The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (31 page)

“We knew that this morning, and it didn’t stop us.”

“That was then. Now everyone’s acting like we’ve already won.”

Jane frowned, then looked carefully at Winter. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Winter nodded, reluctantly.

“The Armsmen captain. It looked like you recognized him. Is that it?”

“His name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Winter said. “He commanded my battalion in Khandar.”

“Did you know him well?” Jane leaned forward eagerly. “Do you think you could talk to him for us? If we could make him understand—”

“What?” Winter blinked. “No! No, you don’t understand. He doesn’t know about”—she gestured down at herself, dressed in trousers like Jane but still marginally feminine—“about me. I couldn’t talk to him without explaining what I was doing here.”

“Sorry.” Jane shook her head. “I got ahead of myself.
Do
you know him, though?”

“A little bit. More from hearsay than anything else. We weren’t friends.”

“What’s he like?”

“Tough. Not the most imaginative soldier, but stubborn. When he was fighting on the Tselika, he was ready to slug it out to the last man rather than give up the position he’d been ordered to hold. And he practically worships the colonel.”

“The colonel?”

“Count Mieran. The Minister of Justice.”

“Ah.” Jane looked speculatively at the door. “So you think he has something up his sleeve.”

“Not . . . exactly. I just don’t think he’ll give up easily.”

“He gave up the wall, didn’t he?”

“He had the keep to fall back to. If we really push him into a corner . . .”

Winter saw the door splinter in her mind’s eye, collapsing inward, cheering Leatherbacks rushing over the wreckage. And, inside, a makeshift barricade of furniture studded with musket barrels, dozens of muzzle flashes, the merry zip and zing of balls ricocheting from stone and the
thwack
when they found flesh. The blood, and the screams.

“You really think he’d do it?” Jane said.

“He obviously doesn’t
want
to, or he’d have done it at the wall,” Winter said, trying to clear the nightmare vision. “Tactically, you’re right—it would have been a better move. But if the colonel has ordered him to hold Danton, then at some point he’ll have to fight.”

“Damn.” Jane glared at the door. It was odd to think that there were men behind it, as remote as though they were on the moon, besieged and besiegers separated by only a few feet of solid oak and iron. “We’ll try to negotiate, once we have the ram ready. Maybe we can convince him to see reason. But you know we’re running out of time. Somebody up
there
”—she jerked her head north, toward Ohnlei—“will have to do something eventually.”

“I know.” Winter let out a long breath. “There’s one bit of good news.”

“What’s that?”

“If Captain d’Ivoire is in charge in there, then Abby and the others are all right.”

Jane tried not to show it, but there was relief in her face. “You think so?”

“If they made it here in one piece, he’ll have made sure they stayed that way. The colonel once told me that when it comes to women, Captain d’Ivoire missed his calling as a knight-errant.”

Jane laughed out loud. “I suppose that
is
good news.”

If he
is
in charge.
Winter bit her lip. There had been men in black coats as well as Armsmen green on the battlements.

This line of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a young woman wearing one of the aprons that served the Leatherbacks as impromptu uniforms. Winter didn’t recognize her from Jane’s councils—a number of the wives and daughters of the dockmen had invited themselves along on the march, following the example of Jane’s hellions. Jane, pragmatic as ever, had deputized them and put them to work.

“Sir—that is—ma’am—Jane!” The girl was doubled over and out of breath, hands gripping her thighs. “I’ve got—a—”

“Give it a moment,” Jane said.

“Yes, sir.” The attempt at military airs made Winter smile; she wondered
if this girl had read some of the same books she had, before fleeing Mrs. Wilmore’s. When she’d gotten her breath back, the messenger straightened up. “There’s more people arriving in the street! Hundreds of them!”

Winter whistled. “I wouldn’t have thought there was anyone
left
in the Docks.”

“They’re not from the Docks,” the girl said. “Not
our
people. A lot of ’em look like nobs, though they don’t all dress like it. Viera said she thought they were from the University. They came down over Saint Hastoph Bridge.”

“Did they say what they wanted?” Jane said.

“They said they were here to help. A lot of ’em are talking about Danton.”

Danton.
Winter knew Jane had never had much use for the demagogue, but he had a considerable following among the dockmen.
And apparently on the Northside as well.

“Well,” Jane said, “I suppose we can always use more hands.” She glanced at Winter. “Maybe if we put a few respectable citizens in the front line, the Armsmen will be less likely to fire.”

“Beg your pardon, si—ma’am,” the girl interrupted, “but there were a bunch of them asking to see whoever was in charge here. One of ’em dressed real nice, too. I think he must be a count.”

“Well.” Jane straightened up, and a look passed between her and Winter. “We can’t keep
nobility
waiting, now, can we?”

RAESINIA

Alfred Peddoc sur Volmire had lost his reluctance about the march shortly after it began. It transpired that he had spent a couple of years at the War College before deciding a soldier’s career wasn’t for him, and that extensive martial training now apparently qualified him for leadership of what he persisted in referring to as “our campaign.” He’d even acquired a sword from somewhere, which he slashed through the air as he walked as if cutting his way through imaginary enemies.

He’d gathered around him a knot of others who had some pretensions to military expertise, or who had read a lot of books on the subject, or merely had become enthralled with the idea. They’d almost immediately started to argue about what to do next, but fortunately they weren’t so much leading the mob from the Dregs as they were being carried along by it, like a bubble on a stream. Everyone knew where they were going, after all, and the angled towers of the
Vendre were clearly visible once they’d cleared the final row of houses flanking Bridge Street.

Maurisk and Dumorre walked nearby, deeply engaged in an argument over whether a republic would serve its people better than a monarchy, and under which set of assumptions about human nature. Raesinia found herself walking with Faro, who had stuck to her like a shadow since they met outside the Gold Sovereign, and Cyte, the woman who with Dumorre represented the Radicals. Ahead, behind, and all around them, a flowing mass of humanity packed the road. The houses they passed were boarded up tight, the inhabitants either fled or cowering within. No Armsmen were in evidence.

Eventually Raesinia said, “Cytomandiclea?”

“Yes?” said Cyte. She’d been sweating, and the dark makeup around her eyes was starting to run, leaving streaky black lines on her cheeks where she’d wiped them.

“I mean, why? I’m assuming you picked the name.”

Cyte looked at her suspiciously, not sure if she was being made fun of.

“She was a queen of the Mithradacii,” Cyte said. “When all the other chiefs wanted to submit to the Vanadii, she fought them one after another in single combat and killed them all. Then she led her people against the Vanadii, men and women both. This was about a thousand years BK.”

“What happened?”

Cyte shrugged. “They were slaughtered. One of the Vanadii chiefs stabbed her and then they rode their chariots over her, again and again, until there was nothing left but bloody mud. All the Mithradacii men were executed, and the women and children were taken by the Vanadii as thralls. We’re all descended from them, you know. They say if you have blue eyes, you have Mithradacii blood in you somewhere.”

“That’s . . . quite a namesake. Do you ever wonder if the other chiefs might have been right to want to give in?”

Cyte shrugged again, looking a little uncomfortable. “It’s just a story. She might not even have really existed.”

“What’s your real name?”

Her eyes flashed fire. “That
is
my real name.”

“Sorry. I’m just curious.” Raesinia looked up ahead. The head of the crowd, with Peddoc at the tip, was just passing over the bridge to the Island. “I’m named after the princess, of course. Boring. I always wish I had a better story to tell.”

“The original Raesinia was a great woman,” Cyte said. “She was the older
sister of the last pagan king of Vordan. They say she could heal the sick and know by magic if someone was lying to her, and her brother made her the chief judge for the whole country.”

“What happened to her?”

Cyte sighed. “After the Conversion, she was executed as a sorceress by the Priests of the Black. After Farus IV threw out the Sworn Church, the Orboans decided she was a heroine and revived the name. They claim to be descended on one side from the old pagan kings.”

“I’d never heard that.”

“They don’t talk about it as much these days.” Cyte glanced sidelong at Raesinia, a slight flush showing on her cheeks. “Sorry to rattle on. Ancient history is my field.”

“You’re at the University?”

She nodded. “This is the end of my first year. And probably my last, if my father hears about this. But after hearing Danton speak, I couldn’t just sit in the library anymore.” She waved at the mass of people. “Look at this. This is happening
now
. It’s not some theoretical debate on the nature of government.” Her eyes flicked to Dumorre. “This is
real
. This is history, before it
is
history.” She smiled, and for a moment both her youth and the basic prettiness of her face under the severe hairstyle and smudged makeup showed through. “It’s like if Cytomandiclea decided to have her battle right outside my window, I couldn’t live with myself if I just stayed inside because I was afraid of getting hit by a stray arrow.”

Raesinia looked at her and wondered how she would feel if she knew that Danton was an illiterate with the brains of a child, and that every word of those speeches had been written by a few part-time conspirators in a back room of the Blue Mask. Or if she knew that Raesinia was deliberately fomenting this revolt against the government that she would—very soon now—be the nominal head of. Or if she knew that Raesinia wasn’t even
alive
, technically, but an abomination born of a demon’s magic, created by an alliance between the Last Duke and the Priests of the Black. Or—

She felt as though the layers of lies were dark water, rising all around her, thick and sludgy as syrup. It wouldn’t be long before they rose so high they closed over her head.

But then, I don’t really need to breathe, do I?

“Are you all right?”

“What?” Raesinia realized she’d been staring into space. “Oh yes. Sorry. Just thinking.”

“I’m sorry that your lover died. I don’t know if I had the chance to say that before.”

“Excuse me? You mean Ben?” Raesinia felt her own cheeks color. “He wasn’t—we didn’t . . . get that far. But thank you.”

“We’ll make the Last Duke pay for every—”

She stopped as Faro came over to them. They were at the footing of the bridge now, just a short walk from the Island. Saint Hastoph Street ran directly in front of the Vendre’s walls, and from this vantage Raesinia could see that it was already full of people. For a moment she wondered how the head of the column had gotten over so quickly; then the reality of the situation dawned.

Faro opened his mouth, but Raesinia pointed before he could speak. “Who are those people?”

“A mob from the Docks,” he said, after taking a moment to regain his composure. “And more, I think. Someone named Mad Jane led them here after the news got out that Danton was taken, and they’ve been laying siege to the Vendre.”

Cyte gave a shout of delighted surprise, and Raesinia felt a little weight lifting from her heart for the first time since she’d held Ben’s corpse in her arms.
The whole
city
is rising.
It might actually work, in spite of the blown timing and the ruined plans.
And then he won’t have died for nothing.

Faro didn’t look nearly so excited. “Peddoc started giving orders as soon as he arrived, and they aren’t very happy about it. Someone went to get this Jane and arrange a meeting. We need to get down there before he makes a complete ass of himself.”

Cyte shot Raesinia a conspiratorial glance and rolled her eyes.

“I strongly suspect,” Raesinia said, “that we may be too late.”

—

She was right. Before they arrived—indeed, before Faro had even gotten there with the news—Peddoc had managed to make an ass of himself, and by the time Raesinia and the others had shoved their way across the bridge and through the crowded streets to the outskirts of the prison, he’d contrived to turn what ought to have been a friendly meeting into something just a hair short of a brawl.

At the top of Saint Hastoph Street, where the bridge touched ground on the Island and the wall of the Vendre began, the column had come to a halt. This news had been slow to reach the rear of the mass, and so people were packing tighter and tighter onto the bridge to try to see the obstacle. Raesinia and Faro
had to push their way through, and Cyte, Maurisk, and Dumorre followed in their wake.

When they finally reached the head of the group, they found a narrow clear space separating the marchers from a crowd of dockmen and angry-looking young women, packed shoulder to shoulder across the street like a line of battle. In the space between the two sides, Peddoc and his coterie of militaristic admirers faced off against a huge man in a leather apron.

The confrontation was happening in plain view of the wall of the prison. Raesinia looked nervously to the parapet, and was reassured to see it was lined with more Docks rebels. The two lines were yelling incoherently at each other, and it was only once she broke free of the crowd and approached Peddoc that she could hear what was going on.