La Campagne des ombres, Tome 2 : The Shadow throne

Chapter One

Raesinia

The mirrored halls of the Royal Palace at Ohnlei were dark and quiet.

Not silent, for the thousands of footmen, maids, gardeners, guards, cook and candle boys who made the great palace run could never really stop moving, any more than a heart could stop pumping. But they moved cautiously, avoiding loud footfalls on the marble floors and talking in low voices, and only a few candles flickered in the enormous braziers. The great black velvet drapes and carpets had not been hung, for the king had not yet died, but in a hundred cellars and storerooms they had been unrolled, aired out, and checked for wear.

Raesinia and her party clattered through the hush like a wild stallion in a glazier's. First came the princess' hard-soled shoes, tak-tak-tak, and then the heavy, flatfooted tromp of the trio of Noreldrai Grays who provided her escort. It gave everyone plenty of warning to form up and clear the way, so that her progress was marked by a bow wave of dipping heads from staff lined up on either side of the corridor. The occasional courtier sparkled like a precious stone among the pale blue of the Royal livery. Ordinarily, politeness would have obliged her to stop and exchange a few pleasant words with anyone of sufficient rank, but under the circumstances the nobles merely bowed their heads and let her by. No doubt they began whispering as soon as she turned the corner, but Raesinia was used to that.

The ground-floor apartments of the king were reached through a broad marble arch, carved with a frieze depicting King Farus VI in the act of smiting some armored foe. Raesinia's great-grandfather was everywhere at Ohnlei. He'd died decades before she was born, but she'd seen his narrow-cheeked, pointy-bearded countenance on so many statues, bas-reliefs, and portraits that he was as familiar to her as any of her living family. This one was actually not a particularly good likeness, she'd always suspected. The sculptor had given the king a squint, and he looked out at the viewer rather than keeping his eyes on the business at hand, as though to say, "Who are you, and what are you doing at my battle?"

Beyond the arch was a grassy courtyard, roofed over with great sliding panes of glass that could be opened to let the air in when the weather was good. Here the king, in better days, would receive guests or dine with his favorites. It was surrounded by a colonnade and a terrace floored with marble, from which a dozen oak-and-gilt doors led to the king's private chambers and the residences of his servants and guards. A dozen of the latter were scattered around the courtyard, not just the somber-uniformed Noreldrai Grays but Armsmen in their forest green coats and white trousers and Royal Army grenadiers in Vordanai blue and polished brass. Guarding the king was a great honor, and none of the three services were willing to leave it to the others.

In the middle of the lawn, looking a bit incongruous, was a polished oak dining table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Raesinia had eaten there many times with her father, in the company of the mightiest nobles of the land, surrounded by a veritable swarm of servants and flunkies. Now the long, mirror-smooth surface was nearly empty. At the far end sat a gray-haired man, back hunched from a lifetime of bending over the beds of his patients. He got painfully to his feet as Raesinia approached, in spite of her urgent gesture.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, with as much of a bow as his stiff back could muster. "I hope you are well?"

He had a Hamveltai accent, which turned "well" into "vell." Raesinia nodded.

"As well as ever, Doctor-Professor Indergast," she said.

He peered at her over the top of thin-rimmed half-moon spectacles. "I ought to have a look at your diet," he said. "Some days it seems to me that you are not growing up properly. Your mother was nearly as tall as I when she was nineteen, you know."

Raesinia, who had to look up slightly to meet the stoop-shouldered doctor's gaze, gave a careful shrug. "Perhaps, someday. But we have more important things to worry about at the moment. I got a message to come at once—is he all right?"

"His condition has not changed, Your Highness," Indergast said. "I am sorry to have worried you. It is only that he is awake, and asked to see you."

Raesinia's heart gave a weak flop. Her father slept more than he was awake, these days, and sometimes he was delirious with pain and fever. She'd spent many hours at his bedside, holding his hand, but he hadn't often known she was there.

"I'd better go and see him, then," she said, "before he falls asleep again."

"Of course, Your Highness. Pay no mind to me." He gestured at a huge book, which lay open on the table where he'd been sitting. "I was only paging through a volume of Acheleos that the Grand Bishop was kind enough to lend me, to see if he had anything useful to tell us."

"And does he?"

"Alas, no. Like all the ancients, he has many theories but very little practical advice."

"You'll figure something out. You always have."

Doctor-Professor Indergast ran one gnarled hand through his wispy hair. He had been personal physician to her father since before Raesinia had been born. Some at the court wondered why the king needed a foreign doctor to attend him, but Raesinia had come to love the old man. He'd pulled the king back from the brink more than once, when no other doctor at the University would have dared even make the attempt.

"I'm honored by your trust, Your Highness," he said, but his expression was grave. "I beg you, though, not to place too much faith in my poor skills." He paused, then added quietly, "Miracles are the department of His Grace the Grand Bishop."

Raesinia set her lips but said nothing. She gave the old man a nod and swept past him, toward her father's bedchamber.

"The Grand Bishop is with him now," Indergast said from behind her. "As is His Grace the duke and the rest of the cabinet."

She faltered but didn't break stride. This wasn't a matter of an ailing man wanting to see his daughter, then. If the king had summoned his ministers, then he had something official to say. Raesinia breathed a silent thanks to Indergast for the warning, told her bodyguards to wait outside with the rest of the king's protectors, and slipped in the door.

***

The king's bedchamber was small by the standards of Ohnlei, which meant that it wasn't quite large enough to host a tennis match. The royal bed was enormous, though, its four oak posts practically trembling under the weight of silks and velvet hangings. In the center of it, drowning in a sea of covers and embroidered cushions, the king was visible only as a disembodied head surrounded by expensive fabric.

A group of well-dressed men stood at the end of the bed, huddled together for mutual support. The Grand Bishop of Vordan, prevented from huddling by the voluminous folds of his crimson robes of office, affected an ecclesiastical aloofness a little ways off.

It was apparent to Raesinia that she had walked into the middle of an argument, though one that might not have been obvious to anyone who hadn't spent their lives at Ohnlei. It was the kind of roundabout, exquisitely polite disagreement carried on by men who are aware that their opponent could, technically, have them executed.

"I'm certain Your Majesty has considered the matter carefully," said a large, thick-bearded man at the front of the huddle. This was Count Torahn, the Minister of War, his soldier's physique running to fat beneath the careful tailoring of his court uniform. His normally florid complexion was practically aglow now. "But I wonder if you have given a thought to the situation from my position. We are speaking of a young and talented officer, showing great promise, and to remove him to what is, after all, an interior post . . ."

"So promising that you sent him to Khandar?" said the king. It made Raesinia's heart break just to hear him, his voice reduced from the confident baritone she remembered to a wheezy, petulant rasp.

"Where he has achieved great things," Torahn said smoothly. "And, in due time, if his career is not interrupted—"

"I'll leave that to his judgment," the king said. "He may choose to decline the post."

"But he will not, Your Majesty." This was from the Minister of Finance, Rackhil Grieg. He had always reminded Raesinia of a ferret, with a narrow face and beady, wary eyes, an effect that was not helped by his unfortunate choice to wear his ratty brown hair long at the back. Torahn shot him an ugly look when he spoke up. Grieg was a commoner, unique on the cabinet, and the others resented him for it. He owed his advancement entirely to the patronage of the Last Duke, and was therefore widely considered to be Orlanko's creature.

"After all," Grieg went on, "an offer from Your Majesty is an honor not to be lightly refused. Even if it went against his judgment of what was best for the service, would he not feel obligated to accept so as not to dishonor Your Majesty with his refusal?"

"That's true," Torahn said, recognizing a good line of attack like a proper soldier. "For any officer of the Royal Army, Your Majesty's wishes must be placed above any doubts or personal concerns."

"Does that include you, Torahn?" the king snapped, with a little of his old vigor.

The Minister of War bowed deeply. "I am only attempting to bring to Your Majesty's attention aspects of the matter that may have escaped your notice. We will, of course, abide by your majesty's ultimate decision."

Even from across the room, Raesinia could read the expression on her father's face. She decided the time had come for an interruption.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Raesinia bobbed her head in the direction of the ministers, then curtsied deeply toward the bed. "Your Majesty, you sent for me?"

"I did," the king said. "The rest of you, out. I would speak to my daughter alone."

Raesinia stepped aside so the assembled notables could file past her. The Grand Bishop murmured something sympathetic in his heavy Murnskai accent as he went by, and Torahn dismissed her with a glance and a perfunctory nod.

Only the last one to leave caught her eye. He was a short man, no taller than Raesinia, and his bulging waistcoat made him look very nearly round. The crown of his head was bald, but a wild ruff of hair behind his ears and around the back of his skull made up for it, giving him the look of a classical philosopher. The most remarkable thing about his appearance, though, was his spectacles. They were enormous, each lens almost a handsbreadth in diameter, and so thick and curved that they provided only the most distorted vision of the face behind them. Strange, twisted blobs of nose- and cheek-tinted color moved and twisted as he turned his head, but when he looked straight at you, as he looked at Raesinia now, his eyes would suddenly appear magnified disconcertingly to five times their normal size.

It would be easy to dismiss this funny little man, and many had done so, always to their sorrow. His Grace Duke Mallus Kengire Orlanko, Minister of Information and master of the Concordat, was always ready to embrace any advantage, even that offered by his own innocuous appearance. Raesinia was not fooled. The Last Duke was widely agreed to be the most dangerous man in Vordan, and she had spent enough time at the palace to know that this was, if anything, an understatement. She wasn't certain there was a more dangerous man in all the world.

Today he only favored her with a brief smile and a little bow before continuing on his way, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Raesinia went to the bed, which was so big she was forced to climb up onto it to reach her father. He extracted one hand from the constricting comforters and reached out to her, and she took it between both of hers. It was thin and light, like a songbird in her palm. His bones seemed as brittle as twigs, and his skin was papery-dry.

He turned his head in her direction and blinked watery eyes. "Raesinia?"

"I'm here, Father." She gripped his hand a little tighter. "It's good to see you awake."

"For a change." He coughed. "Every time I wake up, I think of a thousand things to do, in case this time is the last. But I'm always exhausted before I can get through one or two." He closed his eyes and let out a rattling breath. "I'm sorry, Raesinia."

"Don't speak that way, Father," Raesinia said. "This may be the beginning of an improvement. Doctor-Professor Indergast—"

"Doctor-Professor Indergast is honest with me," he interrupted. "Unlike the rest of the fools and flatterers, or that great whale in red."

"He is very skilled," Raesinia insisted. "Better than any other doctor in Vordan."

"Some things are beyond skill." The king squeezed her hand and opened his eyes. "But I did not call you here to argue."

Raesinia ducked her head, and there was a moment of silence while the king composed his thoughts. Finally, he said, "Do you know Count Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran?"

"Only in passing," Raesinia said, blinking in surprise. "He was at court three years ago, I think. We spoke briefly."

"You do not know much about him, then?"

"Just that he went to Khandar to suppress the rebellion, and that he's been doing well. Why?"

"His mission to Khandar has been a success. A complete success, in fact, beyond anyone's expectations. Even our good Minister of Information seemed surprised, and you know how rare an event that is." He gave a dry chuckle, which turned into another cough. "I've summoned him back to Vordan. He's on his way as we speak. When he gets here, I'm going to make him the Minister of Justice."

Raesinia was quiet. Plans rearranged themselves at the back of her mind, new information slotting into place. She kept her expression neutral.

"I'm sure he'll do well there," she said, after a moment. "But—"

"But what does this have to do you?" The king sighed. "I have to look ahead, Raesinia. Think about what you'll be left with after I'm gone. Orlanko has too much influence on the cabinet already. Grieg is in his pocket, and Torahn is heading in that direction. Count Almire has made a career of avoiding politics. If Orlanko puts one of his own in Justice as well, he'll be king in all but name."

"If you don't trust Orlanko, get rid of him," Raesinia said, unable to keep a bit of heat out of her voice. "Better yet, have him executed."

"If only it were that simple. The Borels would never allow it. And, like it or not, Orlanko may be all that has kept us afloat since . . ."

He trailed off, eyes losing focus and staring away past the ceiling. But Raesinia could finish the thought on her own. She'd been only thirteen at the time of Vansfeldt, the battle that had cost Vordan its war with Borel and its crown prince in one disastrous afternoon. Her father had been sick then as well, too sick to go to the front as he felt he ought, and though his illness had waxed and waned since then, she wasn't sure his spirit had ever recovered.

The king blinked and shook his head weakly. "Tired. I'm so tired, Raesinia."

"Rest, then. I can come back later."

"Not just yet. Listen to me. Count Mieran is . . . more than he seems. I had hoped . . ." He swallowed. "I had plans. But I am running out of time. I think . . . I think you can trust him. At the very least, he is no friend of our Last Duke. He will help you, Raesinia." Tears glistened in the royal eyes. "You will need all the allies you can get."

"I understand, Father."

"It will be hard for you. I never meant for this to happen." His voice softened, as if he were drifting away. "None of this. You were supposed to have . . . something else. Not this. But . . ."

"It's all right, Father." Raesinia leaned over him and kissed him, gently, on the cheek. His attendants had bathed him in rosewater, but the perfume was unable to cover the sick-sweet scent of rot wafting from the royal flesh. "Everything will be all right. Now rest."

"I'm sorry," he said again, eyes slowly closing. "My little girl . . . I'm sorry . . ."

***