Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“No? I worked closely with her for years. We were practically family. It’s only natural to ask about family, don’t you think?”

He’d hit the word “family” a little too hard. Or did he? Marcus glared through the bars, anger mixing with a roiling uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

A lifetime ago, when Marcus had been only a boy going through his first round of education at the War College, a fire had ripped through the d’Ivoire estate. His mother, father, and little sister had lost their lives, along with most of the servants. It had been an accident, they told him, a tragic, stupid accident that had destroyed his life when it had barely gotten started.

Except. . Jen had as good as told him it wasn’t an accident. That there was some truth, buried in the burned-out wreckage, that he’d been too young and too blinded by grief to see. She’d been doing her best to enrage him, and he’d tried to dismiss it, but. .

Are you certain? she’d asked. It nagged at him, like a half-lifted scab he couldn’t help picking at, no matter how much it hurt. Does he know something?

“You want to ask, Captain,” Ionkovo said. “It’s written in your face. How about a trade, then? Answer my question, and I’ll tell you the truth.” He spread his hands. “What’s the harm? It’s not as though I’m going anywhere.”

The truth. It was tempting, so tempting. He certainly isn’t going anywhere. What would be the harm? But something deep in Marcus’ soul stopped him. He’d disobeyed orders even to come down here; telling Ionkovo what he knew of that horrible night in the temple would be a betrayal of Janus’ trust he wasn’t sure he could live with. Slowly, he shook his head.

Ionkovo leaned back, his face hardening. “Fair enough. Let me ask you something else, then. Did Jen just lead you on, or did she actually let you fuck her?”

Marcus’ head snapped up, color rising in his face. “What?”

“Ah, I see that she did.” Ionkovo’s smile had changed to a predatory leer. “I ask only out of professional interest. I’d guessed that with a simple man like yourself, she would stick to the most basic methods.”

“That’s enough.”

“You’re a lucky man, Captain. Jen is very skilled.” His smile widened. “I can attest to that personally.”

“Shut up .” Marcus slammed a hand against the grille, producing a ringing, metallic tone and a stinging pain in his knuckles. “We’re done here.”

“If you like. My offer remains open.”

“I hope it entertains you,” Marcus said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here until you rot.”

Ionkovo chuckled. Then, as Marcus thumbed the latch, he said, “May I offer a suggestion?”

Marcus pulled the door open, teeth clenched.

“You did answer a question, after a fashion, so I owe you something. Call it a show of good faith.”

Marcus wanted to slam the door in his face and keep walking, but the nagging at the back of his mind wouldn’t let him.

“What?” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Have you been back to your old estate? Since. . well, you know.”

“No,” Marcus said.

“It might be worth your time to have a look. Just for nostalgia’s sake.”

Marcus paused, deliberately, then stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. The Armsman outside saluted nervously.

“No one is to speak to him without my permission,” Marcus growled. “Not Giforte, no one . Understood?”

“Ah, yessir.”

“Good.”

ORLANKO

Duke Orlanko tossed the broadsheet onto his desk, where it bumped a stack of paper and sent the crisp white sheets sliding a few inches across the wood. To those who knew him, the gesture was as emphatic as if he’d put his fist through a window in a rage.

“‘One Eagle,’” the Last Duke read, “‘and the Deputies-General.’”

Andreas stood, in his long black coat, as impassive as ever.

Orlanko tapped his finger on the paper, smearing the ink slightly. It was still warm from the printer’s. “As though the two were somehow connected.”

“Nonsense,” Andreas offered.

“It’s brilliant nonsense,” Orlanko snapped. “The poor of this city are cynical enough not to trust someone who promises nothing but cheap bread and times of plenty. But toss in a bit of mumbo jumbo about politics, just enough to sound confusing, and the rabble will believe anything. Most of them wouldn’t know the Deputies-General if it convened in their outhouse, but they’ll shout for it in the streets because it means bread at an eagle a loaf.”

“Yes, sir,” Andreas said.

“What do we know about this Danton?”

“Almost nothing.”

“‘Almost’ nothing?” Orlanko controlled his temper with an effort. “The man must have come from somewhere.”

“Of course,” Andreas said. “But nobody knows where. We got a few bits and pieces about some kind of adopted brother named Jack, but he seems to have left the city. As far as anyone knows, Danton appeared out of thin air that day in front of the cathedral.”

“And since then?”

“He stays at the Hotel Royal, near the Exchange. Keeps to his rooms and only comes out to give speeches. The staff brings him his meals.”

“Who visits him?”

“Only couriers.”

“You’ve followed them, I assume?”

Andreas nodded. “He receives a great many every day. They all come and go from the Exchange Central courier office.”

“Have you traced the messages back from there?”

“We don’t have the men. That office handles ten thousand messages a day.”

Orlanko drummed his fingers on the broadsheet, heedless of the ink smearing under his palm. “Someone is trying to hide from us, Andreas. Like a snake in the long grass.”

“Yes, sir. But I can’t set a man on every trader in the Exchange.”

“Even if we could, it would be a bit obvious.”

This attempt at humor, feeble as it was, went completely past Andreas’ head. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “May I offer a suggestion?”

Orlanko cocked his head. This was unusual, coming from Andreas. “Speak.”

“This business with the couriers, sir. It reminds me of the Gray Rose.”

“She had contacts at the Exchange Central?”

“No, sir. But it’s the kind of trick she liked. Hiding a tree in a forest, if you like.”

Orlanko considered. If the Gray Rose was involved, that meant the matter went a great deal deeper than he’d thought. On the other hand, Andreas had been working on the Gray Rose case so long he was developing an unhealthy obsession with her, and had a tendency to see her fingerprints on anything mysterious. He was a fine operative, diligent and extremely persistent, but analysis was not his strong point.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Orlanko said. “For the moment, focus on Danton’s backers.”

“Backers, sir?”

“Staying at the Hotel Royal costs money. Couriers cost money. Printing these”-he tapped the broadsheet again-“costs money. He must be getting it from somewhere. Find out where. If it’s his own, find out where it comes from. If someone is bankrolling him, I want to know who. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir. I may need to borrow some clerks from the finance section.”

Orlanko waved a hand and settled back in his chair with a chorus of squeaking springs. “Take whoever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I received your report on that other matter, incidentally.”

“Vhalnich, sir?”

“Yes, our friend Count Mieran. It seemed. . thin.”