Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

It even smelled the same. Marcus took a deep breath, inhaling the mixed scents of cut grass from the lawn and fresh dung from the horses in the street. Carriages rattled past, giving the Armsmen vehicle a wide berth, and a few pedestrians looked at him curiously. Marcus ignored them.

“A long time since you’ve been home, sir?” Eisen said, at his shoulder.

“Nineteen years,” Marcus said. “Give or take.”

Eisen gave a low whistle. “Think you can still find your way around?”

“Of course.” Marcus pointed. “Our place was just up this way, past those beeches.”

There were three of the trees instead of four, and they were a bit larger, but there was no mistaking them. They’d belonged to the Wainwrights, whose children had played with Marcus nearly every day in the precious few hours between lessons and dinner. Veronica Wainwright had been the first girl he’d ever kissed, in the darkness behind her father’s woodshed, the day before he left for the College at sixteen. There had been tears in her eyes, and he’d promised he’d come back and marry her when he finished his training and became an officer.

He hadn’t thought about that in years. Hadn’t thought about any of it, in truth. After the fire, he’d walled off that whole section of his memories, shut them away and thrown away the key, hoping to keep out the pain. Coming back here had opened it all up again, and he was surprised to find that it didn’t hurt as badly as he remembered.

Marcus hurried down the street, past the beeches, until what had been the d’Ivoire estate came into view. Two visions of it competed in his mind. One was the real thing, as he’d last seen it, with ivy creeping up the stone walls and the ancient leaded glass his father preferred to the modern kind. The other was something he’d constructed in his mind over the intervening years, a blackened ruin of scorched beams and tumbled stone.

Instead he found himself looking at another house entirely. It was squarer, larger, higher-ceilinged than his old estate, with big single-pane windows and a high, arched doorway. The grounds were the same-even the ancient oak, its limbs spreading above the roof-but someone had replaced the house itself with an imposter. Marcus stared at it for a moment, blinking.

Of course it’s different. He’d been stupid. The old place had burned, but prime land in Vordan City never went idle for long. Someone else had bought the property, cleared the ruin, and put up their own house. He’d had the vague idea that he could poke around, discover something in the wreckage that everyone else had missed, but of course that was ridiculous. After this long, it’s not even wreckage anymore.

Ionkovo told me to come here. Why? The Black Priest agent might have just been having a laugh at Marcus’ expense, of course. But he doesn’t seem the type. He wanted me to find something.

“So what the hell am I doing here?” Marcus said.

“Sir?”

He shook his head and looked at Eisen, embarrassed to have spoken aloud. “Nothing. I thought there might be something left, but that was stupid.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It must be difficult.”

Marcus turned, scanning the surrounding houses. “I can’t imagine many people still remember much of the fire, either.” So what’s the point? He felt like going back into the cell and throttling the smirk off Ionkovo’s face. He knows something, but all he’ll give me is riddles.

“Are you looking for information on what happened, sir?”

“I suppose.” Marcus shrugged, feeling defeated. “I’m just not sure there’s anything to find.”

“I think,” Eisen said, “I may have an idea.”

The Fiddler occupied a dignified space at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Saint Dromin Street. It was not a tavern or a wine shop but a true public house of the old school, less a business establishment than a club for the respectable men of the neighborhood. The building was old brick, patchy with overlapping repairs, and twined here and there with climbing ivy. The front door was open, but Eisen, leading the way, stopped beside it and pointed with his good hand.

“You see, sir?”

Marcus peered closer. A small brass plaque, much tarnished, read 17TH ROYAL VOLUNTEER FIRE COMPANY, HEADQUARTERS. EST. 1130 YHG.

“My uncle was in the Twenty-fourth Company,” Eisen said, “over by the Dregs. He always said it was mainly an excuse to spend evenings away from the family. Not as many fires as there used to be, north of the river. But he told me every company has one old bastard who’s been a member for fifty years and can tell you every house that ever burned down on his watch.”

“Worth a try,” Marcus said, though privately he thought it was a bit of a thin reed to hang any hope on. “Let’s see if we can find them.”

Eisen led the way into the common room. It was a long way from the Khandarai taverns Marcus was used to, with a feel closer to a family sitting room-big, solid tables, polished to a blinding sheen, and genuine carpet underfoot instead of boards and sawdust. Marcus paused, embarrassed, and backtracked a step or two to make use of the boot scraper by the door.

It was midafternoon, and only a few of the tables were occupied, mostly by small groups of older men who looked as though they never left. Eisen went to the bar, a vast expanse of scarred wood dark with resin and polish, and talked for a moment with the bespectacled gentleman behind it. When he came back, he was smiling.

“We’re in luck, sir. He knew exactly who I wanted to talk to. Come on.”

They went through a doorway into another room, lined with bookshelves bearing weather-beaten, mismatched volumes. There were more tables here, but only one was occupied, three men sitting at a big round table much too large for them. Another small plaque marked it as reserved for the Seventeenth Company.

Two of the men were younger than Marcus, in their twenties, but the third matched Eisen’s description almost exactly. He was bent over a tall pint glass, head bowed as though his neck didn’t want to support its weight, and the fingers that curled around the drink were stick-thin and mottled with liver spots. The dome of his head rose through a crown of snow-white hair, like a mountain pushing up past the tree line. When Marcus stood in front of the table and cleared his throat, the old man looked up, and his deep-sunken eyes were dark and intelligent.

“You’re the Seventeenth Fire Company?” Marcus said, feeling awkward.

The old man pursed his lips but said nothing. One of the younger men got to his feet, taking in Marcus’ uniform, and nodded respectfully.

“We are, though we’re not on duty at the moment,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m not here officially,” Marcus said. “I was just hoping I could have a word about an. . incident. Something that happened quite a while back.”

The young man looked at his older companion, who caught Marcus’ eyes and held them for a moment. When his voice emerged, it was surprisingly deep and smooth, as though polished by the years.

“You’re the new captain of Armsmen, then? D’Ivoire.”

Marcus nodded. The two young men exchanged a look-they obviously hadn’t recognized his rank.

“I wondered if you might come around,” the old man said. “You may as well sit down.”

“Staff Eisen,” Marcus said, “would you please buy these gentlemen a drink?”

“Of course, sir.” Eisen extended a hand, and with a last look at Marcus the two young men followed him. Marcus pulled back one of the heavy chairs and sank into the ancient, cracking leather.

“Marcus d’Ivoire,” he said.

“Hank,” the old man said. “Or Henry, if you’re feeling formal. Henry Matthew.”