Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Good morning, Captain,” Giforte said.

“You’re fully recovered?”

“Yes, sir. It was only bruises.”

“And you’ve made arrangements for. .” Marcus realized, with a guilty pang, that he’d already forgotten the names of the Armsman who had died. He cleared his throat. “You’ve made arrangements?”

“Yes, sir. By the grace of His Majesty, families of men who fall in the line of duty are well provided for.”

“Good.” That was a new wrinkle. None of the men Marcus had commanded in the Colonials had had any family to speak of. “And Eisen?”

“He should recover fully, sir. He expressed a desire to be back on duty as soon as possible. I believe he wanted to thank you for saving his life.”

“Let him take as much time as he needs.” Marcus scratched his cheek. “Now. What are these?”

“Broadsheets and pamphlets, sir. All printed since last night. Take a look.”

Marcus flipped through the stack, looking at the front pages. The inking had a smudged, hasty look, with lots of big blocks of barely readable text. They differed in what they considered important, but the phrase “One Eagle and the Deputies-General” appeared in nearly every headline. Marcus tapped it and looked up at Giforte.

“What does this mean?”

“‘One Eagle’ refers to the traditional price of the four-pound loaf, sir. It’s over four eagles now. And the Deputies-General was the assembly that first offered the crown to Farus the Conqueror after-”

“I know what they are , Vice Captain. Why have they got everyone so worked up?”

“It’s Danton,” Giforte said. “That’s his new slogan. Cheap bread and political reform.”

“Fair enough. So what’s the problem?”

“He’s drawing big crowds, sir. Bigger every day. People are starting to take notice. They say the Exchange is getting skittish.”

“I don’t think protecting people from falling share prices is in our jurisdiction.”

“No, sir,” Giforte said. “But I’m starting to hear talk.”

“Talk from whom?”

The vice captain’s features froze into a grimace. “Leading citizens, sir.”

Ah. In other words, someone’s been leaning on him. Marcus himself hadn’t been in place long enough to attract that kind of pressure-presumably it was easier to ignore him and go straight to the man with the real authority. “Has Danton done anything illegal?”

“Not that I can see, sir. Although we could probably come up with something if you wanted to have a chat with him.”

“If he hasn’t done anything wrong, then I don’t want to worry about him just yet.” Catching the vice captain’s expression, he sighed. “I’ll pass your ‘talk’ on to the minister. He can decide whether there’s anything to be done about Danton.”

“Yes, sir.” Giforte looked relieved to have passed the burden up the chain of command.

“Is there anything else pressing this morning?”

“Not particularly, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus pushed his coffee away. “I’m going to have a chat with our prisoner. See if a night in the cells has done anything to loosen his tongue.” Giforte’s interrogators had questioned the man; they’d taken all evening, to no avail.

Giforte’s face froze again. He could give Fitz a run for his money, Marcus thought, in the carefully-not-saying-how-stupid-you-are-sir department.

“Are you certain you want to do that yourself, sir?” the vice captain said. “My men are more. . experienced with that sort of thing. He’ll talk eventually.”

“The minister wishes me to ask some questions that need to be kept as quiet as possible,” Marcus lied. “If he’s uncooperative, I’ll ask His Excellency if I can brief you.”

“As you say, sir. Be careful. We searched him thoroughly, but he may still be dangerous.”

Marcus remembered a discordant tone, like the world tearing apart, and ripples in the air that shattered solid stone statues like toys. You have no idea.

The majority of the prisoners kept by the Armsmen were distributed among several old fortresses in the city, more convenient than the old palace grounds. The city’s most notorious prison, the Vendre, belonged to Duke Orlanko’s Concordat, but some of the most dangerous Armsmen prisoners went there as well. The cells in the Guardhouse were for captives of special interest, who had to be kept separate from the general prison population for one reason or another. Marcus had directed that the young man they’d taken in the Oldtown raid be kept in a cell as far as possible from any others, with a guard on his door at all times. So far, he seemed utterly mundane, but Marcus didn’t want to take chances.

The guard was waiting in front of the solid iron-banded door, and he saluted at Marcus’ approach.

Marcus nodded acknowledgment. “Has he said anything?”

“No, sir. Not a peep. He takes his meals readily enough, though.”

“All right. Let me in. Then make sure we aren’t disturbed until I call for you.”

“Yessir.” With another salute, the green-uniformed Staff turned a key and swung the door open. Inside was a small room, divided in half by iron grillwork. There were no windows, and an oil lamp hanging from a wall bracket provided the only illumination. A small hatch at waist height provided a way that food and water could be passed in without unlocking the cell door.

Marcus’ half of the room was empty. The other half had a cot with a sheet and a lumpy pillow, a bucket, and a three-legged stool. The prisoner, now dressed in black-dyed linens, sat beside the grille, looking comfortable. He glanced up as Marcus entered, and smiled.

“Captain d’Ivoire,” he said, in his faint Murnskai accent. “I thought I would see you eventually.”

Marcus shut the door behind him, the latch audibly snicking closed. He regarded the young man for a long moment, then shook his head. “Have you got a name?”

“Adam Ionkovo,” the young man said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“How did you know my name?”

“You featured centrally in the reports from Khandar. There was even quite a good likeness.”

“Whose reports?”

Ionkovo waved a hand. “The reports His Grace the duke was good enough to share with us, of course.”

“Then you don’t deny it. That you work with the Concordat. That you’re one of-”

“The Priests of the Black?” Ionkovo nodded. “No, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to argue the point. Though of course I am not an ordained priest, merely an. . adviser.”

The Priests of the Black. Jen Alhundt, the Concordat liaison who had become Marcus’ lover, had turned out to be a member of that order, long thought extinct. More than a member-one of the Ignahta Sempria , the Penitent Damned, with powers that Marcus could hardly comprehend. His stomach crawled as he looked into Ionkovo’s bright, beaming eyes.

“Why did your men try to kill us?” Marcus said, after a moment.

“They weren’t ‘my men.’ They were protectors assigned to us by the order, and they took their assigned duties very seriously. I advised them to surrender, but. .” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry it had to come to bloodshed.”

“So am I.”

Silence fell again, stretching on until it became awkward. Ionkovo scratched his chin and yawned.

“Come, now, Captain,” he said. “We both know why you’re here. Save yourself a lot of trouble and just ask your question.”

“This was a mistake,” Marcus said. “I shouldn’t have come here. How could I possibly trust anything you tell me?”

“If you won’t ask, I will.” Ionkovo leaned forward. “Our reports said you were very close to Jen Alhundt. But we have no record of what happened to her, in the end. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”