The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARCUS

The gray light of dawn filtered into Saint Hastoph Street, dispelling the shadows. With them went Marcus’ hope that the fires that had glowed all night outside the walls might be some kind of bluff. The mob, glimpsed as specters amid a sea of torches, gained an alarming solidity, a mass of people spreading from shore to shore of the narrow island and stretching back through the side streets toward Farus’ Triumph. Marcus estimated there were several thousand he could see, and who knew how many more hadn’t been able to push to within sight of the walls.

It was Fort Valor all over again, except instead of a few battalions of Royal Army musketeers and a half battery of artillery, Marcus had forty-odd badly frightened Armsmen and a contingent of guards from the Ministry of Information of highly dubious reliability. And the mob below showed none of the Khandarai reluctance to attack-Marcus could see a half dozen ladders already under construction, and the men on the parapets had to duck bricks and other missiles.

The outer wall of the Vendre was a good thirty feet high, so it took a strong arm to loft a brick over the top of it. There were plenty of strong arms down there, though, and one of the Concordat men had already suffered a broken arm, while one of Marcus’ had nearly been knocked from his perch by a ballistic cabbage. At least here, unlike at Fort Valor, there was a proper fire step, so the men could crouch behind the parapet and be shielded from below.

For all its sinister reputation, the Vendre was as obsolete a fortress as Fort Valor had been. Originally built to supplement the water batteries that were Vordan’s primary defense against a river-borne attack from the south, its seaward walls were thick and honeycombed with embrasures. The landward fortifications were something of an afterthought, a simple stone wall to enclose an inner court and provide an outer line of defense. When the dawn of modern artillery had spelled the doom of stone-walled forts all across the continent, the Crown had turned it over to the civil authorities, who had put it to work as a prison.

Marcus’ current troubles hinged on a technicality. As a prison, the Vendre was under the command of the Minister of Justice and the Armsmen, and as captain of Armsmen Marcus ranked anyone in that organization except for Janus himself. However, the Armsmen had long ago seconded use of the structure to the Minister of Information, and so the everyday command and garrison of the place was drawn from the ranks of the Concordat.

The man who now presented himself to Marcus was, therefore, nominally under his command. He wore a captain’s bars at his collar himself, however, and his look and bearing said that he considered Marcus, at best, an equal. He wore a curious outfit, something like a Royal Army officer’s uniform but in black instead of blue, with silver buttons and trim, and covered by one of the black leather greatcoats of which the Concordat was so fond. He offered no salute, and Marcus gave him none in return.

“Sir,” the man said. His face said that he considered this quite enough of a concession. “I apologize that I was unable to meet with you earlier.”

“It’s quite all right,” Marcus said. “We’ve all had a busy night. I’m Marcus d’Ivoire, captain of Armsmen.”

“Yes, sir. Captain James Ross, at your service.”

“May I ask to what unit you belong, Captain Ross?”

“Ministry of Information, Special Branch. Sir.”

“Special Branch. I see.” Marcus had never heard of such a thing, but he’d been away from Vordan a long time. “How many men do you have here?”

“Seventy-eight in total, sir. I need a few to watch the prisoners, but I can spare at least forty for the walls.”

That was as many men as Marcus had in total, which made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the thought of being in the power of this “captain” with his black coat and his shiny boots. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to a fight.”

Ross glanced out into the street, noting the ladders. “Small chance of that, I think. But we shouldn’t have any trouble.” He looked thoughtful. “In fact, I’d wager if I put a dozen sharpshooters up here, we could make the street too hot for them. Rabble never have any stomach for casualties. Shall I send for them?”

“No, Captain.” Marcus frowned. “Let me make myself clear. Our duty is to secure the prison and the prisoners, not to end the riots. I fully expect the Minister of Justice and the rest of the Cabinet will resolve these difficulties soon. Until they do, we will make every effort to avoid bloodshed of any kind.”

Ross’ eyes were hooded. “I understand, sir.”

“How many prisoners do you have at present?” Giforte had put Danton in a room in the tower, but Marcus hadn’t yet had a chance to visit the dungeons. Concordat wagons had been coming and going all night, until the mob outside had blocked the streets. Marcus and his small contingent from the Guardhouse had nearly been too late; they’d slipped in just before Ross barred the gates. Marcus guessed he was now regretting waiting so long. He looked like a man used to being in charge.

“We don’t have an exact count, sir, but I’d say a bit over five hundred. We’ve got the men separated out from the women and children, and everything’s under control.” Ross caught the look on Marcus’ face and misunderstood it. “Don’t worry, sir. We know how to manage our affairs here.”

“Why, exactly, do we have children in the dungeons?”

“Couldn’t say, sir. Not my place to ask. Every group was properly signed for by Ministry authorities.” He ventured a sickly smile. “I just keep them behind bars, sir.”

Marcus glanced down at the ladders. It would be another hour or so at least before they were prepared to make an assault, if that was what they were planning.

“Would you take me to the keep, Captain Ross?” he said. “I think I should make an inspection.”

The keep was an irregular, lopsided structure, several stories high where it faced the water but only a single story aboveground on the landward side. Men in Concordat black lined the parapet above the ironbound doors, armed with muskets and swords. They all straightened up and saluted at Ross’ approach, like a line of scarecrows.

Inside, the first floor was largely open. It had once been laid out with rows of long wooden tables and benches, to provide Orlanko’s scribblers with somewhere to do their paperwork, but at some point in last night’s confusion these had all been pushed to one side or stacked. Scraps of paper and pools of spilled ink were scattered across the stone floor.

“Normally we admit prisoners through a postern gate, or through the water gate,” Ross explained, as he led the way to the staircases at the rear. “With the volume we received last night, we had to start bringing them right down the main staircase. I apologize for the mess.” His eyes flicked upward as they passed the ascending steps. “That leads to the tower rooms, where your man Giforte is holding Danton. Down this way is the dungeon.”

Marcus stopped and bent to examine something caught in a crack between two flagstones. It was a tiny book, a child’s version of the Wisdoms with large print and engravings. It had gotten soaked, and the back cover and half the pages were gone. Marcus pried the sad little thing up and looked at it thoughtfully.

“Sir?” Ross said, looking over his shoulder.

“It’s nothing.” Marcus pocketed the book. “Lead on.”

More black uniforms stopped and saluted on the steps. The air smelled of leather and shoe polish, and, as they descended, increasingly of damp stone and mud. The stairs came to a wide landing, and Ross waved a hand.

“Is there anything in particular you want to see, sir? There are three levels of cells here. The first are the old dungeons, where we keep the usual prisoners, and-”

“Where have you put the people who came in last night?”

“On the lowest level,” Ross said, and started down again. “We don’t normally use it, because of the damp, but there’s a lot of space. It was originally meant to be a powder magazine, but it’s below the level of the river, so no one has ever been able to figure out a way to keep it completely dry.”

Marcus felt a bit like a hero in a fairy tale, descending into some hell to battle the minions of darkness. The stairs wound down and down, lit at regular intervals by oil lamps. Ross’ promised damp soon appeared, in puddles on the steps and a slimy film on the walls. Here and there, tiny clusters of mushrooms had emerged.

When they reached the bottom landing, a three-man detail was waiting for them. Their leader ignored Marcus, saluted Ross, and said, “I’m glad you’re here, sir. There’s been a bit of an altercation. The prisoners found out that one of the men was a Sworn Church deacon, and some of them tried to beat him.”

Ross frowned. “I should see to this, sir. Do you want to join me?”

“I’d like to see the women’s quarters, if you don’t mind.”

There was a look on Ross’ face that Marcus didn’t like. “Of course, sir. Lieutenant Valt, would you show the captain the way?”

Valt was taller and stockier than Ross, but uniformed with the same attention to detail. He, at least, saluted smartly, and led Marcus at a quick pace through the murky corridor. Watching him splash through the puddles, Marcus wondered how much effort it took every morning to keep those boots shiny. Where does the duke find all these eager young inquisitors?

“They’re in here, sir.” They turned a corner onto another corridor, with three doors on either side. Each door was flanked by a pair of guards, and there was a shuffling and a flapping of coats as they all turned to salute. “Each of these rooms has a couple of dozen.”

“You don’t have individual cells for them?”

He shrugged. “All the cells are occupied. This is the overflow. Once things quiet down, I imagine they’ll be moved elsewhere.”

Marcus nodded, trying to look thoughtful, and walked down the corridor. As he passed the second door, he heard a thin sound that might have been a scream, heavily muffled by wood and stone.

“This one,” Marcus said. “Open it.”

The guards looked at Valt, who nodded. When the door was unlocked, it revealed a small room whose floor was a single enormous puddle. Steady drips from the ceiling joined trickles on the walls to form a murky brown liquid. There were no windows and only one lamp, casting long shadows against the wall.

Most of the inmates huddled on the small stretch of dry stone by the door. Just in front of the doorway, a young woman was on her knees, hunched over, while a man in a black uniform stood astride her and was in the process of delivering a vicious blow to the side of her head. He’d stopped in midswing at the sound of the door, and turned awkwardly to see Marcus and the lieutenant framed against the light from the corridor.

“Ranker?” Valt didn’t sound upset, only curious. “What’s going on?”

“Feeding the prisoners, sir!” the Concordat man said. He indicated a large bowl of boiled beans. “Then this one attacked me, sir!”

“She didn’t-” said a young voice from the crowd, before someone clamped a hand over the speaker’s mouth.

“Try not to be unnecessarily rough with them, Ranker,” Valt said mildly. “Remember that an injured prisoner is an additional burden.”

The ranker clambered off the woman, straightened up, and saluted. “Yes, sir! Thank you for the reminder, sir!”

Valt turned to Marcus. “Did you want to interrogate the prisoners, sir?”

Marcus’ eyes were on the young woman. She got to her feet, slowly. Her blouse had been torn to shreds, and he got a glimpse of small, pale breasts, mottled with bruises, before she pulled the scraps about herself and shuffled back to the corner.

“No,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice level. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

“Good to see you, sir,” Giforte said, as Marcus took the stairs to the tower two at a time. He almost looked like he meant it. Whatever his worries about Marcus, the crisis had clearly shaken his equilibrium. “Are they at the wall-”

“Not just yet,” Marcus said. “Get together some men you think you can trust and get them down to the dungeons. Tell Ross we’re taking over security on the lower levels. Tell him. .” He thought for a moment. “Tell him I think his men will be better than ours if it comes to a fight, and I want them on the walls instead of guarding doors. That should make him happy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find something to help keep the prisoners out of the water, or half of them are going to be down with a chill before tomorrow evening. Those tables on the main floor, maybe. Break them apart. You can use the scraps for firewood. I want a fire in each room, you understand?”

“Yes, sir. What about-”

“Now, Giforte!” Marcus found a chair and sat down heavily, resting his forehead in his hands. “The rest can wait.”

Giforte saluted and slipped out. Marcus tried to slow his breathing and calm the pounding in his skull.

What the hell was Janus thinking? The same question might apply to the Last Duke, of course, who had to know what the conditions would be like in the Vendre once he’d tripled the number of prisoners. But for all Marcus knew, Orlanko wanted the prisoners to suffer for some malignant reason of his own, whereas he was certain-fairly certain-that Janus wouldn’t countenance such a thing. Janus didn’t know Orlanko was going to order so many arrests. But he had known what would happen if Danton was taken.

Faith, he says. Marcus had kept faith once before, waiting in a Khandarai church while cannonballs rang off the walls like bells. That time, Janus’ arrival had turned his desperate last stand into a glorious victory, though the cost had been higher than Marcus cared to think about.

Is he going to come and rescue me this time as well?

Giforte slipped back into the room. They were in one of the tower chambers, a much lighter and airier space than the dungeon, with high ceilings and gun slits that threw lines of sunlight along the floor. It was unfurnished except for a couple of chairs and a table made from a plank and a pair of barrels. Dust motes danced and spun in the lances of light.

“I’ve sent the messages, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus rubbed his forehead with two fingers, but the pounding only got worse. He sighed. “Have you gotten anything out of Danton?”

“No. He’s got some sort of idiot act going. All he does is ask me to find the princess and if I can bring him beer.”

“Saints and martyrs. You’d think he’d know what’s going to happen if that lot outside tries to storm the walls.”

“I’ve tried to tell him.”

“Well, make sure we keep a few men up here, too. If Ross gets his hands on Danton while he’s still playing games, it’ll be red-hot pokers and thumbscrews.”

“He’s that bad?”

Marcus paused. He was spared the necessity of answering this by the arrival of Staff Eisen, breathless from a sprint up the stairs.

“Sir!”

There was only one thing it could be. “I’m on my way.”

The ladders were ready, but the mob was not storming the parapets. Not yet.

“Whoever’s in charge up there,” a voice boomed from below, “come out! We want to talk to you!” A background roar from the crowd added punctuation.

Ross caught up to Marcus and Giforte at the base of the wall.

“We don’t need to negotiate with them,” the Concordat officer said. “It may be a trap. If they’ve got a decent shot with a rifle somewhere-”

“I’ll take the chance,” Marcus said. “Feel free to stay here.”

“But-”

“They outnumber us five hundred to one, Captain. I think it’s worth making the effort to talk, don’t you?”

Marcus hurried up the narrow stone staircase to the fire step, Giforte and Ross close behind him. The orders he’d given Giforte had already been carried out, and half the Armsmen on the wall had been replaced by black-coated Concordat troops. All were armed, and Marcus suddenly wondered if his impulsive act of chivalry had been such a good idea. One shot would be one too many.

“Ross,” he said, when they reached the top. “Make sure your men know they’re to fire on my command, and not before. Anyone who takes an early shot will have the Minister of Justice to answer to.”

“Yes, sir.” Ross went to talk to his lieutenants, and Marcus stepped up to the parapet and looked down at the crowd.

Ominously, it was considerably better organized than it had been this morning. Six enormous ladders had been completed, and each lay near the base of the wall in the midst of a knot of people. The crowd was a mixed bag of fishermen, laborers, menials, and even women, but the ladders were conspicuously flanked by a crew of burly dockworkers, who looked more than capable of lifting them into position. Everyone in the teams by the ladders had acquired some kind of weapon, too, though this amounted to little more than wooden clubs or improvised spears. Here and there a sword gleamed, looted from who knew where.

In the center of this impromptu siege party stood an enormous man in a fisherman’s leather apron, flanked by a pair of young women. He was the one who’d spoken, his deep voice easily cutting through the excited babble of the crowd.

Marcus took a deep breath and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“I’m in command,” he said. “This is an illegal armed gathering. I’m going to have to ask you to disperse!”

Ripples of laughter ran through the crowd. The big man spoke briefly to the women, then said, “I’m afraid we still have business here!”

“What do you want?”

“Open the gates and release your prisoners! If you offer no resistance, you and your men can go in peace.”

“My orders don’t allow that,” Marcus said. He saw Ross returning out of the corner of his eye. “However, if you would like to nominate a delegation to come in and negotiate, perhaps we can reach an accommodation?”

This seemed to cause some confusion. The two women fell into a heated conversation, with the giant listening intently. Marcus watched nervously. If I can get them talking, I can buy time. And time was all he could hope for-time for the government to do something, either decide to give in to the mob’s demands or summon the nearest Royal Army unit to crush them. Either way, it won’t be on my shoulders.

“No point to negotiating,” the big man said, coming out of the huddle. “Either open the gates or we’ll open them for you.” He put his head to one side. “You’re an Armsman, aren’t you? We have no quarrel with you. Do you really want to die for Orlanko’s dogs?”

Not at all, as it happens. Marcus glanced back at Ross, who was beckoning urgently.

“Ranker Hans is an excellent shot,” he said. “He’s certain he can pick off the leader at this range.”

“And how would that help?” Marcus said.

“It would throw them into confusion! Then a few volleys into the teams by the ladders-”

“Hold your fire until my command.”

“But-”

“Armsman!” said the man outside. “We would like an answer.”

Marcus glanced at Giforte, but the vice captain was looking away, down the line of Armsmen and Concordat soldiers. The men in green looked decidedly shaky, crouched against the parapet with muskets in hand. Most of them had probably never fired a shot in anger.

“I can’t let you in,” Marcus shouted. “If you would just agree to talk-”

“Forward!” the big man shouted.

The crowd answered with a roar. Marcus could make out cries of “Danton!” “One Eagle and the Deputies-General!” and “Death to the Last Duke!” amid the general tumult. The dockmen hoisted the ladders and hurried toward the wall, with the armed bands following close behind.

“Sir!” Ross said.

Militarily, Marcus knew, he had already played things poorly. The men at the parapets ought to have been firing this whole time, forcing the attackers to stay beyond musket range and giving them a broader strip of no-man’s land to cross when the assault finally came. As it was, it could go either way. The defenders were grievously outnumbered, but it took more nerve than most green troops possessed to climb a thirty-foot ladder while balls whizzed and men fell all around you. A few volleys might break them. Or just make them angry enough to get up here and crack all our heads open.

If he gave the order to fire. .

He would be remembered for it, he realized. No matter how things came out. Marcus the Butcher, who ordered his garrison to fire into the crowd.

The young woman with red hair had dashed forward to join one of the ladder teams. The other one was still staring up at him intently, as though she recognized him.

Balls of the Beast. I can’t do it, can I?

These were his own people, fishermen and porters and shopkeepers whose only grievance was with the men in black who had taken hundreds of their husbands, wives, and children in the middle of the night. Hell, if I didn’t have this uniform, I might be out there myself.

Once he’d come to that realization, he felt surprisingly calm. His objective, finally, was clear. Buy as much time as I can, without actually killing anybody. In which case, it was obvious what to do.

“Sir!” Ross said again, then turned away to address his own lieutenant. “Prepare to-”

“Back!” Marcus shouted. “Fall back from the wall. Back to the keep!” He turned full circle, making his voice loud enough to be sure the attackers below heard as well. “Everyone, fall back!”

“You can’t be serious!” said Ross.

“The keep is more defensible,” Marcus said blandly. “I don’t want to risk men in an engagement here.”

All around him, the Concordat men hesitated, but the Armsmen needed no urging. They headed for the stairs and the inner courtyard. The men in black, left with only half a garrison, were forced to follow.

Giforte, Ross, and Marcus were the last ones atop the wall.

Marcus held out a hand. “After you.”

“This is treason, sir,” Ross said coldly. “You may be certain I will report this to His Grace.”

“Feel free.” Amid cheering from below, one of the ladders clacked against the parapet. “But perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere?”

Ross spit an oath and took the stairs two at a time. Marcus, still looking down at the crowd, said, “He didn’t fall and break his neck on the way down, did he?”

“No, sir,” said Giforte.

“Pity.” Marcus took a deep breath. His headache was clearing at last. “Come on.”

WINTER

The man Jane summoned to deal with the door was called Grayface. This was not, as Winter originally guessed, because he was of Khandarai descent, but rather because he was a blacksmith with a habit of leaning too close to his fires and coating his face with ash and smoke. He was a stout man, not as big as Walnut but broader about the belly, and while his face was not gray at the moment it was nonetheless a bit terrifying. His eyebrows had gone long ago, and his cheeks and forehead were cratered with burns where stray sparks had landed.

“S’not too hard to make a ram,” he said, hands resting on his belly, in the confident tones of someone offering a professional opinion. “What you do, see, is get yourself a big iron pot. Or half a big kettle will do in a pinch. Then you find a nice big log, slip your pot over the end, and get it nice and hot while you hammer it into place. When it cools off it’ll shrink and grip the wood tight.”

“It’ll have to be a damned big log,” Walnut said, “if you want us to put a dent in that.”

That was the door to the keep, a solid-looking portal of oak banded with iron for strength and set deep in the stone with no visible hinges. It certainly looked formidable enough, to the untrained eye, but Winter had never considered it a serious obstacle, as the design of the fortress meant it couldn’t be properly defended.

If the Island as a whole was shaped like a squeezed lemon, the Vendre occupied one pointed end, covering a roughly triangular patch of land with its tip aimed downstream. The keep had the same triangular design. The two outer walls, facing the river, were three stories high and studded with gun slits and now-empty embrasures, and from their rear an awkwardly shaped slate roof sloped down to meet the single story on the landward side. There were no gun slits in those two rectangular towers facing the wall below.

In short, there was no way for the defenders of the fortress to harass an enemy once they were in the courtyard. And, as Janus had proven at the fortress in the Great Desol, there was no door strong enough to hold off an opponent with time, manpower, and tools. Jane’s forces were short on cannon and powder but long on willing hands and strong backs, so a ram seemed like the best bet.

What bothered Winter was what would happen after they broke the door down. Walnut and the others didn’t seem to have thought that far ahead, and Winter didn’t want to undermine Jane’s authority, so she quietly caught her friend’s eye.

“. . probably need at least twenty men on it,” Grayface said. “Call it thirty, to be safe. Figure two feet per man, we need a beam maybe thirty feet long.”

“Right,” Jane said. “Do it. You’re in charge. Walnut, make sure everyone gives him everything he needs.”

Grayface blinked. “Where am I supposed to get a beam that long?”

“Plenty of houses out there,” Jane said. “Find one with a nice long roof beam and take it.”

“That’ll take forever,” Grayface said, squirming under unaccustomed responsibility. “We’d have to pull the tiles off and brace-”

“Only if you care whether the roof falls in,” Walnut said.

“You want me to tear down someone’s house?” the blacksmith said.

“I want you to do whatever you need to do to get it done quickly.” Jane glanced at Walnut, who nodded and took Grayface by one arm.

“Come on,” he said. “I saw a Sworn Church up the street that looks like it has just what we need.”

“Try to make sure nobody’s hiding inside,” Winter called after them. She couldn’t tell if they heard.

Then she and Jane were alone, or as alone as they were likely to get. The inner court of the Vendre was full of laughing, shouting people. It had been home to a few small wooden stables and other structures, but the rioters had vented their anger on these and the remains had been appropriated for the giant bonfires that were starting to take shape in the street outside. Food was on its way, and drink had already arrived or been liberated from closed shops nearby. A carnival atmosphere was taking hold, and there was a general feeling that with the retreat of the Armsmen from the walls, it was all over but the shouting. The great mob was drunk on a sense of its own power, as though the easy victory had made it immune to potential consequences.

Jane was in charge, inasmuch as anyone was. At least, she could give orders, and most of the time they were obeyed. Min, the soft-spoken girl who’d organized cleaning rotas back at Jane’s headquarters, had set to arranging bands of fighting men with the same enthusiasm, with the rest of the Leatherbacks helping to round up work crews and get people pointed in the right direction. There had been a little bit of laughter at the expense of “Mad Jane’s Girls,” but it hadn’t lasted long.

“Well?” Jane said. “What’s the problem?”

Winter blinked. She hadn’t thought her worry showed in her face. “Why do you think there’s a problem?”

Jane laughed. “Come on. You have the exact same expression you did when you were trying to talk me out of throwing rotten eggs at Mistress Gormenthal, or stealing Cowlie’s underwear. I used to think of it as your ‘But, Jane!’ face. ‘But, Jane, we’ll get in trouble!’”

Winter forced a smile. “Far be it from me to be the killjoy.”

“But,” Jane prompted.

“But,” Winter said, “I think you’re not taking this seriously enough.”

Jane’s smile vanished. “Seriously? I just told them to start wrecking houses so we can get through that door. That isn’t serious?”

“The door isn’t the problem. If they fight-”

“They won’t,” Jane said. “If they were going to shoot, they would have done it at the wall. It doesn’t make any sense to start now, when they’re in a far worse position.”

“I’m not sure that they are in a worse position. If we have to fight our way into that thing, it’ll be a nightmare. If it comes to that, people are going to get killed. A lot of people.”

“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.

“-I don’t mean to be rude,” Peddoc was saying, “but there is a proper way to conduct a siege, which you would know if you’d had military training as I have. It’s only natural that we follow the plan-”

“Who’s this lot, then?” said the big man, catching sight of Raesinia and the others.

“Ah.” Peddoc straightened up and looked unhappy. “These are my”-he caught a furious glare from Maurisk and Dumorre-“colleagues. The other members of our council. Though, as a trained military man, I have taken the lead on the actual direction of our campaign.”

“Well, I’m Walnut,” the man said. “Jane’s on her way. Does anybody want to tell me what the hell you all are doing here without going on about lines of circumcision?”

“Lines of circumvallation,” Peddoc said. “It’s a basic military concept for sieges-”

“We’re here for Danton,” Cyte said, which drew looks from both Maurisk and Dumorre.

“Not just Danton,” Maurisk said. “We’re here to take back the Crown for the people.”

“To give the Crown to the people,” Dumorre said, “returning government to its proper-”

Raesinia fished out her copy of their Declaration and held it aloft. The others lapsed into a sullen silence.

“We’re here to free the prisoners,” she said. “And to ask the king to acknowledge the Deputies-General, at which these other points will be debated.”

“All well and good,” Peddoc said. “But as the problem for the moment is a military one-”

There was a shuffle in the ranks of the dockmen, and after a moment two women emerged from the crowd. One was tall, with disheveled red hair and green eyes aglow with manic energy. The other, plain-faced with white-blond hair cut almost military short, stayed a step or two behind. It was easy for Raesinia to guess which one was “Mad Jane,” but she named herself anyway.

“I’m Jane,” she said. “And this is Winter. Walnut, who are these people?”

“They seem to be in charge,” Walnut said.

“All of them at once?”

“As best I can tell.”

“We’re a council,” Peddoc said. “And I-”

“We didn’t agree to be a council,” Maurisk interrupted. “That implies that we have equal votes.”

“Voting should be proportional to representation,” Dumorre said. “Which means nobody should be listening to Peddoc.”

“I think you’ll find,” Maurisk said, “that support for the reasonable center-”

“We’d have to carry out a census,” Dumorre interrupted.

“It’s not a matter of votes!” Peddoc said. “I have the experience-”

Raesinia stepped forward as they fell to arguing, and silently handed the declaration to Jane. She and Winter scanned it briefly, then looked up at her.

“And who are you?” Jane said.

“Raesinia,” Raesinia said. “I’m here because one of my friends was shot dead by a Concordat assassin last night, and because I think more of them are being held in there.”

“And the Deputies-General?” Jane said.

Raesinia jerked her head at the bickering council behind them. The corner of Jane’s lip quirked.

“In other words,” Jane said, louder, “you’re here to help.”

“Exactly!” said Peddoc. “Listen. You’ve obviously been doing quite well, for amateurs, but if we’re going to take the Vendre, then a siege on modern scientific principles is obviously called for. The first step is the establishment of a line of circumvallation to prevent outside assistance from reaching the invested position. We can start by digging a trench across-”

“Contravallation,” said Winter.

Peddoc and Jane both looked at her. She shrugged uncomfortably.

“Lines of contravallation protect the besiegers from attack by outside forces. Lines of circumvallation guard against sorties of the garrison. You’ve got them backward.”

There was a long silence.

“I always got those confused on exams,” said someone in the back of Peddoc’s retinue. “Cost me a few points with old Wertingham.”

“Well,” Peddoc said, trying to recover his momentum, “we’ll need both, obviously. And-”

“And you’re proposing that we dig a trench?” Winter said. “Here?”

She stomped her foot, and everyone looked down. Like all the streets on the Island, this one was cobbled.

“Well,” Peddoc said again, more weakly, “obviously-”

“There’s also the fact that the Vendre sticks out into the river,” Winter went on. “So your lines are going to be underwater for about two-thirds of the length. But I was more concerned about another point. When you say you want to conduct a scientific siege, you mean by the Kleinvort method, I assume?”

“I. . I think so,” Peddoc said. “It’s been some time-”

“That calls for a series of parallels to allow the attackers to reach close range, which seems superfluous in this case as we can already walk up and touch the walls without difficulty. More to the point, though, once the final parallel is established, the attackers must establish a breaching battery and effect a breach before making the final assault. Is that correct?”

Peddoc, mesmerized, simply nodded.

“Have you brought a siege battery?” Winter looked at Walnut. “You’re taller than I am. Do you see any guns?”

Walnut shaded his eyes, theatrically, and stared out over the bridge.

“What my companion is trying to say,” said Jane dryly, “is that we may be a bit beyond the textbooks here.” She raised her voice. “And as for the rest of you! I want you to know that I could give a damn about this”-she shook the Declaration-“or your Deputies-General. But”-and now she looked down at Raesinia-“my friends are in there, and I intend to get them out. Anyone who wants to help with that is welcome. What you do afterward is your own business.”

There was a long pause. Then, all at once, the council erupted with a hundred shouted arguments. Through the tumult, Raesinia caught Cyte’s eye and smiled.