The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WINTER

Clouds were rolling in from the east. That was good and bad; it would hide them from any watchers on the parapets, but it made even finding the dock under the Vendre’s walls far from a sure thing. Fortunately, Rose’s sense of direction was apparently not hampered by either the darkness or the current. She and Winter rowed in tandem, as gently as they could manage, pushing the little boat closer and closer to where the fortress blotted out the sky. Behind them sat Cyte and Raesinia, with Vice Captain Giforte huddled uncomfortably in the rear.

The wind was a bare breath on her cheek, and the gray surface of the Vor was glassy smooth. The sheer walls of the prison rose above them like a cliff, darkness broken here and there by the faintest lines of light, reflections of firelight through the gun slits. Winter held her breath as they came close. Here even Rose’s instincts were not enough to guide them, and she was forced to let a trickle of light out of her hooded lantern. By its faint gleam, she saw piles of jumbled rocks where the wall met the river, worn smooth by centuries of wind-driven swells. And, so small that she would have missed it from any farther away, a narrow passage between them, leading to a low, vaulted passage under the wall.

They began rowing again, slipping nearly silently through the gap into a long, watery tunnel. The air stank of mold, and streaks of dried slime on the walls charted the rise and flow of the river. Winter stared ahead, trying to discern the outlines of the dock in the gloom. She reached for the lantern to let out a little more light, now that they were out of view of the sentries on the walls, but Rose’s hand slammed down over hers. The boat bumped against one dripping wall and rocked to a halt.

“There’s a guard,” she whispered, nearly inaudibly. “A light, anyway. Shut the lantern.”

Winter did so, blinking in near-total darkness. Near, she found, but not quite. There was another light somewhere, around the curve of the corridor, and it speckled the water and the damp walls with tiny reflections. How the hell did she see it, though? Winter looked back at Rose to find her tugging the laces off her boots.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I’ll bring the light forward when it’s safe to move in.”

Giforte shuffled forward, making the boat rock and rasp ever so slightly against the wall. Winter thought Rose winced.

“One of mine,” the vice captain said in a hoarse whisper, “or one of theirs?”

“No way to know.” Rose shrugged out of her jacket and pulled her thin undershirt over her head in one fluid motion. Giforte gave an embarrassed cough, though it was so dark that all Winter could make out were silhouettes. “Does it matter? One scream and we’ve had it.”

“Just. .”

“I’ll do my best.” Rose stepped out of her trousers, folded them neatly, and handed the bundle of clothes to Winter. It was heavier than it should have been, and she could feel several hard, flat metal shapes through the cloth. “Hang on to these.”

Rose slipped lithely off the boat and into the water with barely a splash, setting the little craft to rocking once again. Her legs cut the surface once, and then she was underwater. Winter couldn’t see where she came up.

“She works for you?” Cyte whispered to Raesinia, incredulously.

“More or less,” Raesinia said.

“Quiet.” Winter was straining her ears for the sound of a gunshot, or even a scuffle. There was nothing.

“What if she doesn’t signal?” Cyte said. “How long do we-”

“She’ll be fine,” Raesinia said. “Trust me.”

A moment later, a bright light came on, glinting off the water. Winter started paddling forward, first one side and then the other, while Raesinia took up the other paddle and helped fend off the walls. After a few dozen yards the passage ended in a larger chamber with a protruding stone dock. Rose sat on the end of it, naked and dripping, holding a lantern in one hand and a rope in the other. She tossed the latter to Winter, who hauled the boat alongside and tied it off.

“Any problems?” Raesinia asked, as they stepped carefully onto solid ground.

Rose shook her head, accepted the bundle of clothes from Winter, and dressed. She moved with a total unselfconsciousness that reminded Winter of Jane. In the lantern light, Winter could see that she was a good deal more muscular than she looked when dressed, and that her skin was covered with thin white lines. A star-shaped lump of scar tissue marred the inside of one breast, and her arms were practically crosshatched with old wounds. Giforte pointedly looked away, and after a fascinated moment Winter did likewise.

The body lay at the base of the dock, under a black leather coat that covered it like a shroud. Winter walked over to it and found it was a young man, dirty and bearded, with a single puncture wound just below his ear.

“He had a pistol,” Rose said, coming up behind her and holding the weapon out by the barrel. “Make sure it’s loaded.”

Winter checked the pan and the barrel and confirmed the pistol was charged, then wedged it somewhat awkwardly in her belt. She already had another pistol there, and an old cavalry saber on her hip. It felt better than she wanted to admit to be carrying weapons again. Raesinia had refused any armaments, but Giforte carried a sword and pistol and Cyte had a rapier. Rose had fended for herself.

Once their little party had gathered in the light of the lantern, Rose gestured at the corridor leading back from the dock.

“From here it’s not far to the main stairs. Two levels up from here is where they’ve got the new prisoners. Then there’s another three levels of ordinary cells before the ground floor. Captain d’Ivoire and Danton are in the tower above that. I don’t expect to see anyone on the stairs, now that Jane has started making threatening noises with the ram, but there’ll be guards on the cells.

“Raes and I will go and find Danton. Vice Captain, most of the men guarding the prisoners were your people. Do you think you can convince them to stand down?”

“If they know what’s good for them,” Giforte growled.

“Winter, Cyte, go with him, in case there are some Concordat soldiers mixed in. We’ll break the others out and come down to meet you.”

“What if you run into trouble?” Winter said.

“Then you’re in charge. Do whatever you need to.” Rose lifted her lantern. “Let’s go. And remember to stay as quiet as you can.”

The first turn of the spiral stairs was completely dark. Rose crept ahead while Winter followed with the lantern almost completely shut, leaving just enough light for the others to see the steps. After they crossed the first landing, more light began to leak down from above. Rose held up a hand, shuffling up the steps at the center of the spiral, until she’d gone just barely out of sight. She edged back just as quietly, frowning.

“Two men on the landing,” she whispered. “Armsmen. I can’t take both quietly. Either one of you can take one”-she glanced at Winter, then at Giforte-“or we can try it your way.”

“Let me talk to them,” Giforte said.

“Just don’t make a lot of noise.” Rose glanced at the ceiling. “The Concordat people have got to be close.”

Giforte nodded, straightened his back, and went up the steps with a reasonable approximation of parade-ground swagger. The others followed, keeping a half turn back. On the landing, the two green-uniformed Armsmen lounged against the wall on either side of a doorway. They straightened up at the sound of footsteps, but the sight of Giforte’s uniform confused them for a crucial second while he stepped into the light and gave them a good look at his face. They started to salute, but Giforte waved a hand.

“Keep quiet,” he barked in a stage whisper. “Both of you.”

“Yes, sir!” said the man on the left, coming to attention so stiffly he vibrated. His companion, older and wider of girth, squinted suspiciously at the group now coming into view up the stairs.

“Sir?” he said. “Beg your pardon, sir, but we were told you had tried to surrender the fortress to the rebels, and were to be detained on sight.”

“Circumstances have changed, Sergeant,” Giforte snapped. “I had direct orders from Captain d’Ivoire to begin negotiations. When Ross found out, he tossed the captain in a cell and took over.”

“Fucking Ross,” the younger Armsman said. “I always said he was a snake.”

“But. .” The sergeant hesitated, looked at the four young women.

“Representatives from the leaders outside,” Giforte said. “I’ve agreed to release the prisoners on this level, who were in any case illegally detained by the Ministry of Information. In exchange, we’ve been guaranteed safe passage away from the fortress. Captain d’Ivoire and I will take all responsibility to the minister and the king.”

That was enough for the sergeant, who saluted. “Sir. Yes, sir!”

“Where are the rest of our men?”

“About half are here watching the cells, along with two or three black-coats. The others are up at the barricade. Ross wanted to pull everyone off, but we had orders from the captain himself to guard the prisoners.”

“What about the prison levels above us?”

“Empty up to the ground floor. Ross has got everyone waiting for the big break-in. I think he still has men on Danton up in the tower, though.”

“Right.” Giforte glanced over his shoulder. “It sounds like you should have a clear path until you get to the tower.”

“I can handle a few guards,” Rose said. “Raes, stay a half turn behind me. Let’s go.”

“The problem here is going to be breaking the news to the rest of the Armsmen without anyone raising the alarm,” Giforte said.

“Uh. . I don’t mean to interfere, sir,” said the sergeant, “but I don’t think Ross will surrender on your say-so. And he’s got a lot more men than we do.”

“One thing at a time.” Giforte looked at Winter. “Any ideas?”

“What’s the layout of this level?” Winter said.

“There’s a sort of anteroom through here,” the sergeant said, indicating the door. “After that passages run in either direction. One way is where we’ve got all the women and kids. The other is the men.”

“How many people in the anteroom?”

“None, now,” the Armsman said. “We were using it as a break room, but Ross called everyone up.”

“Perfect. Vice Captain, you wait in there. Sergeant, you go down to the cells and ask one of your friends to step out for a moment. Say that Ross is asking for reports on the prisoners, or something like that. Once they get the picture, send them back and get another one.”

“What about the Concordat people?” Giforte said.

“I don’t think it’ll be hard to convince our fellows to hold a gun on them,” the sergeant said. “Hell, I’ve been itching to do it myself.”

“Cyte and I will watch the stairs,” Winter said. “I want every one of those guards to see nothing but green uniforms.”

Giforte nodded decisively. “Come on, Sergeant. Let’s spread the news.”

“We can keep a better watch about a half turn up,” Cyte said. “That way we can keep an eye on the next landing.”

Winter nodded agreement, and they started up the steps as the three Armsmen disappeared into the dungeon. Oil lamps flickered in wall brackets, casting uneven shadows. After the door below closed, a deep silence returned, broken now and then by muffled muttering.

“What if something goes wrong?” Cyte said, quietly.

“Then we’ll hear the screams,” Winter said. “Or the gunshots.”

They settled down to wait. Winter knew from experience that time stretched like taffy in situations like this one, turning minutes into endless hours. She wished she had a pocket watch so she would know when to really start worrying. Although, in the end, what good does worrying do?

There was a sound from above, faint at first but getting louder. Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices raised in conversation.

“They’re coming down,” Cyte said. Her voice was tight.

“They may not come down this far. Maybe they’re checking the cell blocks.”

“What if they do?”

Winter let out a long breath. “Then we take them. As quietly as we can.”

“Take them.” Cyte put her hand on the hilt of her rapier, testing the grip. “Right.”

Turn around, Winter willed the footsteps. Go back upstairs. You’ll live longer, and so will I.

Two pairs of black boots became visible around the curve of the stairs, followed by the flapping tails of two black leather coats. Winter drew her saber and waited another heartbeat, then rushed them.

Two Concordat soldiers, both with shouldered muskets, came into view. Running up the steps robbed Winter of most of her speed, and the soldier on the right had a split second to react. He brought his musket up crosswise, ready to parry a cut at his chest or hit her with the butt. Winter, breathing hard, caught him off balance by stopping several steps short and whipping the heavy blade around in a low cut that caught him on the inside of the knee. The joint practically exploded, the soldier’s leg bending stomach-twistingly sideways, and he toppled past Winter and started rolling downward.

She barely had time to sidestep the injured man before the other one came at her with a bellow, musket raised in both hands over his head like a club. Winter blocked the swing and nearly lost her weapon and her footing from the force of the blow. Before he could take advantage and shove her down the steps, Cyte came into view, rapier extending in an awkward fencer’s lunge on the uneven footing. The thin blade went into the man’s armpit, found a gap between his ribs, and sank smoothly nearly to the hilt. He fell backward with a gurgle, dropping his musket, and the hilt of the rapier was jerked out of Cyte’s hands.

Winter looked over her shoulder to see what had become of her own victim, but her head snapped back around when Cyte shouted her name.

“Winter! Up there!”

Looking up, Winter got a glimpse of a third man, a quarter turn behind the other two and already taking to his heels. She swore and vaulted the corpse of Cyte’s victim, clawing for the pistol at her belt. There was no time to check the pan again. Just a moment to level and fire-and even if I hit him, they’ll hear the shot-

She pulled the trigger. The weapon went off with an earsplitting bang, and she saw the man’s coat flutter, as though a passerby had given it a tug. But the ball missed his body, cracking wildly off the stone wall beyond, and before Winter could reach for her other pistol he was up the stairs and out of sight.

“Balls of the Beast,” Winter said. She turned back to Cyte. “There’s going to be more of them in a minute. Come on, back to the landing.”

“I. .” Cyte gestured weakly at her sword, which was still embedded in the Concordat soldier. His hands scrabbled wildly at the air, and blood bubbled in his mouth.

Winter grabbed the hilt, planted her foot on the man’s side, and yanked the weapon free as he shuddered and died. She handed the thin blade back to Cyte, still slick and red, and pulled another pistol and a pouch of ammunition from the body. Then she grabbed the girl’s free hand and pulled her down the steps to the landing, where there would at least be flat ground to fight on.

Her own victim was there, head cracked and leaking blood from his tumble down the unyielding stone stairs. She pushed him aside and turned to Cyte.

“Are you all right?” Winter said.

“Fine.” Cyte was staring at the sword in her hand as though she didn’t know how it had gotten there. “I’m fine. I just. .”

“I know,” Winter said. “But you have to focus.”

Winter hated having to act so hard. It made her feel like Davis, someone who could cut men down and laugh about it later in his cups. But there’s no time. The man she’d shot at would make it back up to the others on the ground floor, and surely they’d send a larger force-

“Cyte. Cytomandiclea.” The sound of her assumed name seemed to bring the girl back to herself a little. “Do you know how to load a pistol?”

“N. . not really. I’ve never. .”

“Shit.” Winter went to the door and hammered on it. “Giforte? Are you in there? They’re on their way down!”

There was no response. Winter cocked an ear at the steps and fancied she could hear the pounding of many feet. She grabbed Cyte and pulled her up against the inner wall of the spiral.

“Stay here until they get close,” Winter said. “You don’t want to give them a target if they decide to shoot at us. And stay on the landing, away from the stairs. It’s no good giving them high ground to fight from.”

“But. .” Cyte’s mind was catching up with events at last. “There’s too many! They’ll kill us.”

A rational debater would have told her that this was, after all, what she’d volunteered for. Davis would have just screamed at her. Winter shrugged, patted the girl on the shoulder in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and went for the dead soldier’s musket. This was loaded, and wonder of wonders, the fall had not knocked open the pan and spilled the powder. Winter cocked it, went to one knee at the bottom of the stairs, and settled down to wait.

She didn’t have to be patient long. A clatter of boots preceded the arrival of the Concordat troops, coming down the stairway two by two. Winter took aim before their heads came into view, tracked their motion for a moment, and fired. The musket’s report was even louder than the pistol’s, and the weapon delivered its familiar kick to her shoulder. This time her aim was better, and one of the leading black-coats was punched off his feet to sprawl bonelessly on the steps.

Winter tossed the musket aside and threw herself flat. As she’d expected, the keyed-up soldiers returned fire, filling the stairway with a deafening cacophony of thunder, broken by the zip and zing of ricocheting balls. Smoke billowed from the barrels and locks of their weapons, puffing around them like a localized thundercloud. It hung motionless in the still air, and the men came charging through it with tendrils of gray clinging to their coats, brandishing their bayonetted muskets like spears.

All that kept Winter alive through the next few moments was the fact that the bayonet, so impressive in glittering ranks on an open field, was far from an ideal weapon for close-quarters combat in a stairway. She pushed herself to her feet as they pounded toward her, and faded to the left as the first pair closed. The man on that side came at her at a run, stumbling slightly as he leapt off the last stair and hit the landing, intending to run her through like a lancer. Winter’s parry caught the musket barrel behind the bayonet with a clang of steel on iron, forcing his arm wide. His momentum carried him into her, and she brought the curved hilt of her weapon around and slammed the pommel into his face with all the force of his running start behind it, bowling him over as if he’d run into a clothesline at a gallop.

The second man, more cautious, checked his run and thrust his bayonet at her as she stepped clear of the falling body. Winter twisted away from the point and slashed wildly at him, but the length of his weapon kept him at a safe distance. He backed up and tried again, and this time she barely caught the wicked point of the weapon with her saber and battered it aside. Her clumsy return stroke cut only air. She backpedaled, acutely aware that there were only a few steps of flat ground behind her before the downward stairway resumed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another Concordat soldier vault the body of the first and try to cut around to her right. He’d overlooked Cyte, who’d been pressed tight against the wall on that side. She brought her rapier up and lunged, this time with perfect form, as though on a fencing strip. The tapered point went through the soldier’s leather coat, into the small of his back, and emerged somewhere in the vicinity of his navel.

He screamed, which made Winter’s opponent look aside for a split second. Winter half turned to get past the point of his bayonet and grabbed the barrel of the musket with her free hand, yanking it out of his distracted grip. He looked back just in time to see the downward saber slash that opened him from sternum to hip.

Four men were down in the space of as many seconds. Winter let the musket fall and raised her eyes, expecting another charging musketeer. Instead she found herself staring into the barrel of a pistol.

Oh. Logical, under the circumstances, especially if you were willing to let your comrades charge forward into the fray while you lined up your shot. Time seemed to telescope, on and on. She could see the two-day stubble on the man’s face, the glint of a captain’s bars on his chest where his coat hung open. She could see the open pan of his weapon, ready for the descending flint to strike a spark.

There was always a chance. Pistols loaded in haste misfired, or failed to fire at all. A malformed ball might emerge at an odd angle, caroming harmlessly away. Springs broke, clamps failed, flints went spinning off instead of properly sparking. Even at close range, it was easy to miss a target, especially for an inexperienced marksman. But Winter had a sudden certainty that none of those other chances were going to break her way this time. The man’s finger tightened on the trigger-

Then his eyes crossed, as though puzzled, and he toppled forward. The pistol went off, ball zinging off the steps, but the Concordat captain kept going, beginning a boneless tumble down the stairs that ended with him sprawled facedown at Winter’s feet. A heavy knife-almost a cleaver-was embedded at an angle in the back of his skull as though it were a butcher’s block.

Rose, farther up the stairs, was straightening up from her throw. She caught Winter’s eye and smiled.

Behind Rose came Raes and an older man Winter didn’t recognize. She assumed this was Danton, although nothing about him suggested the charismatic leader. His shirt was stained with sweat, and his hair was wild and unkempt from days in captivity. His expression was one of beatific satisfaction, however, and one of his hands gripped one of Raes’. Winter wondered if there was something between the two of them. It would explain her insistence on coming along.

“Is that all of them?” Rose said, stepping carefully among the bodies on the landing. She knelt beside the man Winter had laid out with the pommel of her sword, produced a knife from somewhere, and stuck it almost gently into the side of his head, just forward of his ear. He shuddered and died without a sound.

“A. . all.” Winter shook her head, trying to banish the vision of the pistol trained on her head and the certainty that she was about to die. Her heart hammered wildly, and something unpleasant roiled in her stomach. Now is not the time, damn it. “Yes. That’s all the ones who came downstairs. But I was expecting more of them.”

“It turns out there were a few Armsmen locked up next to the captain,” Rose said. “They’ve got the next group pinned down at the ground floor landing for the moment.”

“Not for long,” said another voice, accompanied by the rapid clatter of boots. Captain d’Ivoire came into view, looking odd in the unfamiliar green Armsman uniform, a musket in one hand. “We don’t have enough men to really stop them, but after the first volley they’ve gotten cautious. We’re going to have to fall back if they make a serious push.”

Somehow Winter had not thought this far ahead. She stood on the landing, bloody saber in hand, and felt the captain’s eyes tracking toward her with the same feeling of awful premonition that she’d felt watching the pistol come to bear. If he recognized her-more to the point, if he recognizes me as a woman-

Then what? The fear of discovery, ground in over long years, made Winter’s blood sing. But who would it actually harm? I could stay with Jane and the others. Tell Janus to find someone else to fight his damned battles.

It would never work, of course. If nothing else, she could never rid herself of the Infernivore; as Janus had pointed out to her, what felt like a lifetime ago, that meant she was involved whether she liked it or not. Besides, another part of her mind insisted, flooding her with guilt, there’s Bobby to think of. And Feor, and Graff and Folsom, and everyone else in the Seventh.

All this flashed past her mind’s eye in the instant between when the captain started down the stairs and when he met her gaze. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and she thought she saw something change in Marcus’ expression. It was gone an instant later, though, and he was moving on, pushing past Raes and Danton toward the door to the cells.

Energy flowed out of Winter like water out of a barrel with the bottom knocked off. She wiped her saber roughly on a fold of Concordat uniform and returned it to its sheath, legs wobbling like a drunk’s. She found Cyte still standing by the man she’d killed. She’d managed to keep her rapier in hand, this time, but she was staring at the bloodied weapon as though she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Are you all right?” Winter said. This time, it took only a moment for Cyte’s eyes to clear. It gets easier every time, doesn’t it?

“I. . I think so.” She looked down at herself, astonished to be intact. “Did we win?”

“Not yet.”

“What happens now?”

Winter struggled to remember the plan Raes had outlined. It had been a bit vague on that point, but. .

“I think,” she said, “that’s up to Danton.”

The anteroom on the prison level was crowded to capacity and beyond. The guards’ table had been dragged against the outer door as a stage and impromptu barricade, with Winter, Raesinia, Danton, and the others standing in the doorway and Giforte and the rest of the Armsmen making a thin line on the other side. Beyond them were the prisoners. Captain d’Ivoire had ordered the cells thrown open, and the liberated abductees filled the room and backed up out into the corridors. The angriest among them, mostly from the male contingent but including a number of women as well, had pushed to the front of the crowd and were engaged in a shouting match with the captain, who stood on the table trying to argue with them.

“Look,” he said, his voice already going hoarse with the effort of trying to make himself heard over the babble. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me. But my men are going to be with you. Some of them are fighting upstairs right now to give us this time to argue! I am going to be with you. And if we don’t disarm those Concordat soldiers, hundreds of your fellow citizens are going to be gunned down!”

“We should start by stringing you up!” someone shouted.

“Bloody Armsmen!”

“If we fight Orlanko’s men, they’ll just kill us instead!”

“I heard it’s a bunch of dockmen at the gates,” said someone with a Northside accent. “Are we supposed to sacrifice ourselves for a gang of lazy stevedores?”

Winter badly wanted to punch this person. From the sound of it the sentiment was shared by many in the crowd, and the ensuing scuffle threatened to engulf the entire room in chaos. Marcus shouted for order. The air was thick and close with the scent of too many unwashed bodies.

At Winter’s side, Raesinia was speaking quietly to Danton. The orator sat cross-legged with the same stupid smile on his face, nodding absently as the girl read to him from what looked like prepared notes. He reminded Winter of nothing so much as a little boy not paying attention to a lecture from a parent.

She stepped away from the table, into the cooler air of the corridor, where Cyte stood with her back to the stone. Her eyes were closed, and her face was flushed under the smears of black makeup.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“The captain is trying to argue them into taking the Concordat positions from behind. I don’t think it’s going as well as they’d hoped.”

“What about Danton?”

“Raes is still coaching him.” Winter shook her head. “He’s not what I expected.”

There was a long pause. Marcus’ pleading was drowned out by an angry roar from the crowd.

“This wasn’t. . what I expected,” Cyte said.

“No?”

“More blood, for one thing.” She gave a little shudder. “I always pictured. .”

“I know,” Winter said. “Like in an opera. You swing the sword, someone falls over. Maybe a little stage blood on your hands.” She looked down. They’d moved the Concordat corpses out of the way, but the flagstones were still stained red and brown. “No matter how much you imagine, it’s never enough.”

“I thought it would be harder, to kill somebody.”

“I know.”

“You tried to talk me out of coming.” Cyte opened her eyes. “Thank you.”

“It didn’t work.”

Cyte gave a weary shrug. “The effort has to be worth something.”

“All right!” said Raesinia, behind them. “You’ve got all that?”

“I’ve got it, Princess,” Danton said. “Afterward-”

“Afterward you can have whatever you like, Danton,” Raesinia said, with a glance at Winter and Cyte. “But those people are waiting to hear your story.”

“Okay.”

Danton got to his feet. Raesinia smoothed the front of his ruined shirt and tugged on his cuffs for a moment, then gave up.

And then Danton-changed.

It was astonishing to watch. He straightened up, altered his stance, ran a hand casually through his hair. A moment earlier he had given every appearance of amiable dullness-on the verge of idiocy, Winter would have said. Now his eyes were full of fire, and he moved with an obvious sense of purpose. Captain d’Ivoire stepped aside and the orator mounted the table and raised his hands for silence. To Winter’s amazement, he got it, or as close to silence as a crowd of that size could manage. The shouts and arguments snuffed out like candles in the wind as he cast his gaze about the room.

“You might want to move down the stairs a bit,” Raesinia said to Winter. “There are going to be a lot of people coming this way in a minute.”

Winter and Cyte stepped away from the doorway, and Raesinia came to stand with them. Rose, so still and quiet Winter had forgotten she was there, came with her.

“You really think he can convince them?” Winter said in a low voice.

“Call it a hunch,” Raesinia said.

“Brothers!” Danton began. “And here, in this pit, we are truly brothers. I say to you. .”

–

The crowd of roaring, cheering men surged up the stairway like water bursting from a broken dam. They passed the tiny group of Armsmen fighting a rearguard action and hit the Concordat troops opposing them with the force of a tidal wave. The soldiers who had loaded muskets fired them, and here and there in the mass a man went down, but these were pinpricks on the flanks of the great beast that was the mob. The black-coats were bowled over, disarmed, grabbed by many hands, and borne in triumph down to the cells, while the rest of the crowd pushed on toward the front gates.

With the death of Captain Ross and the roar of the mob outside, the Concordat soldiers manning the barricade were in a fragile state of mind. The firefight at the stairs had put them on edge, and the swelling chorus of shouts coming up the corridors only heightened their anxiety. Some of them turned around to see what was coming, and a few had the presence of mind to fire. No one thought to try to wheel the great mortar around, with its massive load of canister, until it was far too late. The enraged crowd was on them.

Squads of women sat on the soldiers to keep them down until they could be safely detained, and the older children scurried about picking up the fallen muskets. A gang of men set to work heaving the huge iron bar away from the door. It opened to reveal the astonished besiegers clustered around their ram, huddled together with weapons raised in expectation of a trick or sortie.

A few minutes later, the crowd inside had dissolved into the crowd outside. Cheers spread from the gate like ripples on the surface of a pond radiating out from a dropped stone, until the entire island seemed to ring with hoarse shouts of joy and triumph, peppered by the pop, pop of muskets fired jubilantly into the air.

The Vendre had fallen.