The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “Ben,” she said, interrupting their argument, “what was it you wanted us to see?”

  “Oh! This way.” He pointed. “I only hope they’re in the same place.”

  They walked along the grid, two streets down and one street over. Ben gently guided Sarton whenever they made a turn, since the medical student had become absorbed in his new reading material. Finally, they reached a place where two large streets crossed and made a little square, in the center of which a flat-bedded wagon had been parked to make an impromptu stage. It was surrounded by a crowd, mostly Newtowners in their ragged cotton trousers and coarse brown linen. There was a man on the stage in a black evening coat and three-cornered hat, cutting a dashing if somewhat antiquated figure. The people in the front rank of the crowd were shouting something at him, but Raesinia couldn’t make it out from her position at the rear.

  “So, what are we looking at?” said Faro.

  Ben pointed. A sign on the edge of the stage read BARON DE BORNAIS’ POTENT CURE-ALL, followed by a lot of smaller type listing the many afflictions this product was supposed to address. Faro followed Ben’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

  “Something wrong with you that you haven’t told us about?” Faro said. “I think you might as well drink bathwater and call it a magic potion.”

  “Forget the potion,” Ben said. “Listen to the sales pitch.”

  “It doesn’t look like anything much so far,” Faro said. “I hope you aren’t suggesting we invest in this fellow. No offense, old buddy, but you should leave the market games to Cora—”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by a respectful silence as the man on the stage—presumably de Bornais—began to speak. This in itself was odd, since in Raesinia’s experience it was not in the nature of a crowd of Vordanai to listen quietly to anyone who wasn’t actually a priest. De Bornais’ presentation seemed to be pandering of a quite ordinary sort, which made it hard to explain the rapt attention.

  “Ben . . . ,” she said.

  “Wait,” Ben said. “This isn’t it, not yet.”

  “—how many of you are sick?” de Bornais said. There was a wave of muttering from the crowd. “How many of you are afflicted? How many of you have the doctors given up on? How many of you can’t afford to even visit the damned bloodsuckers?”

  This last drew a louder rumble than the others, and de Bornais went with the theme. “I’m taking an awful risk coming here, ladies and gentlemen. They don’t want you to hear about this, oh no. All those Borel cutters and the fancy robes up at the University”—he mimed a swishing, effeminate gait—“they would just about shit their britches if they heard about me. Might want to shut me up, I wouldn’t wonder. Because what I have here . . .” He paused, smiled, revealing a glittering gold tooth. “But I don’t expect you to take my word for it.”

  The crowd let out a collective sigh. De Bornais bowed and stepped aside as another man climbed up from behind the stage. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of wild black hair and an enormous bristling beard. He was dressed in leather trousers and a vest that hung open to the waist, making it obvious that he was well muscled and apparently in rude health.

  “My name,” he said, “is Danton Aurenne. And I was not always the man you see before you.”

  Raesinia blinked. He had a fine, carrying voice, but it was more than that. It cracked like a whip across the crowd, commanding attention, locking every eye to his face.

  He spoke at some length, starting with his childhood on the streets of Newtown, his mother’s struggles, and his diseased and generally malformed state at young adulthood, with particular attention paid to the more horrifying symptoms. From there he recounted his near starvation, unfit for one job after another, finally washing up in a church hostel for the dying. Where, of course, he met de Bornais, and his amazing tonic—

  It was an absurd story. Ridiculous. It wasn’t even a masterpiece of the spoken word; it sounded as though it had been written by someone with only a middling command of Vordanai and very little imagination. And yet—and yet—

  The words didn’t seem to matter. The rolling power of that voice put the audience into a trance by the force of its delivery alone. Every man, woman, and child in the crowd was rapt. Raesinia found that she could barely even remember what had been said, moments after he’d said it. All that mattered was the plight of poor Danton, and his rescue by the astonishing philanthropy of the brilliant de Bornais, and the fact that she was being invited, exhorted to purchase a vial of this miracle elixir at the incredible price of only one eagle and fifty pence. It was practically giving away the secrets of life, which only showed you the kind of person de Bornais was.

  She felt something inside her twitch. The binding perked up, very slightly, one predator raising an eyebrow at the sight of another stalking quietly across the plains.

  Raesinia blinked.

  “Good, isn’t he?” said Ben, grinning.

  “God Almighty.” Faro shook his head, as though he felt drunk. “What the hell was that?”

  “He’s got his symptoms all m . . . m . . . mixed up,” said Sarton. He’d looked up from his pamphlet only when Danton started talking. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he had an early case of the red wind. In childhood—”

  Ben cut him off. “You see why I brought you here, right?”

  “Just because the man can sell snake oil,” Faro said, shaking off the effects, “doesn’t mean he’s going to be any use to us.”

  Raesinia shook her head. She was still watching the stage, where de Bornais had reappeared with a crate full of glass vials. Coins were flying out of the crowd and landing on the stage with a noise like hail.

  “Do you see the girl at the edge of the stage?” she said quietly. “The one with the twisted leg.”

  “Nervasia,” Sarton said. “Caused b . . . b . . . by deficiencies in the diet in infancy.”

  “She’s lived with that her whole life,” Raesinia said, watching the hobbling, wretched creature. “This morning she knew as well as you do that she’d live with it until the day she died. Now she’s ready to hand over what is probably her life savings.”

  “In exchange for a vial of sugar and river water,” Faro said.

  “She’s not buying an elixir,” Raesinia said. “She’s buying hope.” She took a deep breath and glanced at Ben. “And a man who can sell hope to a girl like that can sell anything to anyone.”

  Ben was nodding. Faro frowned.

  “Come on,” Raesinia said. “I think we need to have a chat with him.”

  —

  They waited on the edge of the square until de Bornais had sold every last vial. At that point he, Danton, and two porters left the square, de Bornais promising that he would return the next day to help those who hadn’t been close enough to the front of the line.

  “He does this every day,” Ben said. “Sometimes it’s the same people in the crowd.”

  “I guess they think that twice the dose will do twice the good,” Faro said.

  “Do you know where he goes afterward?” Raesinia asked Ben.

  “There’s a tavern around the corner. Last time I was here he spent a while in there.”

  “Right.”

  There was no sign marking the tavern, but none was really necessary. Even so early in the day, there was a steady stream of customers headed for the door, coming off odd-hours shifts or just slaking a midday thirst. Raesinia followed Ben through the swinging door into a gloomy, smoke-filled space. It was on the ground floor of one of the old apartment blocks, and looked as though it had originally been an apartment itself. The proprietors had knocked out the internal walls, boarded up most of the windows, and set up shop behind a wooden board balanced on a set of barrels. The tables were a mix of battered, scavenged furniture and knocked-together substitutes, and small crates served for chairs.

  Unlike the Blue Mask a
nd its fellows, who wore their disreputability like a costume for a masked ball, this place was honestly, solidly disreputable. Really, Raesinia thought, it didn’t even rise to that level, since that would imply that it had a reputation. It was just one anonymous boarded-up apartment among many, where men traded small change for temporary oblivion. She’d visited Dockside taverns after shift change, full of drunken shouting workers spoiling for a fight, but there was none of that sense of danger here. The people around the makeshift tables just looked tired.

  De Bornais and Danton sat at a table in the corner, with the two porters at another nearby. A few faces looked up to regard Raesinia and the others, but without much interest. Only the proprietor, a rat-faced man with a long mustache, took any extended notice. Raesinia stepped out of the doorway and beckoned her companions close.

  “I need to get this Danton alone for a few minutes,” she said. “Can we detach de Bornais?”

  “I could engage him in a discussion on the m . . . m . . . merits of his treatment,” Sarton offered. “But—”

  “He’s more likely to run from a real doctor than talk to one,” Faro said. “Swindlers like him live in fear of someone turning up and demanding answers.”

  Raesinia thought for a moment. “All right, here’s the story. Faro, you’re the young son of some merchant, and Ben is your manservant. You’ve heard from belowstairs about this elixir, and now the master’s taken sick, so you want to secure a supply. Buy him a few drinks and imply you’re willing to make a pretty substantial contribution.”

  “Got it,” said Ben, then sighed. “Why do I always end up as the manservant?”

  “Because you don’t know how to dress properly,” said Faro, shooting his cuffs and inspecting them for lint. “Come on. Just follow my lead.”

  “What are you g . . . g . . . going to say to Danton?” Sarton said, as the two of them sauntered over to the table.

  “First we need to find out what de Bornais gives him. Is that story of his genuine, or is he just a paid shill?”

  The lingering power of Danton’s oration insisted that the story was true—it had to be true; how could anything so obviously heartfelt not be true?—but the cynical part of Raesinia’s mind suspected the latter. She kept her eye on Danton as Faro oiled up and engaged de Bornais in conversation. Faro’s talent as an actor was considerable—it was one of the reasons they’d brought him in to their little conspiracy—and his warm handshake and extravagant gestures fit his role as a gullible young man from the moneyed class perfectly. De Bornais seemed to be taking it in, but Danton showed little interest in anything but the pint of beer in front of him. Bits of froth were clinging to his ferocious side whiskers.

  “There we go,” Raesinia muttered, as de Bornais got to his feet. Faro took him by the arm and steered him in the direction of the bar, leaving Danton alone at the table. “You keep watch from here. If Faro looks like he’s losing his grip on de Bornais, warn me.”

  Sarton ducked his head, obviously pleased to have been given a position of responsibility. Raesinia left him by the door and headed for Danton. A few eyes followed her. In her University-tomboy getup, she didn’t look particularly feminine, but women of any kind seemed to be a rarity here. Raesinia ignored the gazes and sat down on the crate de Bornais had vacated. She’d timed her arrival for just after Danton reached the bottom of his pint, and he looked up from it to find her smiling at him.

  “Can I buy you another one of those?” she said.

  Danton blinked, looking down at the empty mug, then back up at her.

  “Another beer,” she repeated, wondering how much he’d already had to drink. “More.”

  “More,” Danton agreed happily. Raesinia waved at the sour-faced proprietor, who set to filling another mug from a barrel on the bar.

  “I listened to your speech,” Raesinia said. “We were all very impressed. Is it a true story?”

  “’S a story,” Danton said. Up close, his voice had the same quiet rumble, but it lacked the authority he’d displayed on the stage. “I’m supposed to tell it. Jack gave it to me.”

  “Jack—you mean de Bornais?” His face was uncomprehending, and she tried again. “The man who sells the medicine?”

  This time he nodded. “Yes. Jack. He’s a good fellow, Jack.” This last had an odd singsong rhythm, as though he were repeating something he’d heard many times. “He shows me what to do.”

  “How much does he pay you?”

  “You shouldn’t worry about the money.” This, also, sounded like a pat phrase. “Jack takes care of everything.”

  Raesinia paused, rapidly reassessing her position.

  “Does Jack,” she said slowly, “tell you what to say? When you’re out on the stage, I mean, talking to everybody.”

  Danton dipped his head. “Mmm-hmm. He told me a story, and I tell it to people. It’s good to share stories.”

  Raesinia stared at him. What the hell are we dealing with here? Danton wasn’t just drunk—he seemed almost feebleminded. If she hadn’t seen him speaking to the crowd herself, she wouldn’t have believed he was capable of anything of the sort. So he’s—what? Some kind of idiot savant? She watched him grab the new mug of beer in both hands and take a long drink. But if he can repeat whatever someone tells him . . .

  A plan was just beginning to form when a heavy hand descended on her shoulder. She looked up into the thickset face of one of de Bornais’ porters, whose eyes widened in comical surprise.

  “’Ey,” he said. “You’re a girl.”

  She twisted to face him, brushing his hand aside. “What about it?”

  De Bornais himself arrived, sidestepping Faro and hurrying to the table. He yanked the beer out of Danton’s hand and slapped him, hard, like a mother smacking a squalling toddler. Danton blinked, his eyes beginning to water.

  “You know you’re not supposed to talk to anybody,” de Bornais said. “I’ve told you a hundred times. Say it. What are you supposed to do?”

  “Drink m’ beer,” Danton mumbled. “Not talk to anybody.”

  “Right.” He spun to face Raesinia, who had wormed free of the porter. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I thought—” Raesinia began, but de Bornais waved her into silence, glaring at the porter standing beside her.

  “Sorry, boss,” the big man said. “I didn’t catch what she was up to.”

  “All I want—” Raesinia tried again.

  “I know what you want,” de Bornais said. “The same thing they all want. They want to tell my friend a sob story and get a free dose, because he’s too good-natured to know any better. It’s a good thing he has someone to look out for him—that’s all I have to say. If I left him alone this city would pick him clean in an hour.” He nodded to the porter. “Get her out of here.”

  Faro had drifted over behind Raesinia, hand hovering near the hilt of his ridiculous dress sword. Ben followed, looking uncomfortable. The second porter, sensing trouble, left the bar and took position flanking de Bornais, while the unfortunate proprietor cringed behind his bar.

  “All I want,” Raesinia repeated, “is a few moments of your time. I have a proposal for you.”

  “My time is valuable, miss.”

  Raesinia could see Faro bridling at de Bornais’ sneering tone, and she put up a hand to restrain him. Her other hand dug in her pocket and came out with a new-milled fifty-eagle gold piece. The smooth gold winked in the tavern lamps as she flipped it to de Bornais, who picked it out of the air and held it in front of his eyes as though he didn’t believe what he was seeing. The gold represented enough money to buy the entire contents of the bar several times over.

  She raised an eyebrow. “How much of your time will that buy me?”

  De Bornais’ eyes narrowed.

  —

  The closest thing to privacy the tavern offered was the tavern-keeper’s b
edroom, a miserable space crammed behind a door in the back barely big enough for a straw mattress and a chest of drawers. Raesinia had slipped him an eagle to let them use it, and de Bornais’ two porters stood an uneasy watch outside, opposite Faro, Ben, and Sarton.

  “All right,” de Bornais said. “This had better be good.”

  “We saw Danton’s speech outside,” Raesinia said. “My friends and I were very impressed.”

  “Of course you were. He’s a damned genius.”

  “I was curious about the . . . terms of his employment.”

  De Bornais smiled nastily. “Oh, I see where this is going. You’re not the first to come sniffing around, you know.”

  Raesinia did her best to give a carefree shrug. “It’s only natural. When a man has a talent like that, it seems to me he could charge whatever he liked.”

  “Maybe. But you talked to him, didn’t you? Danton’s . . . special. A bit touched.” De Bornais put on an unconvincingly sad expression. “I take care of him, you see? He’s practically a brother to me. I knew his mam, and when she was dying, she asked me, ‘Jack, please take care of our Danton, because you know he can’t do anything for himself.’ I make sure he’s okay, and he helps out however he can.”

  “Yes, I saw how well you take care of him,” Raesinia deadpanned.

  De Bornais had the decency to blush, rubbing his knuckles. “I don’t like having to do that. But like I said, he’s a bit touched. It’s the only way to get him to understand sometimes. He doesn’t blame me.”

  “You don’t pay him?”

  “He wouldn’t know what to do with it.” De Bornais patted the pocket where he’d tucked her coin, and gave a nasty smile. “So it’s no good, you offering him money. He’s got everything he needs, and he does whatever I tell him.”

  “If that’s the case,” she said, “perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangement.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” de Bornais said. “You were there today, weren’t you? Then you saw the kind of money I’m making.”

  “But not for long, I’ll bet,” Raesinia said. “You must move around a lot.”