The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (33 page)

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “But I think it’s our best chance of avoiding a bloodbath. I . . .” He hesitated. “I’d like to suggest that I accompany her. If she can bring Mad Jane to a conference, better to have someone on the spot ready to talk to her.”

For a moment, Marcus wondered if Giforte planned to use the opportunity to take his daughter and escape.
But no, not him.
Whatever his hidden connections, reading all those records had drawn a clear picture of the man, and he would no more abandon men under his command than Marcus himself would. He gave a quick nod. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Giforte said. “Thank you, sir.”

—

Because there were no openings in the Vendre’s landward face, Marcus had to ascend to the tower at the opposite end of the fortress to get a view of the proceedings. Even here all the gun slits and embrasures faced the wrong way, toward the rivers, so he had to take the stairs all the way up and pry open an old trapdoor to make his way up to the roof. It was a narrow stretch of flagstones, swept by a continuous wind from the river and long abandoned even by the sentries. The waist-high parapet was crumbling, and big chunks of the mortar had come loose and fallen four stories to slide down the sloping roof of the lower fortress.

Marcus leaned against one of the solider-looking blocks, trying to ignore the tingling in the soles of his feet every time the wind caught in his coat. He badly wanted a spyglass. There was a particularly fine one in his office at the Ministry of Justice, in fact, but he hadn’t thought to bring it.

Far below, across the bulk of the fortress, Marcus could see the inner courtyard packed with rioters. Giforte had warned that it was no longer only dockmen in the mob, and even from this distance Marcus could see it was true. The crowd grouped up in tight bunches, as separate as oil and water, and while some of these wore the leather and gaudy colors of the South Bank workers, others had the darker, sober look of prosperity. Students, was Marcus’ guess. Danton’s speeches had always played well at the University.

He could tell by the reaction of the crowd when the big doors started to open. The mob took a few collective steps back in sudden shock. Then, seeing that this was not a desperate sortie, they surged back, and the background roar increased dramatically in volume. After a few moments a knot of people began to force its way out into the courtyard. Marcus could only guess that Giforte and his daughter were in the center.

The trapdoor gave a long, anguished scream of unoiled hinges. Marcus looked over his shoulder as Captain Ross came into view, his heavy boots clomping on the narrow wooden stairs. He was followed by a pair of musket-armed Concordat men. Marcus said nothing until all three had emerged onto the roof, their leather coats flapping like flags in the wind.

“Captain,” Marcus said.

“Sir,” Ross said. “Enjoying the view?”

Marcus raised his eyes beyond the courtyard. The sun was still an hour from the horizon, but the towers of the Vendre threw a long shadow across the Island, like the gnomon of a monstrous sundial. Already lanterns and torches glowed like tiny sparks in the courtyard, while in the streets beyond, the sullen glow of bonfires lit up the facades of the buildings and gleamed from the few unbroken shopwindows.

“Not really,” Marcus confessed.

He looked back down at the courtyard. Someone had established a kind of order, clearing a ring around Giforte and Abby, who were now identifiable in the mob. They shared the space with a flock of young women, who were fighting with one another in an effort to be the first to hug Abby. An emotional reunion was apparently in progress.

“You released her.” Ross followed his eyes. “One of
my
prisoners.”

It wasn’t a question. Marcus supposed he’d gotten the story from the guards downstairs.

“I didn’t release her. I paroled her, on my own responsibility, to attempt to negotiate with the leaders of the riot.” Marcus pushed himself away from the parapet and turned to face Ross. “And as
I
am in command here, she was one of
my
prisoners, Captain.”

“Of course.” Ross’ lip quirked. “And what do you hope to accomplish with this . . . negotiation?”

“To see if there is any mutually acceptable way of settling their grievances, and to buy time for the Cabinet to come up with a solution.”

“Some would say that an offer to negotiate is an admission of weakness.”

Marcus shrugged. “You said yourself, Captain, that we could hold off an army here. What’s the harm in keeping them talking?”

“None.” Ross’ eyes went cold. “Provided you actually mean to fight when the time comes.”

“When the time comes—”

“Let me tell you what I think,” Ross interrupted. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked thoughtfully out at the river. “I think you are a coward. I think you have no intention of doing your duty and defending this fortress. I think you are ‘buying time,’ as you put it, to prepare for your personal escape while you leave the rest of the garrison and the prisoners to fall into the hands of the mob.”

Marcus felt as though he’d been hit in the face by a bucket of cold water. He’d grown used to the gibes of the Concordat officer, but—

“I suggest,” he growled, “that you retract that statement.”

“Why? It’s only the truth. Or do you deny that your men are preparing boats for a getaway across the river?”

“Captain Ross,” Marcus said, raising his voice. “You are relieved of your command, and I’m placing you under arrest for insubordination.”

Ross glanced over his shoulder. One of the two Concordat men was staring down at the scene in the courtyard, but the other raised his musket to his shoulder and thumbed back the hammer. The barrel pointed squarely at Marcus’ chest.

There was a long silence.

I should have expected that.
God knew Ross had given him no grounds for
trust. But this wasn’t the Khandarai desert, with thousands of miles of sand and ocean between them and the Ministry of War. This was
Vordan
, where laws were supposed to mean something.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Marcus said, “you’re going to regret it.”

“I very much doubt that.” Ross held out his hand, and after a long moment Marcus unbuckled his sword and handed it across. “His Grace always protects those who act in his interests.”

“As does my lord the Minister of Justice.”

“By the time this is over, I doubt Count Mieran will have much say in the matter.” Ross turned to his second man. “Ranker Mills, what do you think?”

“Call it eighty yards,” the man said, unstrapping his weapon. “No problem.”

It wasn’t a musket he was carrying, Marcus saw now. It was a longer-barreled weapon, slightly narrower, with a complex iron mechanism above the stock. A military rifle, he guessed. Probably one of the infamous Hamveltai Manhunters.

“Ranker Mills is an excellent shot,” Ross said. “Once this Mad Jane shows herself, we’ll have an excellent chance to dispose of her. It may break the morale of the mob entirely.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Marcus hissed. “They’re not going to break. They’ll rush the door—”

“And we’ll be ready for them,” Ross said. “My men have the mortar in place, and we’re well barricaded. It will be a slaughter.”

He sounded pleased at the prospect. Marcus turned frantically back to the courtyard, where another group was working its way through the press to join Giforte and Abby. Jane and her companions, he assumed. Mills sighted carefully, tweaking the back sight of his rifle.

It was probably too far for anyone to hear him, but it was worth a try. Marcus cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

“Giforte! Jane! Up here—it’s—”

A musket butt slammed against his jaw, slamming his teeth together with a
clack
and filling his head with shooting stars. He stumbled backward, grabbing at the parapet for support, and ended up flopping to the flagstones when his legs refused to support him. The Concordat musketeer stood above him, weapon raised for another blow.

“Not very smart,” Ross commented. “Pick him up.”

Marcus’ head swam as they dragged him to the stairs. More Concordat men were waiting down below to take hold of his feet and lower him like a sack of potatoes. As they bound his hands behind his back and dragged him away, he heard the sharp
crack
of the rifle.

WINTER

“I think,” Winter said, “that getting them started tearing down buildings may have been a mistake.”

“We needed a timber for the ram,” Jane said. “Besides, I didn’t tell them to—”

She was interrupted by a drawn-out crash as the second story of an engraver’s shop leaned drunkenly out over the street, wobbled, and collapsed into a pile of broken beams and brick dust. A cheer rose from the crowd, and before the rubble had settled, looters were swarming over the wreckage. Larger groups milled around, uncertain what to do next, until someone shouted that a handsome marble-fronted building up the street was the headquarters of a Borelgai fur importer. With a shout, the mob rushed in that direction.

“I didn’t tell them to start pulling down the whole damned street,” Jane finished, lamely. She gave a halfhearted shrug. “What am I supposed to do?”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Rescuing Abby and the others was my idea. Not all this . . .” She waved one arm to encompass the carnival of destruction and shook her head, at a loss for words.

Winter felt as though she should have been horrified, or even terrified, but a night without sleep and the stress of worrying about Jane made her simply numb. The rescue mission—or mob, or riot, or revolution, whatever it was—had grown beyond any possibility of control; that much was clear. She could feel the circle of her cares contracting, as it had done in Khandar when the Redeemer cavalry had come over the rise. The regiment, the country, the city, and even Janus would have to look out for themselves. Winter only had enough energy to concern herself with what was within arm’s reach.

That meant, primarily, Jane. She’d been bouncing from one extreme to the other, alternating between a strange, manic energy and moments of black, vicious temper. The exhaustion Winter was feeling had to be a hundred times worse for her, with everyone looking to her for answers. Winter remembered all too well how draining
that
could be.

Another crash, from farther down the street, barely registered. The mob had quickly learned the best technique for demolition: a rope, tied tight around key beams, could be tossed out into the street and drawn by hundreds of hands until the whole front of a building came crashing down. Other groups were wandering about with sacks of broken bricks, looking for unshattered windows, or collecting scraps of wood to feed to the bonfires. Anything associated with the Borelgai or the duke was the target of special ire, and Winter had watched furious rioters feed thousands of eagles’ worth of fur or fine fabrics to the flames.

Jane’s Leatherbacks brought in scraps of information, but their picture of what was going on outside the immediate area was sketchy. The Armsmen had rallied on the east side of the Island, protecting the Sworn Cathedral and the bridges to the Exchange. As best Winter could tell, they seemed uninterested in challenging the mob west of Farus’ Triumph, in spite of a few attempts by the North Bank rabble-rousers to gather a force to attack them, and she was happy to leave them be.

The sun was disappearing behind the buildings of the western skyline. Jane half turned, attention caught by some distant act of destruction, and its orange light caught her hair and made it shine like beaten gold. For a moment the sight of her took Winter’s breath away.

“I didn’t want this,” Jane repeated. The shadow of the buildings reached out for her, snuffing out the fire in her hair, and she crossed her arms and looked down. “I just wanted . . .”

“I know.” Winter slipped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right.”

Jane turned her head away. “I should never have let her go. Fucking Danton. I should have known.”

“There’s no way you could have known today was going to be the day Orlanko would bring the boot down,” Winter said. “But it’s
all right
. They’ll be fine.”

“What if they aren’t?” Jane’s jaw tightened. “What if they’ve hurt her? Or if she’s . . .”

“I trust Captain d’Ivoire,” Winter repeated. “He won’t let anything happen to Abby or the others.”
Though God alone knows who’s going to protect
him
when we get to storming the place.

Jane nodded, miserably, and took a shaky breath. She took Winter’s hand in hers and squeezed. “Balls of the fucking Beast. I’m glad you’re here.”

They stood for a long moment in companionable silence, broken by the
crackle of bonfires and the shuddering crunch of collapsing buildings. There was a distant scream, suddenly cut off. Jane frowned.

“At least the Borels had the good sense to run away when they saw us coming,” Winter said. “Along with everybody else.”

That got a weak chuckle. It wasn’t strictly true, of course, and Winter suspected Jane knew it as well. Most of the buildings on the Island were shops or businesses, whose inhabitants had indeed fled at the approach of the mob, and the few residences were mostly abandoned as well. Jane had even used her Leatherbacks to conduct a few families to safety. Now, with the arrival of the Dregs contingent and thousands more from the Docks and the other poor quarters of the city, matters had gotten out of hand.
Most
of the inhabitants had fled, but Winter had carefully steered away from some groups of rioters who looked as though they’d been engaged in more than mere drunken destruction. Here and there, pathetic bundles hung from the lampposts, like gory decorations. Winter tried to keep Jane pointed in the other direction.
She doesn’t need any more on her conscience.

“We should get back,” Jane said. “They must be nearly done with the ram by now.”

“I wish you’d take the chance to sleep.”

“You think I could
sleep
?”

Winter shrugged. “
I
could. It’s been almost two days.”

“That must be your soldier’s instincts.” Somehow they’d shifted to walking arm in arm, like a young couple strolling out for a night on the town. “Can I ask you something?”