The pamphleteer looked around conspiratorially, then shrugged. “Supposed to be Durenne, the Minister of War. Not much of a likeness, if you ask me.”

“No,” Marcus said. He frowned. “What’s he done to get the Conservatives so mad?”

“He’s the closest thing the Radicals have to a leader, and he’s on the Directory. Some people says he’s a spy for the Borels, or the Sworn Church, or somebody.” The man shrugged again. “Like I said, I just sell ’em. You want that one?”

Marcus gave the pamphleteer a couple of pennies, but left the cartoon under its stone paperweight. There had been plenty of politics when he was at the War College, of course, but after his exile to Khandar his life had been blessedly free of it. The Colonials never attracted anyone with any ambition, and there had been a brutal simplicity to their relationship with the Khandarai, at least until the rise of the Redeemers.

Now, though, politics in Vordan City had risen to a new and deadly level, and Janus had plunged him into the middle of it, right where he felt least prepared to be. Marcus sighed and turned his steps over the bridge. The Preacher’s right. I ought to be out in the field. Here he felt trapped, useless. Surely Janus must have someone better for this than me?

Maybe, he thought morosely, he just wants to keep me out of the way.

*   *   *

Marcus’ black mood had not lifted by the time he returned to Twin Turrets. He acknowledged the salutes of the Mierantai guards with a grunt and stalked into the grand dining room, where Janus’ imported servants laid simple but vast meals for the garrison. It was a bit late for lunch, but there was always something left over.

Ordinarily, the hall would be empty by this hour—the Mierantai servants were very punctual—but today Marcus found one end of the big table occupied by the Queen of Vordan, dressed boyishly in a linen vest and trousers, wolfing down a plate of eggs and sausage while leafing through a stack of broadsheets and pamphlets.

“Marcus!” she said, swallowing hastily. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Marcus swore silently. “I’m sorry, Your—Raes.” She scolded him every time he used her title. “I should have left word where I was going.”

Raesinia waved a hand dismissively. She held up a pamphlet, which to Marcus’ horror bore the same cartoon he’d seen earlier, with Maurisk defending a weeping Vordan.

“Is this supposed to be me, do you think?” she said.

Marcus kept his face wooden. “I really couldn’t say.”

“I think it is. The hair’s about right.” She frowned. “Not much of a likeness, really. I haven’t got that much . . . chest.”