It was a power play, nothing more and nothing less. Either Raesinia was smarter than he’d given her credit for, or else she was completely in Vhalnich’s pocket. Whichever it was, the two of them planned to use the backing of the mob to push him out of the Cabinet and away from the throne.
Vhalnich. It has to be Vhalnich. Orlanko’s fall might mean war with the Borelgai, a war Vordan could not hope to win, but such a sacrifice of life would not trouble a man like the Minister of Justice.
A thought struck him. Could Vhalnich himself bear a demon? The Pontifex of the Black had implied as much, in their last communication. At the time Orlanko had thought it unlikely. But if he really had found the Thousand Names, and invited one of the horrors into his own body. .
Orlanko shook his head and clumped through the corridors, ignoring the passing analysts who scurried out of his way. He was breathing hard by the time he pushed open the door to his office and clambered up behind his desk. Once there, he slammed his hand on one of the little buttons, causing a distant bell to dance and jangle.
Contingencies, contingencies. Vhalnich wasn’t the only one who held hidden cards.
The door clicked open, and Andreas entered noiselessly, dark coat flaring behind him like a living shadow.
“How the hell did Vhalnich get to the Cabinet room without my being informed he was even on the grounds?”
“We’re investigating now, sir. It appears a number of our agents are in his custody.”
“What?”
“His Mierantai guard rounded up our watchers and confined them in his cottage. It was quite a well-planned operation. No word escaped until we sent more men to investigate.”
Orlanko glowered at Andreas, who took it stolidly.
“Of course, sir, it means that our communications have been compromised. He knew precisely who was assigned to him.”
“I know, damn it.” Heads would roll for that. The pasty-faced analysts who lived in the depths of the Cobweb and copied out books of numbers all day long had assured him that their codes were unbreakable. We’ll see how unbreakable they are. But that would have to wait. “He’s stolen a march on us, and we can’t afford to play catch-up. I want you to call up the Special Branch.”
If there was any emotion under the serene mask, it didn’t show. Andreas bowed. “Of course, sir.”
Orlanko made a face, as though he’d eaten something unpleasant, and stared at his pet killer. He sighed. “All right. Now we’ll do things your way.”
IONKOVO
A single candle flickered on the other side of the room, casting a dim glow across the windowless cell. The bars were outlined on the opposite wall, a striped pattern that danced and shivered on the rough stone surface.
Adam Ionkovo, lying on the scratchy straw-stuffed pallet, stared at the ceiling and let out a sigh.
He’d had high hopes for Captain d’Ivoire. But. . no. Even a couple of conversations had shown him to be the kind of man whose blind, bulldog loyalty was impervious to reason. Neither bribes nor threats of eternal damnation would pry him loose from Vhalnich, not now. The bond between men who had fought together could tie them closer than lovers.
Did you get anything out of him, Jen? He was fairly certain his companion was dead. She bore an archdemon, after all. If she was alive, nothing could have stopped her from completing her mission. But it’s how she died that matters. Did Vhalnich find the Thousand Names? What powers has he unearthed?
Oh well. If d’Ivoire wasn’t going to talk, then it was pointless to remain here any longer. It was past time he was up and about.
The outer door rattled and opened a fraction. His guard, right on time with the evening meal. Time to go.
Ionkovo rolled off the pallet. Just in front of it was a thick, dark shadow cast by the table the candle was sitting on. The transition between light and darkness wavered as the flame shifted, and Ionkovo reached carefully over it to touch the floor where the shadow was constant.
“God save us,” he muttered in Elysian. “The Penitent Damned.”
The shadow moved under his fingers. It grew darker, black as ink, and rippled when he touched it as though his finger had brushed the surface of dark, still water. Ionkovo pushed himself forward just as the guard entered the room, diving into the shadow as easily as a seabird skimming to the ocean.
“The hell?” the guard said. He set the pewter plate bearing Ionkovo’s nightly beans and crust of bread on the table and put a hand on his truncheon. “Ionkovo? Are you playing games with me?”
Ionkovo was always surprised at the reluctance of ordinary people to accept the evidence of their own eyes. There was nowhere to hide in the cell; ergo, it should be obvious that he was not in it. But the guard only edged forward cautiously, brow furrowed.
The candle threw the man’s shadow on the wall behind him, larger than life. Its surface rippled, silently, and Ionkovo’s arm emerged. His fingers curved into a claw, reaching for the Armsman’s neck.
The man gave a strangled gasp as the grip closed, both hands automatically reaching up to pry the grip away from his throat. Ionkovo yanked hard, and the Armsman stumbled backward a step, then another. Then one more step, through where the wall ought to have been, and he fell into his own rippling shadow. The dark silhouette remained for a moment longer, then faded silently away.
Ionkovo released the guard and let him fall, screaming, into the endless void that was the no-place between the shadows. He pulled himself back out into the real world, out in the corridor, and let out a long breath.
There were no doubt a number of locked doors between him and the outside world. But it was the middle of the night, and most of the lamps were dark. The Guardhouse crawled with shadows.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WINTER
The halls under the Vendre were dark and nearly silent. Up above, the courtyard was ablaze with lanterns and torches, as the celebrations which had been put briefly on hold by the daylong rain got back under way. Down here, no one had been relighting the candles as they flickered out, and the roar of humanity outside was reduced to a faint buzz.
All the cells but one were empty. There had been some argument over this-in addition to seditious printers and disloyal merchants, the prison had held plenty of ordinary thieves, housebreakers, smugglers, and other scoundrels. In the end, though, there had been no way to tell them apart, so the newly enlarged council had voted to throw all the doors open.
Winter led the way toward that last cell, marked by the single lantern that hung in front of it. Abby, padding behind her, carried their own lantern, and raised it in greeting to the guard on duty. “Guard,” in this case, was a generous term; it was one of Jane’s Leatherbacks, a pimply girl of fifteen, who went goggle-eyed when she recognized her two visitors.
“Uh. .,” she said, looking from Winter to Abby and back again. “Is something going on?”
“Jane wants them,” Winter said, hooking a finger at the cell and trying to look casual.
“Of course!” She blinked. “I mean. . nobody told me. .”
Abby leaned closer. “Principa. I’m telling you, all right?”
“Right.” The girl swallowed. “Let me get the door open.”
They waited while Principa fumbled with the key and dragged the cell open with a screech of rusty iron. The cells up here were clean, Winter noticed, and lacked the sludgy pools of standing water of the makeshift pens on the lower level. I suppose Orlanko believes in keeping a tidy dungeon.