The Shadow Throne

PART TWO

ORLANKO

Duke Orlanko tossed the broadsheet onto his desk, where it bumped a stack of paper and sent the crisp white sheets sliding a few inches across the wood. To those who knew him, the gesture was as emphatic as if he’d put his fist through a window in a rage.

“‘One Eagle,’” the Last Duke read, “‘and the Deputies-General.’”

Andreas stood, in his long black coat, as impassive as ever.

Orlanko tapped his finger on the paper, smearing the ink slightly. It was still warm from the printer’s. “As though the two were somehow connected.”

“Nonsense,” Andreas offered.

“It’s brilliant nonsense,” Orlanko snapped. “The poor of this city are cynical enough not to trust someone who promises nothing but cheap bread and times of plenty. But toss in a bit of mumbo jumbo about politics, just enough to sound confusing, and the rabble will believe anything. Most of them wouldn’t know the Deputies-General if it convened in their outhouse, but they’ll shout for it in the streets because it means bread at an eagle a loaf.”

“Yes, sir,” Andreas said.

“What do we know about this Danton?”

“Almost nothing.”

“‘Almost’ nothing?” Orlanko controlled his temper with an effort. “The man must have come from somewhere.”

“Of course,” Andreas said. “But nobody knows where. We got a few bits and pieces about some kind of adopted brother named Jack, but he seems to have left the city. As far as anyone knows, Danton appeared out of thin air that day in front of the cathedral.”

“And since then?”

“He stays at the Hotel Royal, near the Exchange. Keeps to his rooms and only comes out to give speeches. The staff brings him his meals.”

“Who visits him?”

“Only couriers.”

“You’ve followed them, I assume?”

Andreas nodded. “He receives a great many every day. They all come and go from the Exchange Central courier office.”

“Have you traced the messages back from there?”

“We don’t have the men. That office handles ten thousand messages a day.”

Orlanko drummed his fingers on the broadsheet, heedless of the ink smearing under his palm. “Someone is trying to hide from us, Andreas. Like a snake in the long grass.”

“Yes, sir. But I can’t set a man on every trader in the Exchange.”

“Even if we could, it would be a bit obvious.”

This attempt at humor, feeble as it was, went completely past Andreas’ head. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “May I offer a suggestion?”

Orlanko cocked his head. This was unusual, coming from Andreas. “Speak.”

“This business with the couriers, sir. It reminds me of the Gray Rose.”

“She had contacts at the Exchange Central?”

“No, sir. But it’s the kind of trick she liked. Hiding a tree in a forest, if you like.”

Orlanko considered. If the Gray Rose was involved, that meant the matter went a great deal deeper than he’d thought. On the other hand, Andreas had been working on the Gray Rose case so long he was developing an unhealthy obsession with her, and had a tendency to see her fingerprints on anything mysterious. He was a fine operative, diligent and extremely persistent, but analysis was not his strong point.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Orlanko said. “For the moment, focus on Danton’s backers.”

“Backers, sir?”

“Staying at the Hotel Royal costs money. Couriers cost money. Printing these”-he tapped the broadsheet again-“costs money. He must be getting it from somewhere. Find out where. If it’s his own, find out where it comes from. If someone is bankrolling him, I want to know who. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir. I may need to borrow some clerks from the finance section.”

Orlanko waved a hand and settled back in his chair with a chorus of squeaking springs. “Take whoever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I received your report on that other matter, incidentally.”

“Vhalnich, sir?”

“Yes, our friend Count Mieran. It seemed. . thin.”

“All the relevant information was included, sir.”

“Unfortunate that the accounts are so contradictory.”

Andreas shrugged. “Matters in Khandar were apparently quite confused.”

“You say that Vhalnich brought two officers back with him aboard the fast packet, Captain d’Ivoire and a Lieutenant Ihernglass. I’ve met the captain. What’s happened to this lieutenant?”

“It’s not quite clear, sir. Vhalnich hasn’t given him any official orders, but he hasn’t been seen for several days.”

“Away without leave, perhaps?”

“If so, no one has reported it to the Minister of War.”

“An oddity.” Orlanko frowned down at his hand and wiped it on his sleeve. “But we have too many oddities lately, and the situation is approaching a crisis. See what you can find out.”

“Of course, sir.”

The Last Duke took a large gold watch from his pocket and snapped it open. He liked clocks and watches. There was something about the sight of all those little wheels, rushing around and around in perfect order, that made him feel. . peaceful.

“And now, Andreas, you must excuse me,” he said, and snapped the watch closed. He levered himself out of the chair with another chorus of squeaks. “I have an appointment.”

Even here, deep beneath the Ministry where only a few were permitted to tread, the halls were clean and free from damp or pests. They were not well lit, but that was unavoidable, since candles or torches required menials to tend to them, and no menials were trusted enough to work down here. He’d considered having gas laid on, but the main city lines were still miles from Ohnlei, and the expense would be colossal.

Perhaps, he thought, after the coronation, the Crown might be persuaded to bear the expense.

For now he carried his own lantern. He opened an ornate wrought-iron grate with a black iron key from a pocket on the inside of his shirt. The lantern made the shadows of the bars stripe the corridor beyond, canting back and forth as it swayed in his hand. The grate opened with the squeak of well-oiled hinges, and Orlanko continued down the hall, his padded shoes shuffling on the flagstones.

He didn’t like this place, or the alliance it represented. It represented a certain untidiness in the nature of the world. Only weakness had forced him to resort to it. But the Last Duke was nothing if not pragmatic, and he had long ago committed himself to using whatever tools were necessary.

Nine hundred years ago, when Elleusis Ligamenti had laid down the foundation stones of the Elysian Church, he had ordained that it would be ruled by a council of three, each the head of an order with distinct responsibilities. The Pontifex of the White concerned himself exclusively with spiritual matters, the relationship of Man to God, and the moral well-being of the Church’s flock. The Pontifex of the Red was responsible for the physical maintenance and upkeep of temporal Church power and authority, and its relations with the secular world and its rulers. And the Pontifex of the Black’s remit was the endless quest against the demons of the world, as enjoined by the Savior Karis’ Wisdoms.

As the Church’s dogma had become the law of the land, the power of the Priests of the Black had expanded until they had become a vast and terrible inquisition obsessed with the discovery of doctrinal heresy as well as supernatural evil. In their obsession with destroying the demons of the world, they began to make use of the supernatural as well, recruiting fanatics who volunteered themselves for eternal punishment by playing host to a demon in order to help the Church’s crusade against evil. These were the legendary Ignahta Sempria, the Penitent Damned.

It was this overreach by the Black Priests as much as anything else that had provoked the great schism between Free and Sworn churches, and in the aftermath of the wars sparked by that terrible rebellion the Black Priests had been greatly reduced in power. Bit by bit, they had died out, until the death of the last Pontifex of the Black had officially ended the order. To the extent that they thought about it at all, most modern people viewed this as ancient history.

After all, they would say, everyone knew there wasn’t really any such thing as demons.

Brother Nikolai was waiting on the other side of the second grate. There was no key to this one, so it could only be unlocked from the inside, by Brother Nikolai or one of his successors. In his more whimsical moments, the Last Duke wondered what would happen if Brother Nikolai were to suffer an apoplectic fit and die without anyone noticing. Presumably they would have to smash the grate down, if only to retrieve the body.

Brother Nikolai wore soft black robes that fell in deep folds from his shoulders and shrouded him in silence, like a patch of moving shadow. His dark hair was bound in a thick queue, in the Murnskai fashion, but the most striking thing about him was the mask that obscured his face. It was a flattened oval with narrow slits for the eyes and mouth, surfaced with a thousand tiny chips of black volcanic glass, like a dark gem with innumerable facets. A tiny spot of light from Orlanko’s lantern was reflected in each facet, so Brother Nikolai’s face was alive with a thousand pinprick fireflies that danced and wove in unison as the lantern swung from the duke’s hand.

He was a Priest of the Black. Or a subpriest, or sub-subpriest, or something similar. Orlanko had never been able to parse the arcane hierarchies of Elysium, but he assumed that Brother Nikolai must be fairly lowly to be given such a dull assignment. He was something like a lighthouse keeper, for a very peculiar lighthouse, one that lived in the dark below the Cobweb.

“Brother,” Orlanko said, with a polite nod.

“Your Grace,” Brother Nikolai returned, and opened the grate. Beyond it the corridor ended in a pair of facing doors. One led to the little room where Brother Nikolai lived, studied, and prayed. The other held his charge.

Orlanko followed the priest and waited while he worked the lock on the cell door. Besides Orlanko’s lantern, the only light was from a candle in Brother Nikolai’s room. No illumination came from the prisoner’s cell, as she had no need of any.

Brother Nikolai opened the door and stepped aside. “You are punctual as always, Your Grace.”

The duke favored him with a thin smile and stepped inside. The cell was generously sized, and though spare it was kept scrupulously clean. A bed and a privy were the only furniture the prisoner required.

She sat cross-legged in the center of the room, a girl not past her early twenties with short, dark hair and the pallid skin that came from years without sunlight. Her robe was similar to Brother Nikolai’s, but gray. In front of her was an open book, which she was carefully passing her finger across, line by line, as though she were painting.

Brother Nikolai had once explained the procedure. The priests began with two young people. Any pair who shared a strong bond would work, lovers or even very close friends, but Black Priests preferred siblings so they could begin work at an early age. Twins were ideal. Once the pair had been chosen and carefully studied to ensure that they were free of physical or mental defects, they were both given the name of a demon to read.

From that moment forward, the two would be as one, two minds melting into each other under the vile creature’s irresistible pressure. The pairs would undergo training and instruction together, and then eventually one of the two would be shipped in great secrecy to some hidden outpost of the Priests of the Black, like this one, while the other remained in the endless dungeons under Elysium. Then they would wait until they were needed, to throw the voice of the pontifex across thousands of miles in an instant, receiving reports and delivering instructions.

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.