Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

The way the current occupants were carrying on made Raesinia hope that all those weapons were securely bolted down. The “council” looked as though it might dissolve into a brawl at any moment. The various factions seemed to have settled into three rough groups under the pressure of their mutual antipathy, dragging the chairs together to maintain maximum separation from one another.

The largest group, closest to the bar, was easy to identify by their expensive, fashionable costumes. These were the Monarchists and their allies, the guardians of the old order, in their natural habitat here in the Sovereign and plainly resenting the newcomers. Quite a few of them were armed, though mostly with gilt- and gem-encrusted dress swords like Faro’s. They aped the styles that were fashionable at court, but to Raesinia, who had seen the real thing, they looked too young and too uncertain in their finery, like children playing dress-up in their fathers’ wardrobe. There were, she was not surprised to find, no women among them.

Maurisk’s presence at the head of the second group identified them as the Reformers and associated sects, who wanted to tinker with the social order but not smash it entirely to pieces. They were well dressed, too, but in more sober clothing befitting their mostly commercial origins. Maurisk caught Raesinia’s eye, and she tried to smile, but his expression remained grave.

The third group, by process of elimination, was the Radicals, including the Republicans, the Individualists, and any number of other flavors of wild-eyed freethinkers and devotees of Voulenne. They were the most varied collection, by far, looking almost like an artist’s depiction of a cross section of Vordanai society-everything from noble finery to mendicant’s rags seemed to be represented. There were women among them, too, mostly the rare female University students whose dress Raesinia had affected. Unlike the other two groups, the Radicals still wore the badges of their individual cafés, taverns, and gathering places, and their rear ranks seemed to be engaged in a continual low-grade grumble of argument.

The shouting match that had been in progress when the door opened trailed off as Raesinia and Faro came in, and all eyes were suddenly on them. Raesinia searched the faces of the Monarchists, suddenly nervous. It was just possible that one of them had met her in person, at a party or a court function, and she held her breath waiting for a sudden shout of recognition. It didn’t come.

“Another one for the loonies, then?” said the young man sitting at the head of the Monarchist cluster. There was a titter of laughter from behind him.

“She’s with me,” Maurisk said, setting off a storm of chatter in his own faction. “Raesinia, come here.”

“I see,” said the Monarchist. “Will little girls be allowed in the new Deputies-General, then?”

“I’m not here to join anyone,” Raesinia said, a little too loudly. “And I’m not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?” the Monarchist said. “Not for coffee, I assume?”

She waited for the laughter to die down. “Might I have your name, sir?”

He inclined his head. “I am Alfred Peddoc sur Volmire, at your service.”

Raesinia turned to the Radicals, who seemed to be represented by a young man in slightly shabby linen and a woman all in baggy, shapeless blacks. “And you?”

“Robert Dumorre,” he said, flicking his eyes to the woman. “We all call her Cyte, but-”

“Cytomandiclea,” she said. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she’d used something to darken her eyes. It made her look more adult, but Raesinia suspected she was actually no older than herself.

“I,” Raesinia said, “am Raesinia Smith. A half hour ago, a Concordat agent tried to kill me. One of my dearest friends was shot, and died in my arms. For all I know, he’s still lying there.” She took a long breath as a chorus of whispers ran through the room. “I would wager that everyone here knows someone who was arrested last night. I am here to ask you what you’re going to do about it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Peddoc snapped. “You have my deepest sympathies for your loss, of course, but if your friends came to the attention of the Ministry of Information I think you’ve been moving in the wrong company.”

“The kind of company that cares about the truth,” Cyte said. “The kind of company that-”

“She has a point,” Maurisk said. “This isn’t just a few madmen disappearing. I don’t know how many have been taken, but it’s got to be hundreds at least. And I’ve heard worse things, Free Church priests-”

“Rumors,” Peddoc snorted. “His Grace does what he must to restore order.”

“He’s taken Danton ,” Cyte said.

Raesinia caught the troubled expression on Peddoc’s face. In spite of his haughty pretensions, the fact that he and his friends were here at all said something, and Raesinia suspected he was more disturbed than he let on.

“Danton was. . causing trouble,” Peddoc said, finally. “I’m sure he was taken in for his own safety. In any case, everyone knows it was the Armsmen who arrested him, not His Grace the duke. If you want to blame someone, blame this Count Mieran.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Cyte. “You think some count fresh from Khandar can take a step at Ohnlei without Orlanko’s approval?”

There were murmurs of approval at this, even from among the Monarchists. Raesinia wasn’t sure she wanted to encourage this notion of the duke as an all-powerful bogeyman, but for the moment she would use what she had. She nodded at Cyte and said, “You must have seen what’s happening outside. Those people are waiting for someone to lead them.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to do,” said Dumorre. He had the deep, commanding voice of a stage actor. “If our friends here would stop quibbling over every minor point.”

“We wouldn’t need to if you could come up with a declaration of principles that didn’t double as an attack on the very foundations of society,” Peddoc said. He turned to glare at Maurisk. “And if your lot would agree on what they actually wanted.”

“The Deputies-General, to start with,” Maurisk said, but he was almost immediately overwhelmed by cries from behind him. Raesinia heard “Representation by classes!” “Respect for the public purse!” and considerable argument about vetoes and powers before Maurisk managed to reestablish silence with a baleful look.

“We’re not going to get anything by staying here,” Raesinia said. “You all know the king may be dying. If we let this chance slip away, and Orlanko consolidates his control, there’ll be no stopping him. You”-she looked at Maurisk and his fractious backers-“will lose your best chance to change things. And you”-this was to Peddoc-“will end up with a Vordanai queen with Borelgai hands wrapped around her throat!”

She rounded on Cyte and Dumorre. “And you have a choice. You can stay in here and argue about what Voulenne would want, or you can actually try to make something happen. I know what Danton would tell you, even if it wasn’t him they’d locked up.”

It was working; she could feel it. She’d written Danton’s speeches, after all, and everyone here had heard them. While she lacked the orator’s awesome personal magnetism, her words echoed the ones he’d spoken well enough to call him to mind. Peddoc’s eyes were still wary, but the mass of young men behind him were less restrained, and there were even a few attempts at a cheer.

“That’s all well and good,” Dumorre said. “But if we don’t have some kind of declaration of principles, how do we know what we’re fighting for? It’s one thing to say we want to cast down Orlanko-”