Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

There was a long silence, in fact, broken by the splash of oars as the boat cleared off from the rocky walls of the Vendre and moved out into the slow, calm waters of the Vor. Eventually, though, the rowing sounds stopped, and strong hands took Raesinia by the shoulders and rolled her onto her back, letting her look up at her rescuers.

“I must say, Your Highness,” said Janus bet Vhalnich, “you’ve looked better.”

Raesinia sat up, her clothes squishing damply, and looked around. They were in a tiny rowboat, really too small for three. In the back was Sothe, an oar in each hand, resolutely refusing to meet Raesinia’s eyes. In the front, Janus was stripped to a white shirt and trousers, sopping wet.

She opened her mouth to say something, but all that emerged was a thin stream of river water. Raesinia held up a finger to indicate he should wait, and Janus nodded gravely. She leaned over the edge of the boat and vomited up a mix of water and blood that went on for far longer than she’d expected. Then, feeling quite a bit lighter, she turned back to Janus and took an experimental breath. The binding tingled across her lungs, repairing the damage done by hours of immersion. Her heart started with a jerk, then settled reluctantly into its familiar rhythm, like an ancient machine squealing along a rusty track.

“I have,” she said, and paused to cough a bit more water over the side. “I have been better. Considerably better.”

“I trust that you’ll recover?”

“I expect so.” Raesinia felt a little giddy, either as a result of her rescue or because the binding hadn’t created enough blood to replace all she’d lost. She looked down at her torn, bedraggled shirt, and sighed. “I think these clothes have about had it, though.”

A smile flickered across Janus’ face. He looked up at Sothe. “Back to the North Shore docks, then.”

“Wait,” Raesinia said, as the oars started to cut the water again. “I have to go back. The others-”

“Think you’re dead,” Janus interrupted. “Miss Sothe has been good enough to inform me of what happened. Your reappearance now might provoke suspicion, to say the least.”

“She has?” Raesinia caught Sothe’s eye and got a look that said, I’ll explain later. She shook her head. “I could. . think of something. Some miracle. It doesn’t matter. I need to-”

“You do not ,” Janus said. “Matters have not proceeded quite according to plan, but the result seems satisfactory. Your presence here is no longer necessary.”

Who the hell are you to tell me that? Raesinia’s brain felt as though it still wasn’t functioning properly. He knows about me, obviously. How? How much has Sothe told him?

“Besides,” Janus continued, “you are urgently required at Ohnlei. The next act of the drama has already begun.”

There was a long silence. Raesinia swallowed, tasting blood and river water. There was only one thing that could mean.

“My father?”

“I’m very sorry to tell you that the king is dead. Doctor-Professor Indergast did his utmost, but His Majesty’s constitution was simply too frail to recover from the surgery, as he had in the past. He passed away in the small hours of the morning.”

“I see,” Raesinia said. It was news she’d been expecting on a daily basis for months, but it still felt like a steel-gauntleted punch to her gut. He’s dead. He’s really. . “Is this widely known?”

“Not yet. The duke has been containing the information as best he can. But it will not stay quiet for long.”

Raesinia nodded, trying to think. It felt as if her mind were in a fog.

Janus bowed his head, as low as he could. “As a noble of Vordan, as I once swore my loyalty to your father, I now offer it to you. I, Janus bet Vhalnich, the eighth Count Mieran, do swear to serve and protect Queen Raesinia of Vordan, though it means my life.”

It was a standard oath, one she’d heard her father accept hundreds of times. Here and now, though, there was a strange solemnity to it, and Raesinia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze or her soaked clothing. Though it means my life. It had already meant Ben’s, and Faro’s, and God knew how many others. And more, before we’re done.

“You’re right.” Raesinia shook her head. She saw Maurisk’s scowl, Sarton lost in his books, Cora sobbing, Ben gasping out his unrequited love with his last breath. “Back to Ohnlei.” And you are going to have a great deal of explaining to do.

Thunder rolled overhead. A moment later, the rain began.

ORLANKO

The grand bishop of the Sworn Church of Vordan was a big, soft man, made bigger by the fantastical crimson robes that hung in complicated folds around him, secured by jeweled clasps and tricks of embroidery. He looked like a flower, Duke Orlanko thought, an enormous, poisonous flower of the sort that grew in southern jungles and smelled of rotten meat. He spoke with a trace of a Murnskai accent, mostly audible in the way he attacked his hard K ’s as if he meant to spit.

“The cathedral is full to bursting with my frightened flock,” he said. “They have fled the rioting, and they bring most terrible, terrible stories. Sworn Churches pulled down, gold plate looted, icons used for firewood. Sworn Priests beaten to death and their corpses abused and hung from lampposts. Gently born women taken in the street like dogs, by gangs of a dozen men or more. .”

The grand bishop’s face was as red as his outfit, and he looked as though he were about to faint. The Borelgai ambassador, Ihannes Pulwer-Monsangton, sweating in his heavy furs, started up in his place. “I, too, have heard these stories. And now we hear that the Vendre itself has fallen, with the captain of Armsmen inside? The archdemagogue Danton and his followers have been freed, and bands of his men roam the city at will.”

Orlanko looked around the Cabinet table. Count Torahn looked as though he were in shock, and Rackhil Grieg was staring at Ihannes like a starving man at a side of beef. The chair for State was unoccupied, as always, and in place of the Minister of Justice sat a pudgy man in the green uniform of an Armsman lieutenant, looking very uncomfortable.

It was this last that worried the duke. Where the hell is Vhalnich? It was too much to hope that the man had gotten caught up in the rioting and been himself killed, though the captain who’d been taken prisoner at the Vendre had been one of his creatures. No, he’s out there causing trouble. And Orlanko would need to make his move soon; rumors of the king’s death were already spreading, in spite of all his precautions. There were too many servants in the palace for even the Concordat to keep anything quiet for long.

“Before he, uh, left,” the lieutenant said, “the captain instructed me to make every effort to secure the cathedral and the eastern half of the Island. We also have men in place on all the North Shore bridges.”

“My analysts put the number of rioters at more than twenty thousand ,” Orlanko said, not without a hint of contempt. “If they were to storm the bridges, do you really expect your men to stop them?”

“My men will do their best, Your Grace,” the lieutenant said. “Until we receive further instructions from the captain or my lord Mieran.”

“No offense to our boys in green,” Torahn said, “but the Armsmen are clearly inadequate for this crisis. We must summon the regiments.”

Those words hung in the air for a long moment. Orlanko looked around the room-at his fellow Cabinet members, at the two foreigners, and at the small queue of courtiers behind them, waiting to present their grievances. Nearly everyone, he guessed, was thinking the same thing.