The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (24 page)

Most of the mercenaries were up at the front of the column, struggling to clear and dismantle the barricade. Only a half dozen men remained around the carriage, while a good twoscore of Jane’s people were closing in on them. Their calls for help were drowned under the shouting from the fight up the street.

On the side of the carriage Winter and Jane were approaching, there were three thugs, plus the liveried coachman on the running board. One of the mercenaries took to his heels as soon as they emerged from cover, and the other two instinctively put their backs against the carriage and raised their cudgels. Winn was the first to reach them, armed with a long staff. It was obvious she’d done this sort of thing before; she came in with a yell, poking at the thug’s face, but when he came forward to meet her with a clumsy overhand blow she faded sideways and whipped the reverse end of the staff around into his ankles. He toppled with a screech, his weapon bouncing into the dirt.

Jane was not far behind her, ignoring both mercenaries and going straight for the carriage door. The second thug started to aim a swing at her back, but before it connected Walnut was on top of him. The big man grabbed the cudgel at the top of its arc and yanked it out of the thug’s hands, then hammered the mercenary against the carriage with one weighty fist.

By the time Winter had made it to the carriage, Jane had the door open. Steel gleamed in her hand as she did the trick with the knife again and dove inside, and an outraged shout swiftly turned into a scream. Winter spared a moment to look at the footman, who was clinging to the rail with his eyes closed and didn’t seem inclined to start trouble. One of the Leatherbacks had dragged the driver down from his box and taken the reins, trying to calm the skittish horses. Up the street, the sounds of the melee continued, although there
was more wooden crashing now than shouting. The barricade squad was supposed to have run for it once they heard Jane’s whistle.

A man appeared in the carriage door. He was tall and thin, in an elaborate black suit with tails and silver threading, covered over by a voluminous fur jacket. His hair was wild where his hat had been knocked away, and the silver line of a knife gleamed at his throat. Jane’s face came into view beside him, grinning savagely.

“After you, most honorable sir,” she said. “But slowly, if you please.”

A round of cheers went up from the Leatherbacks. Winter noticed some of the mercenaries from the front of the column drifting back to see what was going on. She ran back to Jane, who was prodding Bloody Cecil down to the street.

“Come on,” Winter said. “If we don’t get them to call this off soon, people are going to get killed.”

“You’ll all hang for this!” said Cecil, who was not entirely current on events. “I am a duly credentialed enforcer of the king’s taxes! This is rebellion against the crown!”

“Shut the
fuck
up,” Jane said, jabbing him hard in the ribs with her free hand. Cecil wilted. “You have no idea how much I would like to slit your throat right here. Now come on and say only what I tell you to say, you understand?”

Winter followed Jane toward the front of the convoy. The Leatherbacks had formed up between two of the carts, and the mercenaries were drifting into a rough line opposite them. A good deal of shouting was being exchanged, but thus far no actual blows. The thugs had the numbers, but they weren’t being paid to fight pitched battles. It didn’t help that Walnut was in the front line, hefting a stick the size of a fence post.

Jane pushed Cecil through the line, flanked by Winn and Walnut, with Winter bringing up the rear. A murmur ran through the mercenaries when they saw their employer in such a state. Jane’s grin widened.

“Listen up!” she said. “I want you all off the street in the next fifteen minutes. This expedition is over. Cecil, tell them.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Cecil shouted. “I am a
knight
of Borel! These scum would never dare harm me. Take them!”

Jane glanced at Winter and rolled her eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” she said. There were a few answering shouts
from the mercenaries, but mostly silence. “These are the Leatherbacks, and I’m
Mad
Jane. Do you really want to tell me what I wouldn’t dare to do?”

More muttering, on all sides, and a long silence from Cecil. Walnut passed the time by bending his enormous cudgel between his fists, so the wood creaked ominously.

“I think,” Cecil said, “we had better do as she says. After all, she is a known and dangerous criminal. I think—urk!”

“That’s about enough,” Jane said. “Quiet.”

The thugs were already taking Cecil’s advice. Beating up helpless families, or even brawling in the open with drunken dockworkers, that was one thing, but bringing a fight to an armed gang that meant business was quite another. And, as Winter heard one of them point out, they wouldn’t get paid
anyway
if their employer had his throat slit. Better to make the best of a bad business and get out without anything broken. In a few minutes, the street was empty, except for a few groaning casualties.

For a moment, the Leatherbacks looked at one another in stunned silence, not quite able to believe the ease of their triumph. Then someone raised a weak cheer. It was followed by a more energetic shout, then another, until the whole street was roaring with victory. Winter found herself surrounded by a crowd of smiling, yelling men, trying to shake her hand or clap her on the shoulder.

“Someone needs to help the injured,” she said. “And we should probably make sure all those thugs have really gone.”

Her voice was drowned under the tumult. Winter shrank back from the adulation, but behind her were only more excited Leatherbacks, who gripped her arms and screamed excitedly in her ear. Winter bit her lip, so hard that she drew blood, and twisted the hem of her shirt between clenched fingers.

Jane came to her rescue.

“I don’t know about
you
,” she shouted, cutting through the babble. “But
I
need a
drink
!”

—

A Leatherback named Motley, whose face was half-covered by a plum-colored birthmark, turned out to be the owner of a nearby watering hole. Casks of beer and barrels of wine were rolled out of the back room, an assortment of mugs and glasses were produced from somewhere, and the celebration commenced in earnest.

Winter was surprised to see the girls from Jane’s party joining in as heartily
as any of the dockworkers. Some of the men looked a little awkward around these women-in-men’s-clothing, but the majority seemed to take their behavior in stride. Chris, pale face flushed red with drink, already had a small court of admirers attempting to match her drink for drink, and Winter had spied Winn dragging a blushing younger Leatherback up the stairs in the back to some private rendezvous. Becca was playing a knife-throwing game in the corner, and by the clink of coins and the groans of the spectators doing rather well.

In truth, Winter could have done with a drink herself. She had to think hard to remember the last time she’d been truly drunk—in Ashe-Katarion, with Bobby and Feor, the night before the city burned. She’d happily have split a bottle with Jane, but the presence of all these strangers made her too nervous to do more than sip from a mug of beer, which in all fairness was quite awful.

Jane herself barely indulged. She sat at a table near the door, fielding congratulations and enthusiastic, table-slapping declarations of eternal gratitude, but she kept glancing between the street outside and the door to the storeroom. The latter was where they’d stashed Bloody Cecil, bound and gagged. As for the former, she’d sent one of her girls running back to check with Min for news of Abby, and no messenger had yet returned. It was obviously preying on her mind.

Winter received quite a few congratulations, too. More than her fair share, as she saw it. Jane had put it about that the whole plan had been her idea, when in fact she’d only contributed the ruse with the barricade and the idea of grabbing Cecil himself to end matters quickly.
And it’s not like that was a stroke of genius, either. Engaging an enemy in front while you turn his flank is about the oldest trick in the tactical book.
If Janus had been here, no doubt he would have somehow argued Cecil’s men into laying down their weapons and turning out their pockets.

In spite of her protests, the good wishes continued, growing increasingly incoherent as the night wore on. It was a warm summer night, and the air soon grew hot and smoky with the fire, the candles, and the close-packed heat of so many excited people. The smell of spilled beer mingled with the odor of unwashed bodies, smoke, and piss to produce an almost visible miasma. Winter felt herself passing into a bit of a daze as the excitement washed out of her, leaving her drained and shaky. She mechanically shook hands or accepted shoulder-buffeting clouts of endearment, nodding and smiling and pretending not to hear the questions about where she’d come from or how she knew Jane.

Movement by the door caught her eye, and she shook herself back to
wakefulness. The crowd had cleared out somewhat, some to weave their way to their homes, others to the upstairs rooms. A contingent of hard-core drinkers had pushed their tables together, and matters had degenerated into tavern songs. Winn and Chris were among them, belting out the lewd verses as loudly as anyone. In one corner Walnut sat with a young woman on his lap, lips locked and one of his broad hands exploring under the hem of her shirt. His size made her look like a doll by comparison.

And Jane had gotten up and gone to the storeroom. She emerged a moment later leading the gagged Cecil by his bound hands, and dragged him toward the front door. A few of the revelers noticed, and they shouted encouragement at her. Only Winter seemed to see Jane’s expression—not merry at all, but furious, and full of cold determination. As Jane headed out the front door, Winter struggled to her feet and went after her.

The air of the street outside was refreshing after the dense stink of the tavern. Jane had paused to change her grip to the back of Cecil’s coat, the better to prod him along, and she glanced over her shoulder when Winter emerged. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. She forced the tax farmer into motion, and Winter followed behind.

They walked for several minutes in silence, except for the occasional whimper and groan from Cecil. Jane answered these with vicious jabs, and eventually he kept up a steady pace. Before long they reached the broad mud-churned stretch of the River Road, which they had to pick a careful path across to avoid the puddles and mounds of dung.

On the other side, the Vor stretched calm and dark into the distance. The western tip of the Island was directly in front of them, a blaze of lights stretching high into the air. It took Winter a moment to see a silhouette, and when she did, she shivered; that was the crumbling spire of the Vendre, aglow tonight for who knew what sinister purpose of the Last Duke’s.

Upstream of the big piers where the cargo barges unloaded was an accumulation of smaller quays, knocked together from whatever bits of wood were at hand. These were home to the water taxis, smaller fishing vessels, and other little boats, and Jane steered Cecil in their direction. They clumped down across the muddy flood zone and out onto one of the piers. The far end was surrounded by a trio of deep-keeled rowboats tied to a post. Here Jane finally stopped and with a bit of effort forced Cecil to his knees.

Winter had watched all of this in silence, but she took a step forward when Jane’s knife appeared in her hand.

“Jane—”

“Quiet,” Jane said. There was something in her voice Winter hadn’t heard before. It was nearly a snarl. She bent over and cut the gag off Cecil, though she left his hands bound. “Bloody Cecil. You’ve had a nice long time to think about what you’ve done, haven’t you?”

Cecil took a few ragged breaths, then shuffled around on his knees so he could look up at Jane. “What do you want from me? Is it money? I can pay you whatever you want. Just don’t—” The knife was suddenly at his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Don’t kill me.”

“Jane,” Winter said. “What are you doing?”

“Winter, please shut up and listen. Cecil, do you remember a night in February, when your men came looking for salt taxes? They went into Vale’s preserved-fish shop and started smashing up the place.”

His eyes, terrified, darted from Jane to Winter and back again. “I don’t—I don’t remember! We’ve raided hundreds of shops. How am I supposed to remember each one—” It occurred to him that this might not be the best tack to take, and he clamped his mouth shut.

“Some of my people decided to put a stop to it,” Jane went on. “I think it was Becca who took them down there. Vale’s married to her older sister, you know. There wasn’t time to gather up anybody from the neighborhood, so they went down there themselves, just a dozen girls. I’m not sure Becca realized it was
your
people they were dealing with. The other tax farmers would back off if you said you were from Mad Jane’s place, but not your men. Not this time.

“Well. There was a bit of an altercation.” Jane grinned, showing her teeth. “A bit of a
fucking
fracas, you might say. Becca got her arm broken. The others got scrapes and bruises. It didn’t help Vale one bit, but otherwise, you might say we got off lightly. Except one of the girls didn’t get away. Somebody must have grabbed her, and when our people scattered, nobody noticed she was gone.

“We found her when we went to clean up in the morning. Your men had taken turns with her, half the night, it looked like. Then, when they were finished, they cut her throat like a hog and left her on a pile of rotting fish.”

Winter felt her fists clench tight. Jane’s voice was deceptively calm, but there was something tight underneath, like a gut string wound round over and over until it hums on the point of snapping.

“I . . .” Cecil hesitated. “You can’t mean . . . That wasn’t
my
fault. I didn’t tell them to kill anybody!”

“Her name was Sarah,” Jane said, her tone flat and dangerous. “She was
seventeen. She was one of mine. She had a copy of the
Wisdoms
that she read from every day, until it was practically falling apart. She liked to eat broccoli raw so it would still have some crunch. There was a boy she was sweet on, one of the fishermen’s sons, but I don’t think he knew she existed. She wanted to . . .” Jane’s voice cracked. “She was one of
mine
. And you raped her, cut her throat, and
tossed her into a pile of rotten fish
.”