sleeping friend reported. I suggest you take an armed guard when you investigate, and be very careful with any prisoners you take. Good luck.-J

The other had an address that Marcus didn’t recognize. He folded the note and put it in his pocket, then looked up at Eisen. “Could you fetch the vice captain, please?”

It was a few minutes before Giforte came in. His features were composed-if he was irritated at being called in, he didn’t show it. He must be used to a new captain making a show of being busy for a few days.

“You called, sir?”

“Yes.” Marcus handed him the note with the address. “Do you know where this is?”

Giforte frowned slightly. “Yes, sir. It’s in Oldtown, a couple of blocks from the ford. Why do you ask?”

“I’m going there on an investigation. Orders from His Excellency the minister. Could you lend me a couple of men who know the way?”

“The Armsmen are at your disposal, Captain.” Giforte saluted. “With your permission, I’ll accompany you myself. Let me put together an escort. A dozen men should be sufficient.”

“I don’t need to stand on ceremony, Vice Captain. Just yourself and Staff Eisen will be sufficient.”

“Ah,” Eisen said. “I’m not sure. .”

“What Staff Eisen means to say, sir,” Giforte said, and Marcus recognized the patient tone he’d gotten so often from Fitz, “is that standing orders are not to go into Oldtown in groups smaller than six. And it would be best to take a carriage.”

Marcus looked between them and sighed.

The carriage was a big one, painted in Armsmen green with the hooded-eagle crest on the sides. Marcus and Giforte sat inside, while Eisen and a pair of Armsmen waited on the roof, and another squad of eight Staves followed behind. Marcus hadn’t asked for stealth, but he’d hoped at least for subtlety. This was about as subtle as a bullhorn.

Rather than splash through the muddy ford, Giforte directed the carriage to take the Grand Span to the South Bank and then follow the River Road east to Oldtown. The driver, another Armsman, didn’t require any further directions, which left Marcus and Giforte sitting awkwardly in silence as the carriage rattled down cobbled streets and clacked over flagstones.

“So.” After five years in Khandar, living in the tight circle of the Colonials, Marcus found his small-talk reflexes a little rusty. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Vice Captain.”

“What would you like to know, sir?” Giforte said.

“Are you a family man?”

“Widower, sir.”

Marcus winced. “Any children?”

“A daughter.” A hint of real emotion was visible for a moment in the vice captain’s face, but it was quickly suppressed. “We’ve lost touch.”

“Ah.” And that, Marcus thought, was the end of that. Hardly my fault if he doesn’t want to hold up his end of the conversation.

Probably Giforte thought it wasn’t worth getting too chummy with a captain who might be gone with the next cabinet shake-up. Actually, it might be downright dangerous. Marcus looked at the vice captain’s bland smile, and wondered how much he knew about affairs at Ohnlei. If he knows that Janus and the duke are enemies, then he may expect me to be gone sooner rather than later.

He pushed aside the curtain and looked out the window as the carriage bumped down off the bridge and turned onto the packed dirt of the River Road. The chaotic sprawl of the Docks soon gave way to the grid of symmetrical towers that was Newtown, stained and blackened by smoke and weather. The River Road was kept reasonably clear of obstructions-he remembered a duty rota assigning squads to the job-but the side of it was lined by carts, stalls, and tents, with vendors shouting at the top of their lungs to draw people out of the stream of traffic. The combination of obvious poverty and manic entrepreneurial energy reminded Marcus of Ashe-Katarion before the Redemption.

A flash of green drew his attention, and he saw a small crowd gathered some distance up the street. Two crowds, really. In the center, a man in a white robe was speaking to a small group. Surrounding this inner circle was a ring of Armsmen, staves held sideways to hold back a much larger and dirtier crowd that watched the proceedings with a sullen air, shouting unintelligible abuse. Another pair of Armsmen patrolled inside the ring, watching for any attempt to force through the line or throw things at the speaker. When one man raised a rotting cabbage high, they pounced and clubbed him to the ground.

The speaker held something out at arm’s length, and the inner crowd fell to their knees. Marcus caught the glint of gold. The jeers of the outer crowd increased.

Marcus drew Giforte’s attention to the scene as the carriage went past, and the vice captain glanced at the window and grimaced. He shook his head.

“Sworn Priest,” he said. “Borelgai, by the beard. They’re always preaching down here.”

“Why does he have a whole squad protecting him?”

“His Majesty’s orders are that the Sworn Priests should be free to offer their teachings unmolested. We’re charged with enforcing that.” He watched Marcus for a moment, considering, then added, “It was part of the peace treaty. After Vansfeldt.”

A hundred and fifty years ago, Farus IV had thrown in his lot with the League cities in their rebellion against the Sworn Church of Elysium. The subsequent war, waged simultaneously against the Murnskai legions and a cabal of his own horrified nobles, had come close to costing Farus his crown. The last bloody flames of that revolution had taken a generation to die out, and atrocities committed on both sides had given the Vordanai people an abiding distaste for the power of the Sworn Church. The Great Cathedral of Vordan had been sacked and left in ruins to guarantee that none of the new Free Church parishes that were rising from the ashes could lay claim to leadership of the others.