Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“He’ll have men out front for certain,” Raesinia said. “We’ll be trapped in there.” She tugged her hand free of his and pointed out toward the lawn. “That way-”

“The Grays have a cavalry company,” Marcus said. “We can’t risk open fields. You said you would trust me, Your Majesty.”

She grabbed his hand and followed him into the shadows of the walled garden.

Raesinia had not spent much time in the Bower of Queen Anne, but evidently Marcus had, or at least he’d done a thorough job of memorizing the layout. It wasn’t exactly a hedge maze, but it had been designed to let small groups have private garden parties in little out-of-the-way spaces, and the hedged-in paths were always going through unexpected switchbacks and right-angle turns and branching at intersections marked with trellises of climbing roses. The hedges were tall enough to cut off the morning sun, so they ran through shadows except when the path curved to the east and Raesinia had to shade her eyes against sudden brilliance.

Marcus pounded through the first two intersections without even slowing down, and broke out through an archway onto an open section. Raesinia followed, working hard to match the captain’s longer strides. For all his impression of stolidity, Marcus kept up a fair turn of speed once he got going, and it was only the binding’s soothing passes through her overworked legs that let her keep up with him. Something went pop in her ankle-she’d rolled it jumping out the window-but the muscles and tendons reknotted before her foot came down again.

The Grays were not far behind them. A half dozen of them burst into the clearing when she and Marcus were halfway across, dodging through the garden furniture. Four of the guards kept running, but two dropped to their knees and leveled their bayoneted muskets.

“Halt!” one of them shouted, with a heavy Noreldrai accent. “Or we fire!”

“Bluffing,” Raesinia gasped. “No good. To them. Dead.”

Marcus nodded, swerved around an errant chair, and ducked through the arch at the other end of the clearing. Raesinia flinched at a shattering crack of musketry from behind them, but the shots had been aimed well over her head, and she heard the balls zing merrily past. Someone swore in Noreldrai before the curve of the hedgerow cut them off again.

It was hard to keep track of directions, but Marcus seemed to be leading them deeper into the Bower. She’d thought they would try to pass straight through, perhaps commandeer a carriage out on the main drive, but he kept turning back toward the palace. There was another exit there, but it would surely be guarded. In fact, they could go around that way and cut us off-

No sooner had she had the thought than they reached another triangular intersection as a trio of Grays turned up from the opposite direction. The guards were as surprised as Raesinia was, and pulled up short, but Marcus let his momentum carry him into them, narrowly avoiding being skewered on a protruding bayonet. He lowered his shoulder and knocked one Gray off his feet and into the man behind him, then came around with a wild swing of his saber that opened a long cut across the stomach of the third.

“That way!” Marcus gestured with his free hand toward the third branch of the intersection. “Get to the fountain!”

That seemed to be the only available direction, and Raesinia was already headed toward it. The word “fountain” filled her with an unexpected chill, though, and she struggled to remember why. Sparkling lights danced in front of her eyes-the binding was working hard to keep her legs functioning, and had no energy to spare for small matters like a lack of blood to the brain.

The two unwounded Grays disentangled themselves, retreating a bit from Marcus’ furious swings, and were caught off guard when he turned his back on them and ran. Both raised their muskets, trying to get a shot off before he disappeared around a corner, but only one went off-the captain’s bull rush must have knocked the second hard enough to spill the powder from the pan. Raesinia heard the ball zip by and crash noisily into the hedges.

She rounded the corner and felt flagstones under her feet instead of dirt. Ahead was one of the fountains in the classical style with which Ohnlei was so generously supplied. A broad, low pool, contained by a stone lip, fired jets of water against a stone pedestal that supported an equestrian statue of Raesinia’s great-great-grandfather, Farus V. It was ringed by a circle of flagstones, already cracked and uneven in places where underground roots had wreaked havoc on the builders’ perfect order. A low stone wall, backed by a more imposing hedge, cut the little clearing off entirely from the rest of the Bower.

The fountain. Raesinia realized, belatedly, what she’d been trying to remember. There’s only one entrance. She skidded to a halt against the lip, and Marcus clomped and jingled his way to a stop beside her, panting hard. Raesinia had to remind herself to breathe, for verisimilitude.

“We’re. Stuck,” she managed. Marcus, bent over with his hands on his knees, was too out of breath to reply.

A few moments later, Grays started pouring into the clearing. They were disheveled from the long chase, sweating into their tailored uniforms, and most of them had lost their neat little caps. Half still had muskets, while the others had drawn their swords.

“That’s about enough, alvaunt ,” gasped one, who had a sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and straightened up. “We got you, yes? Sword down, hands up. You come with us.”

“Captain. .,” Raesinia began.

“Marcus,” he said, “under the circumstances.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done. But this is enough, don’t you think?”

Marcus let his sword fall. The clang of steel on stone echoed over the quiet babble of the fountain.

“I think you’re right,” he said. He was smiling.

The sound of boots on the flagstones behind them made a couple of the Noreldrai turn. The sergeant gestured angrily for them to keep their eyes on their prisoners, then spun to face the man who’d just sauntered through the archway.

“What in volse do you think you’re doing?” he barked.

Janus, wearing his dress blues in place of the civilian costume of the Minister of Justice, put on an innocent expression.

“Going for a walk?” he said.

The sergeant snorted. “You can explain that to His Grace.”

“I think it would be best,” Janus said, “if you and your men would stack your arms and sit quietly against the wall.”

“Excuse me?” The sergeant looked from Janus to his men. “Perhaps I speak your kishkasse language not as well as I thought.”

“I just thought I would warn you.”

The sergeant ran out of patience. He gestured with his sword, and the Grays advanced on Marcus and Raesinia. Two sword-wielding men sauntered over to deal with Janus, who wasn’t even armed.

Janus sighed, and raised his voice. “In your own time, Lieutenant Uhlan.”

Everyone froze, looking around to see whom he was addressing. In the same instant, two dozen long rifle barrels slid over the wall that edged the clearing.

Something hit Raesinia hard in the small of the back. It was Marcus, bearing her to the ground. He courteously put his other arm underneath her to cushion her fall against the flagstones, so she ended up pulled tight into a kind of embrace. The staccato crack of rifles at close range split the air, and billows of smoke filled the clearing with the scent of gun smoke. One or two blasts, closer to them, indicated that a few of the Grays had gotten a shot off, but in less than a half minute the burbling fountain was again audible.