Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

There was a danger in this, of course. If the member of the pair who went abroad fell into the hands of the Church’s enemies, additional bonds might be created, additional minds added to the loop, with potentially disastrous results. The research theologians of the Black Priests had determined that eye contact was necessary for this procedure, and so whichever of the siblings was sent away had them removed, for safety’s sake.

The girl raised her head at the sound of Orlanko’s entrance, and the light of the lantern played for a moment on her pale, empty eye sockets. The Last Duke gritted his teeth at a sudden wash of nausea and set the lantern down, leaving her mutilated face mercifully in shadow.

“Hello, Your Grace,” she said. She had a lilting voice with a singsong Murnskai accent.

“You recognize the squeak of my shoes?” Orlanko said, venturing a slight smile.

“Oh yes.” She shrugged. “But that is no great feat, since only you and Brother Nikolai ever open that door.”

Orlanko glanced at her book, which lay near where he’d set the lantern. It was a copy of the Wisdoms , of course, a special one made for the blind, with thickly embossed letters that could be discerned by a passing finger. The Black Priests taught the children to read in this way, after they were bonded, so that their souls might receive some measure of grace. The pages of this one were almost blank, the painted letters worn away by the passage of her fingers.

“Would you like a new one?” he said.

“A new what?”

She couldn’t follow his gaze, of course. “A new copy of the Wisdoms . Yours seems to be worn out.”

She shrugged again. “No, Your Grace. I know the words by heart anyway.” She shifted slightly, robe rustling. “His Eminence is arriving.”

“Very well.” The Last Duke drew himself up a little, though of course there was nobody to see in the little cell.

The girl’s face twisted slightly, her mouth gaping like a landed fish’s for a few seconds. Then-and this was the part of the procedure that the duke always found most disturbing-a new voice emerged. Her lips moved to shape the syllables, but the sound was that of a man, his voice thick, breathy, and heavily accented. The words of the Pontifex of the Black, spoken in some dungeon fifteen hundred miles away, flashed across the continent by magic to emerge in this tiny cell.

“Orlanko,” the pontifex said.

“I’m here, Your Eminence.”

“My time is short,” the pontifex said. There was a breathy rasp to his voice that sounded unhealthy. Brother Nikolai had once told Orlanko that the pontifex had survived a pox in childhood that had badly damaged his lungs. “What do you have for me?”

“Less than I would like,” Orlanko said. “Vhalnich has not made any overt moves since returning from Khandar.”

“Has he had any contact with the princess?”

“None. The only time they have met was at a reception, where I was present personally.”

“And he brought nothing back from Khandar?”

“Only two of his officers,” Orlanko said. “And we’re keeping track of them.”

“Then whatever he discovered must be with the rest of the regiment. They’re still aboard ship?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” Orlanko frowned. “You’re still assuming he found something.”

“The agent we provided had spoken one of the Greater Names. The demon she hosted should have been a match for anything Vhalnich could do.” The pontifex sounded annoyed, though Orlanko was never certain how much faith to place in communication by this strange channel. “The fact that she has not returned means that he discovered something in Khandar of considerable power.”

“So you’ve said,” Orlanko said. Privately, he thought that the pontifex placed too much faith in his precious Ignahta . Magic or not, anyone could be killed, or even suborned. “Do you have any idea what it was?”

“A demon, of course. A powerful one. The question is whether he called it himself or trusted it to some ally. And what else he may have found.”

“My agents have already told us a great deal. When the Colonials land, they will provide a full report. They should have ample opportunity to gather information during the crossing.”

“Good. We have worked too long for this to risk it at this stage. How fares the king?”

“Poorly. Doctor-Professor Indergast says it is a matter of weeks, at best.”

“Then proceed as planned. And find out what Vhalnich is up to, and what his connection is with the princess.”

“It could be a coincidence,” said Orlanko.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” said the pontifex.

There was another moment of gulping silence, and then the girl said, “He’s gone, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” The duke picked up the lantern. “Please inform Brother Nikolai if you require anything, and we will provide it.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I am content.”

Brother Nikolai closed the cell door and the grate behind him as he left, heavy iron bolts clacking home in their brackets. Orlanko’s mind was otherwise occupied. In spite of what he’d said, he didn’t believe in coincidence, either. Something had happened in Khandar, something supernatural, and Vhalnich’s return mere weeks before Raesinia’s coronation had to be deliberate. The mysterious colonel was planning something, and the princess was part of it.

Somewhere there was a weak link, a loose thread that would tell him what Vhalnich was up to. Sooner or later, Andreas or one of the others would find it.

And then, Orlanko thought, I’ll make Vhalnich regret the trouble he’s caused me.

WINTER

“The thing you hafta understand about the Docks,” Jane said, “is that the people here don’t want t’ fight.”

Winter smiled to herself. She’d listened to Jane’s accent shift as they came down out of the apartment tower, thickening into a good approximation of the dockworkers’ dialect. Even her gait was different, widening into the rolling swagger affected by boatmen and those around them. Winter wondered if Jane was even aware of the changes. She always had a talent for fitting in, when she cared to.

“’Cept for a few fucking loonies,” Jane went on, “everybody just wants to do their thing in peace and quiet, make enough to eat, maybe get drunk now an’ then. But none of ’em want to get fucked over, not by each other and not by the fucking tax farmers. So they work themselves up to a brawl now and then, but they don’t really mean it. Not like those bastards from Oldtown, who only do a bit of work when they can’t find something to steal.”

Jane’s band of young women lived in a dilapidated four-story building, which had once been the offices of a defunct shipping company. Jane had claimed it, according to Abby, by driving out the gangs of squatters and vagrants who had been living there previously. Abby had given Winter a little tour, and Winter had been surprised both by how orderly the whole thing was and by how many people were living there. There had to be several hundred girls at least, ranging in age from Jane and herself down to children of ten or twelve. Winter, amazed, had asked where they had all come from, but Abby had been evasive.

Now they were out on what Jane called her “rounds.” Winter had been allowed to descend without a bag over her head, which she supposed meant that she was now at least an honorary member of the gang. So far, so good, at least as far as her mission from Janus was concerned.

Janus. Winter gritted her teeth at the thought. He had to know. He had to. This whole project, sending Winter to infiltrate a gang of women dockworkers, made no sense unless he’d known. Janus was a good enough judge of talent to know that Winter was no spy-witness the way she’d made a hash of things. Sending her here was futile, unless Janus already knew that Jane was at the heart of these Leatherbacks.