Perhaps Janus himself is the king I need. He was certainly of a sufficiently noble line, albeit somewhat impoverished in recent years, that the people would accept him. He was intelligent, and a capable general, if his Khandarai exploits were anything to go by. And, of course, he already knew her secret, obviating the need for either a complicated subterfuge or a potentially dangerous confrontation. And he’s handsome enough, I suppose, in an arch sort of way.
On the other hand, there was something about him that made her nervous. A sense of ambition, carefully harnessed but nonetheless visible just below the surface. She wondered if being king would be enough for him, or if he was one of those men whose thirst for power simply could not be slaked. The vision of Vordanai armies marching forth to conquer with fire and sword-with Janus bet Vhalnich at their head and Danton to fire their blood-was too plausible for comfort. That was not, she was sure, what her father would have wanted. His dreams of martial glory had ended with the cruel realities of Vansfeldt.
A problem for another day. There was a long, twisting road yet to walk before she arrived at a position where she could begin to contemplate that choice. But it starts today, with the Deputies-General.
Sothe reappeared. “Captain d’Ivoire is here, Your Majesty, with your escort.”
Your Majesty. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to that. “Send him in, and go and fetch the bits and pieces.” Raesinia was already wearing the slim, plain black dress that was proper for a queen in mourning, but it wouldn’t do to be seen in public without the appropriate accessories and a tasteful amount of jewels.
Bowing, Sothe went back to the door, and was replaced a moment later by Marcus d’Ivoire. The captain bowed as well, more formally. He was in the full dress uniform of the captain of Armsmen, dark forest green trimmed with silver and gold, with braids of army blue and silver at the shoulder to indicate he was a captain in a royal regiment as well. The only false note was the sword at his hip, which was a solid, weather-beaten cavalry saber instead of the jeweled rapier or small sword she might have expected.
“Your Majesty,” he said, when she indicated he should rise. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
“Thank you, Captain. And you have my gratitude for what you accomplished at the Vendre.”
Marcus looked rueful. “I’m afraid I didn’t accomplish much, Your Majesty. We surrendered the fortress, after all. And I spent most of the time locked in a cell.”
“From what I have heard, you prevented a bloodbath. I was most gratified to hear of your escape.”
“Some of the. . revolutionaries,” Marcus said carefully, “appear to have shared your gratitude. They gave me to understand that my further presence might cause difficulties. So I would not call it an escape, precisely.”
“You’re too modest for your own good, Captain.”
“Only honest, Your Majesty.”
Sothe came back in, with shoes, a shawl, and an assortment of delicate confections of gems and gold. Raesinia stood up and allowed these to be attached, and in the meantime studied Marcus’ broad, patient face.
I would not mind marrying him, she thought, idly. He seems like he would be kind. And I think he would make a good king. Not that such a thing could ever come to pass, even if she’d been madly in love with the captain. He was a commoner, to start with, and the same gentle patience that she thought would be a useful trait in a ruler would see him eaten alive by the likes of Orlanko. Where can I find a man who is both capable of ruling and good enough to do a decent job?
When the fitting-out was finished, Marcus bowed again. “I’ll go and alert your escort, Your Majesty.”
“My queen,” Sothe whispered, as soon as Marcus had gone out into the foyer. “Something is wrong.”
“What?” Raesinia turned too quickly, setting her ornaments to clicking. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not certain.” Sothe licked her lips, like a snake tasting the air. “Something isn’t right. I can’t-”
She quieted as Marcus reentered. He, too, looked perturbed.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Raesinia said, fighting a rising tide of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
“Who usually guards your door?”
Raesinia blinked. “The Grays are charged with the security of the grounds. But the royal family is guarded by a company of Royal Grenadier Guards, and some of your Armsmen. There should be a few of each out there.” She’d walked past them a thousand times.
“There’s an escort forming up in the corridor,” Marcus said. “But it seems to be only Grays. And when I looked out, I didn’t see any Armsmen or Royals.”
“That is odd,” Raesinia said. “Perhaps they’ll be joining us later on?”
Someone rapped at the door. A voice came from outside. “Your Majesty? Open the door, if you please. There’s an emergency.”
“Don’t,” Sothe said. Raesinia hadn’t seen her move, but she was reemerging from her own room, a pistol in either hand, her long dress tied up above her knees to give her freedom of movement. “It’s Orlanko.”
“What?” Raesinia’s anxiety was shot through with rage. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“We’ve overestimated his caution,” Sothe said, positioning herself in the doorway. “Or his intelligence. But I’m certain those are his people.”
“Get behind me, Your Majesty,” Marcus said, surprisingly unfazed by this news. His saber rasped from its scabbard.
“Wait.” Raesinia scrambled to her feet. “We can’t be certain. Don’t shoot anybody-”
There was a thud and a crunch of wood. Someone had rammed his shoulder hard against the corridor door. It was a light, decorative thing, not designed to endure that kind of abuse, and splinters flew from around the bolt.
“-oh.” Raesinia’s mind went blank. There was no excuse for doing that to the queen’s chambers, even if the building was on fire. “Go ahead, then.”
They were in the main room of her suite, with a couch and table providing the only cover. A door separated this room from the foyer, but it was no sturdier than the one in the corridor and would provide only a few seconds’ respite. Instead of closing it, Sothe squared off in the doorway, staring across the open space of the foyer as though she were on a target range.
Another blow brought a great crash from the outer door, tearing the bolt out of the wood and sending splinters pinwheeling across the room. A man in a Noreldrai Grays uniform stumbled through it, and as he took a moment to straighten up and get his bearings Sothe shot him neatly in the head. He toppled backward against the doorframe, blocking the path of a second Gray who was struggling to get into the room. Sothe tossed her smoking pistol aside, switched the second one from left hand to right, and shot him, too, just as he was beginning to shout a warning. Then she drew a vicious, thick-bladed long knife into either hand, settled back on the balls of her feet, and waited.
“Your Majesty,” Marcus said urgently. “We have to get out of here.”