The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (51 page)

Winter gripped Jane’s shoulders so tightly she was sure it hurt. She broke away from the kiss and bit her lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood.

“Are you all right?” Jane said.

“I think . . .” Winter ran her tongue across suddenly dry lips and took a deep breath. “I think we should go to your room.”

“My—” Jane blinked. “It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“Jane. Look at me.” Winter caught her eyes and held them. “I’m all right.”

—

“You realize,” Winter said, “that this doesn’t solve any of your problems.”

They lay in Jane’s big bed, side by side. Winter felt trembly, boneless, as though she could dissolve into a puddle. A draft from the window played across her, pebbling her bare skin.

“We could leave,” Jane said. “You and me. Leave the city, leave all of this. Go to Mielle, or Nordart.” She grinned. “Or back to Khandar. You could show me the sights.”

Winter laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“No.” Jane sighed. “I suppose I don’t.” She looked sidelong at Winter. “You’ll help me?”

“I’ll try,” Winter said. Something had been working its way to the top of her mind, like a bubble rising to the surface of a pond. “And, actually, I think I have an idea.”

—

Winter slept better that night than she had since the fall of the Vendre, feeling light and almost hollow, as if some barrier deep inside her had been broken to
let a buildup of accumulated muck drain away. When she woke up the next morning, Jane still pressed tight against her, her head felt clear.

After wandering down to the great hall to find something to eat, Winter returned to Jane’s room to find Abby fussing with Jane’s formal outfit. Any remaining hint of jealousy at seeing the two together was quashed by the look of almost pathetic gratitude on Abby’s face. Jane looked like her old self, full of energy, pacing back and forth as Abby laid out dark trousers, a gray waistcoat, and a coat that would have done credit to a prosperous merchant. Winter was impressed, and said so.

“You said I ought to dress the part,” Jane said.

“I wasn’t expecting you to have much on hand,” Winter said.

Abby blushed. “I got most of it ready last night. I didn’t think she ought to go to the deputies looking like . . .” She glanced up at Jane and coughed. “Like she usually does.”

“I still don’t think they’ll listen to me,” Jane said. “Why should they?”

“Because they’re running out of other choices,” Winter said. “You’ve heard the news, I take it?”

The news
had seeped into the city, sometime last night, diffusing through the streets in the curious way that rumor had. It was as though everyone had learned it in a dream, and on waking only confirmed it with everyone else.

The news
was that Orlanko’s forces had broken camp. Seven thousand Royal Army regulars were on the march for Vordan. Counting the time it had taken the scouts to return with this information, it could only be another two days, perhaps three, before the Last Duke’s men were at the gates.

Winter had expected panic, but when she and Jane left the building in the company of Walnut and a dozen armed Leatherbacks, the streets remained deserted. If anything, they were emptier than the night before, and Winter did not see another living soul out of doors until they reached the Grand Span. There small groups had gathered, a drifting current of humanity that flowed north, over the bridge and across the river. On the Island side, it met and merged with several smaller streams, bearing Winter, Jane, and their small group like a bubble on a stream. It was like a daylight replay of the march on the Vendre, but with no torches, no weapons, and none of the same sense of purpose. These people were frightened, not angry, and they didn’t know what to do.

The stream entered Farus’ Triumph on the south side, spreading out past the shuttered cafés. A large crowd had already gathered, forming a ring centered on the northwest corner of the square, where something seemed to be
happening. Winter could see a single horseman moving about, above the heads of the crowd, and as they got closer she recognized his gaudy uniform.
Peddoc
.

“The deputies have failed us!” he was saying, his voice sounding thin above the murmur of the crowd. “There are good men in the chamber, but also fools, cowards, and even traitors. And there is no time now to sort the ore from the dross! That’s why I’m calling on all true men of Vordan to do what must be done. Step forward! Be counted!”

By this point, Jane’s escort of Leatherbacks had cleared a way through the crowd, and Jane and Winter could get a good view. Peddoc sat on the back of a stunning gray-and-white stallion, spurs gleaming, saddle every bit as polished and embroidered as his uniform. He rode at a slow walk around the edges of the clear space, holding the reins in one hand and gesturing with the other.

Behind him was a block of armed men, doing their best imitation of soldiers at attention. Some of them—mostly those who wore the green-edged sashes of Patriot Guard loyal to the Monarchists—managed reasonably well, although the spacing between ranks and files was ragged. Others seemed to have been grabbed off the street and issued whatever weapons were on hand. In addition to muskets, Winter saw shotguns and hunting pieces, pikes, ancient halberds, and crude spears.

More weapons rested in a great pile on a tarpaulin beside a couple of well-dressed men wearing black deputy’s sashes. From time to time a man would break free of the edge of the crowd—sometimes pushed by those around him, sometimes breaking free of attempts at restraint—and make his way forward. The men in the ranks sent up a cheer each time this happened, which was echoed, a bit more weakly, by the crowd. The new volunteers reported to the two deputies, who issued them whatever weapon was on top of the pile and sent them to stand with the others.

“What the
hell
does he think he’s playing at?” Jane said.

“He’s going to march them against Orlanko,” Winter said. It was idiocy, but it was the only thing she could think of. “He’s been threatening to raise a force on his own for days, since the deputies wouldn’t give him one. The news must have forced his hand.”

“Balls of the Beast,” Jane swore. “He’s taking
this
lot?”

“Apparently. There may be more mustering in Northside.” Winter counted the ranks with a practiced eye. Peddoc had assembled a thousand men, perhaps a bit more.

“Has he got a chance?”

“Against regulars?” Winter thought about the peasant horde, trying to storm the Vordanai line at the Battle of the Road, breaking in a welter of blood in the face of disciplined volleys of musketry and canister. “Not a prayer. Come on. We have to get to the Vendre.”

—

They sent the Leatherbacks away once they reached the fortress-prison, now garrisoned by the Patriot Guard. The gates stood open, and the courtyard was a mass of confusion. Patriot Guards of both colors rushed about, talked in small groups, or shouted at one another. Winter guessed that Peddoc had sent instructions for the Guard to join his ranks, while the deputies issued contradictory orders. Judging by the ratio of colored sashes she could see, most of the Greens had sided with Peddoc, while the Reds were remaining at their posts.

No one stopped the two young women as they wandered through the courtyard, past the main door, and back to the main staircase. Jane gave a shudder as they passed over the threshold.

“I was hoping like hell I was done with this place,” she said.

“Likewise,” Winter said. “At least this time I get to come in the front door.”

“And it’s not full of black-coats.”

“That, too.”

Whatever one thought about Duke Orlanko, his Concordat had certainly made more effective watchmen than their replacements. Winter and Jane walked up the stairs without anyone giving them more than an odd look. On the upper levels, the confusion was less apparent, and at least the cells were each watched by a guardsman. Not knowing what floor they were bound for, Winter eventually collared a young Red and asked for directions, which he stammered out without thinking to ask who the visitors were and what they were doing.

“This is ridiculous,” Winter said, as they climbed toward the third floor. “We could break someone out of this place with a gang of eight-year-olds.”

Jane rolled her eyes in agreement. They walked down a short corridor and stopped in front of the door they wanted, which was guarded by an older man wearing a red-striped sash. He straightened up when he caught sight of them, bringing his musket to his shoulder and trying to pull in his sagging belly.

“We need to speak to the prisoner,” Winter said, as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Ah . . . ,” he managed.

“Deputies’ business,” she deadpanned.

He nodded. “I . . . that is . . . whose business, exactly?”

“I’m Deputy Winter Ihernglass,” Winter said. “And this is Deputy Jane Verity.”

The first name obviously meant nothing to him, but the second brought him up short. “Jane Verity? You mean Mad Jane?” His eyes flicked to Jane. “That’s
her
?”

“That’s right,” Jane said, smiling in a way that was not particularly friendly. “Mad Jane.”

He was sweating, but he managed a salute and started fumbling for his keys. “Let me get the door open, sir. Ma’am. Miss.”

The room beyond was less a cell than a small bedroom, with a narrow gun slit for light and a worn but serviceable bed, desk, table, and chairs. At the desk sat Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, looking a little bit worse for wear. His uniform was creased and sweat-stained, his beard was ragged, and his cheeks carried a week’s worth of stubble. Winter’s stomach did a nervous flip at the sight of him, and before he could look up she grabbed Jane’s arm and pulled her away from the door and the guard.

“You remember what I told you, right?” Winter whispered urgently. “About me.”

“I think so,” Jane said. “He knows you’re
you
, but he thinks that you’re dressed up as a girl to fool
me
.” She smiled wickedly. “Maybe he’s right, and you’re just doing a
hell
of a job—”

“I know it’s ridiculous, all right? Just . . . don’t say anything. I’ll work it all out later.”

“Does he know that I know that he knows you are who he thinks you are?” Jane cocked her head, trying to think about that, and went cross-eyed. “Never mind. I’ll be good.”

“All right.” Winter took a deep breath, smoothed her shirt, and stepped into the room. Jane followed and closed the door behind her.

“Good . . . morning,” Marcus said, slowly. He looked from Winter to Jane, obviously trying to work his way through the same mental gyrations as Jane had done a moment earlier, and wondering what he should admit to knowing.

Winter decided she would never laugh at the plot of those penny-opera farces again. She gritted her teeth for a moment, then said, “Hello, Captain. This is Jane Verity. She knows I’m with the army, so speak freely.”

“I see.” Marcus blinked and scratched his ragged beard. “All right. Hello, Ihernglass, Jane.” He paused. “You wouldn’t be this ‘Mad’ Jane that everyone—”

“That’s me,” Jane said. “I think we met the last time I was in this place, but I don’t blame you for being preoccupied.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Marcus said. “I’m assuming you’re not just here to check on me? There seems to be some kind of commotion outside.”

“Do you get any news in here?” Winter said.

“Not much. The guards let things slip sometimes, but it’s mostly rumor.”

Winter gave him a condensed explanation of what had been happening at the Deputies-General in the week since the queen’s surrender. Jane also listened with interest, adding a few colorful expletives and comments on the situation in the Docks. By the end, Marcus was shaking his head.

“Saints and martyrs,” he said. “I never thought it would get so bad.”

“It gets worse,” Winter said. “This morning we got the news that Orlanko’s left Midvale with the Royal Army troops quartered there. Peddoc is out in the square right now gathering a force to go and meet him.”

“To
meet
him? He must be crazy.” Marcus glanced at the window, which looked to the north, out over the river. “Assuming the regulars will fight—”

“I think they will,” Jane said. “At least, if we meet them armed, in an open field.”

“So do I,” Marcus said grimly. “It’s going to be a slaughter.”

“I had a plan,” Winter said. “I thought we might be able to persuade the deputies to name
you
commander of the Guard, if Jane threw her weight behind you. A lot of people remember the way you acted at the Vendre, how you protected the prisoners. But Peddoc seems to have stolen a march on us.”

“Peddoc,” Marcus said to himself. “I knew a Peddoc at the College. Count Volmire’s son. It’s not him out there, is it?”

“I think so,” Winter said.

“Hell. He was always a twit. Never made it through his lieutenancy.”

“Now he’s claiming command of the Guard based on his ‘military experience,’” Jane put in.

There was a glum silence.

“What the hell do we do now?” Jane said.

“The deputies obviously can’t stop Peddoc from leaving,” Winter said. “Or they would have already. Once he’s gone, though . . .”

“You think you can convince them to put Captain d’Ivoire in charge of the leftovers?”

Marcus held up his hands. “I’m touched by your confidence, but I’m not sure what you want me to
do
.”

“I thought . . .” Winter took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sensation of the plan that had seemed so good this morning crumbling around her ears.
“If we could train the Guard, properly, I mean, we might be able to keep Orlanko out of the city.”

“Vordan won’t stand a siege,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Too many mouths to feed, and there aren’t any
defenses
.”

“Then what? Just give up?”

Marcus shrugged. “It’s a possibility. Speaking as someone who’d probably lose his head, I’m against it.”

Winter glanced at Jane, and her lips tightened. Speaking of people who would lose their heads . . .

“I’m open to suggestions,” she said.

“Look. We both know that even if you’d managed to put me in charge, I wouldn’t be able to stop Orlanko.” He paused. “And we both know that if you
did
want to try, there’s only one person I’d put money on.”