The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WINTER

In the hundred and twenty years since the Sworn Church had first been expelled from Vordan, the Sworn Cathedral had never played host to a congregation large enough to fill its echoing, vaulted hall. For years, when praying in a Sworn Church had been tantamount to being a traitor to the Crown, it had stood empty. Later, more tolerant ages had seen the Sworn Priests return, chase out some of the bats and rats who had taken up residence, and offer services to those few foreigners and die-hards who wanted them.

The War of the Princes and Borelgai proselytizing had brought a few more into the fold, but Winter was certain the gloomy old building hadn’t seen a gathering like this in living memory. The Deputies-General packed the floor of the main hall-the moldy pews had been hauled outside to clear more space-and members of delegations searching for private space had invaded the warren of rooms, damp corridors, and drafty wooden stairways behind the altar that had once housed the massive administrative staff charged with overseeing the spiritual welfare of all of Vordan.

Giforte and a band of staff-wielding Armsmen were vainly attempting to keep order, but the most they could manage was to protect the floor of the main hall-which, it had been decided, constituted the actual chamber of the Deputies-General-from being invaded by crowds from outside. Eager to get a glimpse of what was going on, the spectators had found the stairs leading up to the old Widow’s Gallery, a wooden-floored balcony that described a broad horseshoe shape around the back of the main hall, about thirty feet off the ground. Getting up took a bit of daring, since the stairways were in bad shape and the balcony itself was riddled with rotten boards, but it provided an excellent vantage point. From here, the adventurous could get a good view of the proceedings and, in spite of the best efforts of the Armsmen, throw chunks of floorboard at speakers they didn’t care for.

Those proceedings were not, in Winter’s opinion, worthy of all this attention. They had begun well enough, with the crimson-clad Sworn Bishop offering a nervous-sounding prayer, followed by a plea for fellowship and common sense from a pair of Free Priests. Once the clergy had departed, however, the wrangling over the agenda had begun. In fact, as best Winter could tell, things had not yet progressed to the point of arguing over the agenda; the deputies first needed to decide the order of precedence in which they would be allowed to offer points during the debate over the agenda, and this crucial discussion had thus far engaged the entire attention of all parties.

It was possible that this was taking an overly cynical view of matters. But in Winter’s current mood, she was inclined to see everything cynically. The spectators on the gallery sat near the edge, as far forward as they dared test the rotten boards, while Winter paced in the back, lost in shadows.

Jane and Abby obviously had. . something. Of course they did. When Winter listened to Abby talk about Jane, she could see an echo of the way she herself had felt all those years ago. Only willful ignorance had kept her from figuring it out sooner.

And, she thought, that’s for the best. It’s only to be expected, isn’t it? For all Jane knew, I was dead, or gone away never to return. Hell, I never planned to return. I wouldn’t have asked to her to spend her whole life pining away for me. And since she did find someone, how can I expect her to just drop everything the minute I come back?

All perfectly reasonable. So why is it that whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is the two of them? Jane’s face, and the little sigh she made as Abby’s lips touched her throat. Abby’s hand, sliding up her flank, pushing up her shirt.

She might have told me. Winter bit her lip. Either one of them might have told me. But that wasn’t really fair, either. Jane had made her intentions perfectly clear from the very start, and Winter had turned her down. No wonder she’s gone looking elsewhere.

Wood creaked and popped under her weight. She found herself on the left-hand side of the horseshoe, near the end, where the balcony most closely approached the altar. The steps leading up to the altar had been adopted as speaking floor, with the silver and gold double circle dangling from its long, thin chain directly behind the speaker. Someone plump and well-dressed whom Winter didn’t recognize was down there now, in the middle of what had obviously been a long address.

A small group of young women had occupied the very end of the horseshoe. Winter recognized Cyte, along with Molly and Becks from Jane’s Leatherbacks, chatting amiably and apparently no worse for wear after their brief stay in a Concordat prison. The rest were a mixed group of Jane’s girls and other young women from the South Bank who’d drifted up to have a look at the fun.

Before Winter could turn on her heel and stalk back in the other direction, Cyte noticed her and waved her over. Winter reluctantly picked her way through the chattering throng.

“Watch out for splinters,” Cyte said.

“I’m a bit more concerned with the whole thing giving out underneath us,” Winter said, sitting down carefully. “I don’t think it’s had a workout like this since the Civil War.”

Cyte laughed. Her eyes were dark, Winter noticed. Not with makeup, this time, but the wages of interrupted sleep. Her face was thinner than it had been, and more worn.

“It never fails,” Cyte said darkly. “Here come the scavengers.”

“I’m sorry.”

She indicated the fat orator, who was gesturing in the classical style and sweating profusely. “Look at him. A North Bank merchant, if I’m any judge, or maybe a banker. Never done an honest day’s work. And he wasn’t out in the streets when Orlanko turned his dogs loose. He didn’t storm the walls of the Vendre. But now he’s here, and we’ve got to listen to his self-righteous prattle.”

“The queen called the deputies to represent all of Vordan,” Becks offered. “Like it or not, that includes him and the other North Bankers.”

“At least we’re shot of the damned Borels,” another girl said. “Those are the real bloodsuckers.”

Cyte met Winter’s eye. They got up together and walked a ways down the railing. Inquisitive glances followed them, but no one spoke.

“You know why they call this the Widow’s Gallery?” Cyte said.

Winter shook her head.

“In the old days-the very old days, around the time of Farus the Conqueror-the Pontifex of the White decided that the churches had drifted too far toward being social centers instead of places for contemplation of the sins of mankind. He blamed it on unattached women, who were apparently smashing around society like loose cannons. So Elysium decreed that no women unaccompanied by a husband or male relative would be permitted to attend services.

“Of course, the women still wanted to come, and the local hierarchy was reluctant to lose their contributions. Some bishop came up with the idea that the women would subscribe funds for the construction of a balcony like this, so they could watch the service without being at it. And, since the unattached women who had money to spare were mostly widows, they called it the Widow’s Gallery.”

Winter forced a chuckle. “I’m glad I wasn’t born in the eighth century.”

Cyte tested the railing, found it sturdy enough to support her, and leaned against it with her chin in her hands. “Sometimes I feel like I was,” she said, nodding toward the floor. “Look.”

Abby was just standing up to speak in answer to the sweaty merchant. Aside from a few wives on the back benches, she was the only woman in the room.

“It was Jane who took the Vendre,” Cyte went on. “She turned the mob into an. . an army, practically. She sent us in to open the gates. Without that, the queen never would have given us the deputies! But if you look in the newspapers, you’d think Danton killed every Concordat soldier himself and cracked the doors of the prison with one blow of his mighty fist.”

“People listen to him,” Winter said. “He’s a symbol.”

“All he does is give speeches. Where is he now, when we need someone to shut these idiots up?”

“In his rooms, I think,” Winter said. “He’s supposed to have a big speech before lunch.”

“More platitudes.” Cyte snorted. “It should be Jane down there.”

“The queen invited her,” Winter said. “She sent Abby instead. This sort of thing. .” She shook her head. “Jane isn’t good at it.”

“Did she send you, too?”

Winter colored slightly. “No. I’m here on my own.”

There had been a few tense moments over that, back at the Vendre, which the Leatherbacks were still using as their temporary headquarters. After Jane had told Abby to speak for her at the deputies, Winter had announced that she was going as well. The expression on Jane’s face-half-perplexed, half-hurt, with a tiny hint of guilt thrown in for good measure-was something Winter wished she could forget.

She’d made some excuse about wanting to be present at such a historic moment, which Jane hadn’t bought. But Winter had been adamant. If she’d hung around the fortress, Jane would have cornered her eventually, and then there would be no avoiding the conversation she desperately did not want to have.

So I ran away. Again.

She swallowed and changed the subject. “What about you? You look a bit poorly, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Cyte stared gloomily down at the floor below. “It’s been a busy week.”

“Be honest.”

“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about. . you know. That night, in the Vendre.”

Winter nodded, sympathetically. “The first time someone tried to kill me, it was a while before I got a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s not even that,” Cyte said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I was scared-I mean, of course I was. But. .”

Winter waited.

“There was a guard I. . stabbed. In the stomach, right through him. I barely even thought about it. He was going to kill you, kill me if he got the chance, and I just. . did it.” She brushed her hand against her leg, as though trying to wipe something away. “It was so easy.”

Winter was silent. She tried to remember the first man she’d killed, but the truth was that she didn’t know. In a battle-even the little skirmishes the Colonials dealt with before the rise of the Redeemers-you rarely knew if a shot had hit or missed. When someone fell it was anyone’s guess if he’d been deliberately killed or clipped by a stray ball. In an awful way, that made it better. She’d felt like throwing up the first time she had to clean up a battlefield and bury a handful of enemy corpses, but there wasn’t anyone she could point to and say, “I ended that man’s life.”

“I know you thought I volunteered for that on a whim,” Cyte said, and raised a hand when Winter started to protest. “It’s all right. You tried to talk me out of it, and I appreciate that. The truth is that I did my thinking before we even got to the Vendre. When we heard what the Concordat was doing, and people in the cafés started talking about marching, I thought. . this is it. I told myself, ‘If you’re going out there, you have to be prepared for it. Are you ready to die, if that’s what it takes? Are you ready to kill?’ And I decided that I was, but it took. . I don’t know. It felt like a big thing to decide.

“And then, when it finally came to it, it was easy. Just a little thrust.” She held out her hand. “Just like I practiced in front of the mirror. I barely even noticed what he looked like until afterward. I was too busy worrying if there was someone else behind him who was going to stick me with a bayonet. It was only afterward that I started to think about it, and I wondered, Is that what it’s supposed to be like?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Or is there something wrong with me?”

There was a long silence. Winter felt as though she were supposed to offer something here, some piece of worldly advice from a sergeant to a young soldier. But this wasn’t Khandar, she wasn’t a sergeant, and Cyte wasn’t a soldier and was only three years younger besides. And anyway, what the hell am I supposed to say to that? She suddenly remembered rescuing Fitz Warus from Davis’ cronies, cracking Will over the head with a rock just to get him out of the way. She’d killed him, it turned out, without thinking about it or even really meaning to.

If there’s something wrong with you, it’s wrong with me, too. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it out loud.

“Excuse me,” someone said. “Are you Winter?”

They looked up to find a bearded young man in the colorful clothes of a dockworker waiting with a polite air. He had an odd, gravelly accent, and something about the way he stood gave him a military bearing. She pushed away from the rail, brushing fragments of crumbling wood from her hands.

“I am,” she said, cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Just a messenger.” He took a folded page from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Read it soon, and make sure you’re alone when you do.”

“Why? Who’s it from?”

The young man’s eyes flicked to Cyte, and he shrugged. “It’s what I was told. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” Winter echoed, baffled, but the messenger was already jogging back toward the stairs, raising little puffs of dust with every step. Winter looked down at the note, then over at Cyte.

“I’ll be with the others,” Cyte said, stepping away from the rail.

Winter unfolded the page. It bore only a few lines, in an elegant, aristocratic hand that made the signature redundant.

Winter-

Concordat action against the Deputies is imminent. I am on my way with help. Stall.

Janus

Her fingers tightened on the page, driven by a sudden, furious anger. He drops me here for weeks, without so much as a word, and now he tells me Orlanko is on the way and I’m to stall? How? Start a goddamned circus to keep them occupied? She glanced down at the hall floor, where Abby was still speaking, and fear replaced rage. Oh, Balls of the Beast. If the black-coats show up here, it’s going to be panic. What the hell does Orlanko think he’s doing?

She hurried back to where Cyte and the girls were waiting. Curious eyes followed her as she grabbed Cyte and dragged her away again, out of earshot of the rest.

“What?” Cyte said. “What’s going on? Was that a message from Jane?”

Winter shook her head. Impulsively, she tore a strip off the bottom of the note, removing the signature, and handed the rest to Cyte.

“Who’s this from?” Cyte said, glancing at the scrap in Winter’s palm. Winter crushed it into a ball.

“Someone I trust,” she said. I think.

“Then you really believe-”

“Yes.”

“But that’s insane. The queen invited the deputies here. It’s treason.”

“Be sure to mention that to the duke when you see him!” Winter snapped.

Cyte was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Give me a minute.” She glanced at the pack of girls, all of whom were now watching Winter and Cyte instead of the dull proceedings on the floor. “Let’s see if we can get them out of here, to start with. Once we’re downstairs I’ll try to find Giforte. There’s Armsmen here-maybe we can organize a barricade.” And he owes me a favor.

“Okay.” Cyte blew out a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’re armed?”

Winter shook her head again. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Me, either. Saints and fucking martyrs.” Cyte swallowed hard and straightened up. “Let’s go.”

Corralling the girls and convincing them that they needed to leave-and never mind why, lest someone scream and spark a panic-took longer than Winter would have liked. They got them moving in the end, though, and nothing untoward seemed to be happening as they trooped along the unsteady gallery, past other curious onlookers.

The main stairs to the gallery were at the bend of the horseshoe, near the rear of the main hall. On the far side, at the very end of the right-hand stretch, a small walkway led to a stone door letting on to the cathedral’s warren of second- and third-floor rooms. Winter led her charges toward the stairs, letting Cyte watch the girls while she stayed a couple of strides ahead.

The stairway was a long switchback, and when they got there it was shaking under the tread of many feet. No one was descending from the gallery, though, which meant that a crowd of people was coming up. Either some big group downstairs decided they want a better view, or else-

Four men came around the switchback, standing shoulder to shoulder to block the stairway. They weren’t immediately recognizable as Concordat-no black coats or shiny insignia, just plain homespun and worn tradesmen’s overcoats-but all four wore swords, and something about their purposeful formation shouted trouble to Winter. She backpedaled up the steps, only to collide with Cyte and Molly coming in the other direction. The rest of the girls pressed them forward, still chatting obliviously.

“Back,” Winter said. “Up the stairs. Go-”

Someone down below barked an order. Each of the four drew a pistol from under his coat.

One of the girls screamed. At the same time, shouts rose from the main floor, then cut off all at once at the sharp report of a pistol.

“I am Captain Richard Brack,” boomed a voice, carrying beautifully through the high-vaulted chamber. “Of the Ministry of Information, Special Branch. And everyone in this room is under arrest!”

“Everybody on the floor!” drawled one of the four ahead of them. “All you girls, get down now!”

“Get back!” Winter shouted, pushing the screaming Becks up the stairs. The other girls needed little encouragement to flee, stairs creaking under their panicked footsteps. “Cyte! Go that way!” She gestured frantically to the right.

“I said stop!” one of the men repeated, stepping forward of the line and lowering his pistol to point directly at Winter. “We’re with the Special Branch. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Winter met his gaze, and there was a moment of contemplation. He held the pistol awkwardly, and his sword belt looked brand-new and poorly fitted. And there was something in his eyes-a bit of fear, she thought. This wasn’t one of Orlanko’s trained killers, Winter was certain. She doubted he’d ever fired the weapon he held.

Special Branch must mean the reserves. Not the regular Concordat agents, but some cadre of thugs and mercenaries summoned into service for emergencies. Men who were more used to bullying helpless civilians than to actual combat, who expected to command respect simply by virtue of having a weapon, without having to use it. .

If she’d been facing an experienced soldier, what she did next would have been suicidal. But an experienced soldier would never have stepped so close to her in the first place. Winter’s left hand shot out and grabbed the pistol around the hammer. The Special Branch man gulped and pulled the trigger, convulsively, but he’d hesitated too long, and the flint slammed down hard on the back of Winter’s hand. This hurt like hell but produced no sparks. The thug’s eyes broadened in comical surprise, and Winter brought her right hand up and delivered a hard blow to his wrist. His fingers opened automatically, and she plucked the weapon from his grasp. Before his companions realized what was happening, she reversed it, clicked the hammer back, and leveled it at his forehead. He froze.

“Fucking Beast,” one of the others said, and three other pistols swung to bear on her.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Winter stepped back, carefully maintaining her aim, and climbed toward the shaky wooden walk. She desperately wanted to look over her shoulder, but if she took her eyes off the Special Branch men, the fragile moment could shatter. Five steps? Four? Three?

“There’s no way out,” said the man whose weapon she had taken. “We’ve got the building surrounded.”

“No reason for you to get shot, then,” Winter said.

That seemed to be the general opinion. They held their aim but didn’t fire, and she kept backing up. Something creaked beneath her, and her groping foot couldn’t find the next stair, throwing her dangerously off balance. Before she could trip, though, someone caught her from behind, and she heard Cyte’s soft grunt. Winter steadied herself on the top step.

“The first head that comes up those stairs,” she said, “gets a lead ball through the ears. Got it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she ducked around the corner, dragging Cyte with her. Jane’s girls waited in a huddle against the wall. Down below on the main floor, she could see more of the Special Branch men moving through the crowd with weapons drawn.

“Come on,” Winter said, shivering all over with released tension. She gestured with the pistol at the second-floor exit. “We may be able to get out that way. There has to be a back staircase.” When none of Jane’s girls moved at once, she let a touch of army sergeant into her voice. “Move!”

Floorboards creaked behind her as the Special Branch men came up the stairs. If she fired, they’d know she was unarmed and rush her; she closed the lock on the pistol, thrust it into her waistband, and ran for it. Cyte ran beside her, and together they chivvied the girls down the length of the Widow’s Gallery like dogs herding a flock of geese.

The motion attracted some notice from the Special Branch men on the ground floor, but they had their hands full for the moment with the unruly crowd. Winter could hear several deputies competing to shout the loudest denunciation of Orlanko’s “illegal and treasonous” actions.

They’re brave, Winter thought. Stupid, but brave. Brack barked an order, and his thugs closed in around the offenders. Whatever reluctance they might have had to use their pistols did not apply to their fists, and the opposition was soon silenced.

By then Winter had reached the doorway at the end of the walk, stepping off the creaky wood onto the solid stone floor of the cathedral’s upper stories. A corridor ran in both directions, with several doorways leading through it into dimly lit spaces, and Winter wasn’t sure which way to go.

“Out, out, out,” she muttered. “Which way is out?”

“Toward the back,” Cyte said. “I know there’s a door by the old kitchens, but they’ll be watching it.”

“Maybe we can get the drop on them.” Winter gestured the girls to clear the doorway, and looked back down the walk. The four Special Branch men were following, but cautiously.

Someone tugged at her sleeve. It was Becks, red-faced but looking determined.

“I’m sorry I screamed,” she said. “I was just surprised.”

“It’s fine-”

“But we can’t leave! Not yet.” Becks looked at her companions and got a round of nods. “We have to help Danton first.”

“Help Danton?” Winter blinked. “Why?”

“He’s up this way.” Molly, standing behind Becks, pointed down the corridor. “We have to get him out of here.”

“Orlanko let him get away once,” Becks said, with a fifteen-year-old’s certainty. “If they catch him this time, they’ll kill him.”

“Danton can take care of himself,” Winter said. “I-”

“She’s right,” Cyte said. She met Winter’s eye.

“You said yourself he’s just a symbol,” Winter said, quietly.

“Symbols can be important,” Cyte said. “If we can get him out of the cathedral, Orlanko hasn’t won yet.”

The Special Branch men were getting closer. Winter hesitated a moment, then sighed. “All right. Stay close. They may have sent someone up from the back.”

“I can see two of them,” Cyte whispered.

“It sounds like there’s at least one more inside,” Winter said. “Maybe two.”

“Three or four, then.”

“Yeah.”

Cyte swallowed. “We dealt with four at once in the Vendre.”

“We were lucky.” Winter looked down at the pistol in her hand. One shot. No way to reload, even if I had time. “And we were armed.”

They stood in a narrow stone corridor, outside the entrance to a suite of rooms that had once served as some priest’s living quarters. A couple of mismatched chairs and a folding table stood in the outer room, and a single lantern hung from a wall bracket. Another doorway led deeper into the suite, flanked by two men-not the Special Branch thugs, but real Concordat black-coats. As Becks had guessed, Orlanko was taking no chances with Danton. Beyond that doorway, some kind of altercation was taking place, and Winter could hear a muffled female voice shouting.

“We might be able to take one of them,” Molly said. She and Becks had followed Winter and Cyte to peek into the suite, while the rest of the girls waited at the end of the corridor to watch for the Special Branch. “We could work together.”

She sounded uncertain, and Winter didn’t blame her. She doubted Molly and Becks put together outweighed one of the guards. Some of Jane’s Leatherbacks were fighters, but those were mostly older girls, and these two were not among them.

Winter shook her head. “Stay here. If it goes wrong, run for it.”

“But-” Molly began. Becks grabbed her arm and she fell silent.

“I’ll take the one on the left,” Winter said to Cyte. “You’ve got to keep the other one busy until I can get ahold of a sword.”

“Okay.” Cyte ran her fingers through her hair and blew out a long breath. “Let’s go.”

Winter drew back the hammer on her pistol, reflexively checked the powder in the pan, and stepped around the corner. The two Concordat guards took a moment to register her presence, absorbed in what was happening in the next room, and in the time this provided her Winter took a long step forward and shot the one on the left.

At least, she pointed the pistol in his direction and pulled the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed, but instead of a bang and a gout of smoke, the barrel emitted a noise more like phut and coughed a thin trickle of blue-gray vapor. Too late, Winter recalled the old pistoleer’s maxim: The more critical the shot, the more likely it was to misfire.

Cyte was already coming around the corner, running at the man on the right. He started to shout something as she cannoned into him, wrapping her arms around him to trap his hands at his sides. Her momentum slammed him back against the wall with an oof, knocking the breath out of him.

Winter’s own target clawed for his sword. She reversed the pistol and held it by the barrel like a club, hoping to get a blow in before he was ready, but he managed to get his blade out and drove her backward with a horizontal slash. She circled left, grabbed one of the wooden chairs, and sent it tumbling toward him, but he kicked it out of the way and pressed forward, forcing her to backpedal until she felt the wall against her shoulder blades. She tried for his head with the pistol, but he caught her wrist with his off hand, pinning her in place for a thrust.

Behind him, she could see Cyte’s victim trying to break free, trapped arms straining. He lurched forward and managed to get his knee up into her stomach. She doubled over, and he slipped one hand free of her grip and tangled it in her black hair. Cyte screamed.

Molly’s charge hit Winter’s opponent in the small of the back, pushing his thrust wide to strike sparks off the stone wall to Winter’s left. He let go of Winter and whirled around, sword humming dangerously through the air. Molly dropped flat, whimpering. Becks, coming up behind her, made a grab for the soldier’s sword arm and missed, and his backhand cut opened a long gash on her arm and flicked a spray of blood onto the wall.

The two girls had distracted him long enough, though. Winter gripped the pistol in both hands and brought the iron-heeled butt down on his head as hard as she could. Something crunched, and he dropped bonelessly, sword slipping out of his grip to clatter on the floor. Winter scrambled to scoop it up, nearly cutting herself in the process, and came up just in time to see Cyte’s opponent shake her off and send her crashing into a table. He turned round, saw Winter, and reached for his sword, but her lunge caught him in the stomach and he folded up with a groan.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” someone said, from the doorway. Winter spun to see two more Concordat soldiers. Behind them was a solid-looking door that they had apparently been trying to break down. Both went for their swords. Winter caught the one in the lead with a low cut as his blade came out of its scabbard, opening a bloody gash on his leg and sending him stumbling to the floor. The other one got his weapon out but backed away cautiously, toward the door he’d been pounding on. His fallen comrade had dropped his blade to clutch the wound on his leg, and Winter edged past him, coming almost into range of the fourth man. They stood, sword tip to sword tip, for a long moment.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man snarled.

Winter thought about trying to explain but didn’t see much point. She shrugged. The man was getting ready to say something else when the door behind him opened, quietly, and someone hit him over the head with a chair. That sent him sprawling forward, off balance, and Winter spitted him simply by remaining still with her weapon raised. He made a bubbling noise and slid off the blade to lie still on the floor.

Left eye to eye with Winter, holding the remains of the chair in her hand, was a girl about Molly’s age, with blond hair and heavy freckles. She was breathing hard. Winter nodded to her, cautiously, and backpedaled into the outer room.

“Molly? Becks?” she said.

“I’m okay,” Becks said, through clenched teeth. She sat on the floor, her wounded arm held out straight, while Molly busied herself tearing strips from a soldier’s shirt to make a bandage. “It’s. . uh. . not deep.”

“Cyte?”

Cyte waved from the wreckage of the table and started pulling herself to her feet. A bruise was blooming on her cheek, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. “Sorry. He got away from me.”

Winter nodded at them, a small knot in her chest untying itself. She turned back to the inner room, where the girl had emerged to kick the dropped weapons well out of range of the wounded soldier, who wisely remained curled in a silent ball on the floor. In the doorway behind her, Winter saw Danton, staring at the bloodied men with slack-jawed disinterest.

“Who are you?” the girl said. She was trying to keep her tone calm, but her breathing was fast and she seemed close to panic. Winter, realizing she still held a bloody sword, set it down for the moment and tried to sound reassuring.

“I’m Winter,” she said. “I’m with Mad Jane. Are you one of Danton’s people?”

“Something like that,” the girl said. “My name is Cora. I came up here. . when. .”

Her eyes fell on the dead man, watching in horrified fascination as a pool of blood spread from where he lay facedown, and she trailed off.

“Cora,” Winter said. The girl’s head jerked up, her eyes full of tears. Winter held out her hand, and Cora took it tentatively. Winter drew her carefully past the bodies and into the outer room.

“Thank you.” Cora knuckled her eyes. “I was watching from the gallery when the Concordat came in. I ran back up here to see if I could get Danton to move, but the black-coats blocked us in.”

“We were on the Widow’s Gallery. Special Branch men are all over the place.” Winter glanced back down the corridor, to make sure the rest of the girls were still keeping an eye out. “We were hoping we could get out through the back.”

Cora shook her head. “I poked my head down the stairs that way. They’ve got it blocked. But we don’t need to get Danton out. We need to get him down to the floor.”

“What? Why?”

“He has to speak,” Cora said.

Cyte, on her feet now, came over. “What makes you think they’ll let him?”

“I don’t think they’ll have a choice,” Cora said. “He can be very persuasive.”

Winter shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Orlanko has to have a hundred armed men out there. Danton wants to make a speech to them?”

“Have you seen him speak?” Cora said.

Winter paused. She had, back at the Vendre, and it was undeniable that the effect on his listeners had been nothing short of sensational. The mob of prisoners had taken the Concordat troops apart. But we took them from behind, by surprise. Even if he got a similar response out of the deputies, the Special Branch thugs were ready and waiting. The crowd might overwhelm them, but it would be a bloodbath.

Stall. That was what Janus had asked her. It might work. If I can get him to play for time. .

“Let me talk to him,” Winter said.

Cora shook her head. “He. . doesn’t like to talk to most people, up close.”

“Just for a minute.” Winter bit her lip. “If we’re going to do this, I need to know he understands what he’s getting into.”

“I don’t. .,” Cora began. She paused. “You can try.”

Winter nodded and went back down the short, bloody corridor. The door at the end was still open, and Danton was sitting in a flimsy chair, staring amiably at nothing. Several empty bottles stood by his feet. Is he drunk? That would explain the vacant look. He was well dressed, at least, in an elegant, understated coat with gold buttons, hair neatly combed and hat pinned in place. When he noticed Winter, he waved.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Winter said cautiously. “I’m Winter.”

“Hello,” Danton repeated, and laughed.

“Cora told me that you want to give your speech,” Winter said, trying to get a read on his expression. “You know what’s going on down there, don’t you?”

“They’re waiting for me to tell my story,” Danton said, with a guileless grin. “I’m ready. Cora told it to me, and I’m ready.”

“Your. . story? I don’t understand.”

“I like telling stories.”

Something is very wrong here. Was it some kind of act? Winter stepped up beside him, and he stared vacuously up at her, blue eyes empty of anything but simple curiosity.

“You could get killed,” Winter said. “Do you understand that?”

He blinked, and smiled wider. “People like my stories.”

“Stories. .”

A cold suspicion spread through Winter. She reached out, deliberately, and put her hand on Danton’s shoulder.

Deep inside her, the Infernivore stirred. It rose from the dark pit of her soul, winding out through her body and into her hand, sniffing the air for prey like a hunting dog. And in Danton, something responded-another presence, a bright, airy, colorful thing, recoiling in frantic terror. Infernivore halted, coiled to pounce, needing only an effort of Winter’s will to spring across the narrow gap between them and devour the alien magic.

Danton sensed none of this. He looked up at Winter, still smiling. Slowly, she lifted her hand from his shoulder.

“I don’t think we can get him to the floor,” Winter said, reemerging into the outer room. “They’ll be watching the stairs.”

Cora nodded. “I think we can get to the gallery. I didn’t run into anyone on my way here. It looks out over the main floor from behind the altar. Everyone should be able to see him.”

“Wait,” Cyte said. “You’re going along with this?”

Winter nodded.

“What if someone takes a shot at him?” Cyte said. “Danton’s important. He’s the heart of. . of all of this! He shouldn’t risk himself.”

Winter caught Cora’s eyes, and a quiet understanding passed between them. He’s not the heart of it. He’s just a. . a tool. Cora and her friends had been using him, or using the magic that coiled inside him. Like the Khandarai used Feor, and Orlanko used Jen. But, at this point, Winter didn’t see any other choice.

“He wants to do it,” she lied. “And I think. . people will listen.”

Becks, pale as a ghost but still excited, jumped to her feet. “Everyone will listen! Even the Concordat. I always said, if people would only listen to Danton, everything would work out!”

She stumbled, light-headed, and Molly caught her by the elbow and held her up.

Winter sighed. “All right. Cora, you lead the way to the gallery. Cyte and I will be right behind you. You girls stick close to Danton and give a shout if anyone comes up behind us.”

The gallery was a small stone balcony that opened unobtrusively onto the great hall some thirty feet above the altar. The Widow’s Gallery was open for the public to watch the proceedings, but the gallery provided a more private space for visiting priests and other dignitaries to observe the service. Since they were in the old priests’ quarters, it wasn’t far, and no Special Branch soldiers barred their progress.

A low stone railing lined the gallery, and Winter stopped Danton and the others at the doorway. She crouched and crept to the edge of the balcony, trying to get a sense of what was going on below.

The Concordat captain, Brack, seemed to have things well organized. The deputies sat on the floor in circular groups, surrounded by rings of Special Branch men with drawn pistols. A few black-coats prowled the gaps between them. Brack himself stood near the altar, and more soldiers waited by the exits and against the walls. She could see dark figures moving on the Widow’s Gallery, across the way.

Just below Brack, a couple of black-coats with a big ledger were processing the arrestees. Small bunches were driven up to them by grinning Special Branch thugs, and the prisoners gave their names and were directed back to one group or another in accordance with instructions that Concordat men read from their book. Another man took down everything that was said. Brack wasn’t paying much attention to the proceedings, though, and had eyes mostly for the big double doors at the back of the hall.

He’s waiting for reinforcements, Winter realized. This operation was obviously an emergency measure, hence the hastily recruited Special Branch mercenaries. Sooner or later more of the Last Duke’s men would be along to take the prisoners in hand. Or maybe not. Janus said help was coming. And if Jane has heard about what’s happened. .

Winter glanced back at Danton and shook her head. We have to do the best we can with the cards we’ve got. She crept back to the doorway. Cora was whispering urgently in Danton’s ear, and he nodded occasionally to show that he was listening. Cyte, standing behind them, still looked disapproving. The girls were waiting in the corridor, clustered around Becks, who had apparently earned some kind of legendary status by nearly losing her head to a Concordat swordsman.

“Something wrong?” Winter said to Cora.

“Some last-minute advice,” the girl said. “To suit the text to the circumstances.”

“Is he ready, then?”

Danton bobbed his head happily. “I’ve got it.”

“Go ahead, then. They’re waiting.” He shuffled past, and Winter caught Cyte’s eye. “If they start shooting, help me drag him back into the corridor.”

Cyte nodded, grimly. Winter, the Infernivore’s hunger tingling in her fingertips, watched Danton walk onto the gallery. A change came over him as the crowd came into view-he stood up straighter, his gait became more confident, and he strode over to the rail and took hold of it with casual confidence. Before anyone below noticed he was there, he started to speak.

Winter had been afraid he’d begin his address with a bellow that would draw pistol fire from the soldiers, but Danton surprised her. His voice started nearer to a whisper, but a whisper that somehow echoed from the vaulted ceiling and cut through the low murmur of the Concordat scribes going about their work. Winter saw people look around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, and by the time they saw Danton he had already hit his stride.

“-the gathered representatives of the nation, assembled in the light of hope, are here to discover if the great issues of our time can be resolved, not through royal fiat or the horror of war, but rather by men of good sense coming together in friendship to discuss the things which divide them-”

There were some good turns of phrase there, and Winter-watching with new appreciation-wondered who had written them for the orator. He was pleasant, reasonable, somehow both unremarkable and spectacular. What he said was convincing, not because it was him saying it, but because it just made such good sense.

And yet. .

At first Winter thought it wasn’t working. He was good, but not that good. It was hard to believe that this was the Danton who had sparked all the trouble. She had a moment of panic, wondering if his magic had somehow failed.

Then she took in the slack-jawed expressions on the faces of Cyte and Cora beside her. The hall below had gone absolutely silent, every face turned up toward the gallery with wide, staring eyes. Danton’s voice rose, his stentorian baritone ringing through the chamber. His hands came up, punctuating his address with sweeping, slashing gestures, as he moved from the high purpose of the assembly to the strength of the forces that would inevitably oppose it.

“They will slander us, they will bribe us, they will crush us underfoot and blast us with cannon,” Danton boomed. “The corrupt forces that have infiltrated the state will bring against us every instrument at their disposal. But I am not afraid. Let them come! It only shows that we are what they fear, the people united to drive them from their filthy pits and into the unforgiving light of day-”

It’s just me, Winter realized. The tingling feeling had spread from her hands throughout her body, as though all her limbs had fallen asleep and had pins and needles. She wondered if it was the Infernivore actively protecting her, or if its mere presence made her immune to the spell Danton wove with his voice. For one absurd moment, it made her feel left out, envious of whatever profound emotion everyone else was clearly in the grip of. She felt, suddenly, very alone.

But not entirely alone. Someone was moving, down among the sea of frozen faces. The Special Branch thugs had put their pistols away or simply let them fall, and stood side by side with their erstwhile prisoners, trapped like flies in amber by the power of Danton’s voice. Even Brack and the other black-coats didn’t seem to be able to move. But one man walked freely, threading his way through the mob toward the altar. He wore a full-length robe with long sleeves, but instead of the gray of a Free Priest or even the pure white of the Sworn preacher, he was in black from head to heel. His face was obscured by a black, faceted mask, which sparkled like glass in the light from the braziers.

Winter shot to her feet. “Look out!”

No one heard, of course. Not the enthralled people down below; not Danton, who seemed oblivious; and certainly not the man in black. His hand came out of his sleeve, holding a pistol.

“Ahdon ivahnt vi, Ignahta Sempria. In the name of God and Karis the Savior, we stand against the darkness.”

Danton had reached his peroration. “We will fight them,” he promised. “I will not let those who died at the Vendre have sacrificed in vain. I will lay my life down alongside theirs, in the name of Vordan and the queen, and I know that every one of you would do the same! If our determination remains unbroken, then we can never-”

Winter fumbled for her own pistol. But, of course, she hadn’t thought to reload it when she had the chance.

The masked figure fired. Danton halted in midsentence, as the boom of the pistol echoed around the hall. The orator brought one hand to his chest and held it up, slick with blood. His face went slack, and he looked at Winter and Cora with a frown.

“I don’t understand,” he said, and toppled backward.

Smoke rose from the barrel of the masked man’s pistol. He tossed it aside, turned to face the crowd, and spread his hands as if in benediction.

The mob went mad.

MARCUS

Marcus had never thought to find himself in the royal carriage of the king of Vordan. It was as opulent as he’d expected, but all the cushions and velvet couldn’t manage to disguise the fact that it was, basically, a box on wheels, not that far removed from the meanest hired cab. He felt oddly disappointed.

It was certainly roomy, but it wasn’t far into the journey when Marcus started to feel that it wasn’t big enough. He sat on the backward-facing bench, sinking into the thick cushions, and Janus sat beside him. Opposite them, prim in her black mourning dress, was the young queen. Apart from an exchange of courtesies when they’d mounted, none of the three had said a word.

The carriage proceeded down the Ohnlei Road toward the city at an unhurried pace. Spread out in front and flanking it on either side were Janus’ Mierantai Volunteers, followed by a tighter wedge of Armsmen. The Mierantai driver kept the horses to a walk to allow these escorts to keep pace.

Marcus had questions for Janus, but hesitated to ask them in front of Raesinia. After a few minutes, however, he decided anything would be better than more tense silence. He leaned toward the colonel and cleared his throat.

“Hmm?” Janus looked up. “Is something wrong, Captain?”

“I just thought, sir. .” Marcus hesitated, glancing at Raesinia, but the queen was looking pointedly out the window. “I think you owe me some kind of explanation.”

Janus’ lip quirked. “I suppose I do, at that.”

“Why arrest Danton? You must have known what would happen.”

“It seemed the best way of bringing the anti-Borelgai feeling to a head.” Janus leaned back in his seat. “It was also based on my reading of Orlanko. The duke has always operated from a position of strength, and he has a corresponding tendency to arrogance.”

“So you stirred up the mob-”

“In order to turn them against the Borels and Orlanko,” Raesinia said. “With the help of. . revolutionary elements in the city. I must say I never thought Orlanko would go so far as to try to seize Ohnlei itself. Though you obviously did, my lord Mieran.”

Janus waved a hand. “It was always a possibility. I thought it best to be prepared.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Raesinia ground out, “if, in the future, you would share these possibilities with me.”

Marcus gave a hollow laugh. “Best of luck with that, Your Majesty.”

Janus flashed a smile. Marcus leaned back against the velvet, trying to keep his head from spinning as he worked through the implications.

Eventually he said, “So, what happens now? If you would care to enlighten us.”

“Now?” Janus shrugged. “Orlanko has attempted to capture the deputies, but we have enough men”-he tapped the window glass-“to overwhelm his hirelings. God willing, there’s been no bloodshed, and we ought to be able to convince most of them to surrender. Then the queen will give the assembled representatives of the people the news of the duke’s fall, and swear to abide by whatever decisions the deputies ultimately arrive at.” He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “After that, I suppose, we’ll have to turn our attention to the financial situation. We dare not abrogate our debt to the Borelgai outright, but-”

Raesinia cut him off. “I’d feel better if we had Orlanko himself in chains. And I’m worried about Sothe.”

“Unfortunately, the Cobweb is eminently defensible, and no doubt stuffed full of booby traps as well. I’m hopeful that Orlanko can be convinced to accept a comfortable exile, once it becomes clear he’s lost. Digging him out by force would cost a great many lives.” Janus covered his mouth and yawned. “Apologies. It’s been a long few days. As for Miss Sothe, from what I know of her reputation, I suspect she will manage.”

Raesinia frowned, but before she could say anything there was a rap on the carriage door. Janus leaned over and opened it. One of the Mierantai had hopped on the running board, and saluted with one hand while hanging on with the other.

“Sir! We’re approaching the Saint Dromin Bridge, as you requested.” He paused. “It looks like it’s blocked, sir. There’s a bit of a. . mob.”

“Here?” Janus frowned. “Stop the carriage.”

The soldier relayed the command to the driver, and the carriage rolled to a stop. With the door open and the wheels still, Marcus could hear the sound of the mob, an indistinct murmur that put him in mind of the sea. They were stopped at the intersection of Saint Dromin Street and Bridge Street, and one row of buildings still blocked Marcus’ view of the river to either side. Straight ahead, however, the street mounted the footings of the high, double-arched bridge, and the bridge was dark with the press of humanity.

The mob had sighted them, too. There was a collective roar, and those in the lead broke into a run. They packed the bridge from edge to edge, crowding dangerously against the railings. A complete cross section of the city of Vordan seemed to be represented: nobles draped in colorful silks, prosperous merchants in somber, well-cut coats, laborers in leather vests and ragged trousers, all the way down to vagabond wretches wrapped in patched homespun. The crowd that had besieged the Vendre had been mostly Docksiders, but here the South Bank residents were outnumbered by well-dressed North Bankers.

“They must have come from the deputies,” Janus said, stepping out of the carriage and shading his eyes with one hand. “Most of them are in their Sunday best.”

“Sir.” Lieutenant Uhlan came forward, gesturing to his men. “Please move back.”

Red-and-blue-uniformed Mierantai were forming a line in front of the carriage. The first rank of men knelt while another rank formed up behind them, and rifle barrels fixed with gleaming bayonets swung into position. There were enough of them to block the street in front of the carriage, but they made for a very thin line. Marcus was forcibly reminded of the Battle of the Road, watching a horde of Khandarai peasants charge the Colonial lines under the goads of their mad priests. That time, the line had held. But in Khandar I had the Preacher and a battery of twelve-pounders.

The sergeant leading the palace Armsmen caught Marcus’ eye, looking for orders. Marcus grimaced and gestured him forward, and the green-coated men spread out uncertainly behind the soldiers. The mob was still coming, approaching the footing of the bridge, though their front ranks were slowing at the sight of all those rifles.

“Sir,” Marcus said. “What now?”

Janus looked over his shoulder at Raesinia, who was just emerging from the carriage. She paused for a moment on the running board, looking over the heads of the Mierantai at the advancing mob.

“I take it this was not part of the plan?” she said.

“No,” Janus said, calmly. “Something has gone wrong. Badly wrong, I should say.”

“What do they want?”

“I have no idea.”

Raesinia squared her shoulders. “Wait here, then. I’ll go find out.”

Janus flashed a smile. “You know I can’t do that, Your Majesty.”

For a moment Raesinia looked as though she might object, but in the end she only shrugged. “Do what you like.”

Janus caught Marcus’ eye, and they hurried forward to take up positions on either side of the queen. Lieutenant Uhlan barked an order and a narrow path opened through the disciplined Mierantai. Janus threaded his way through first, followed by the queen and Marcus.

The leading edge of the mob had come to a stop about a hundred yards away, where the bridge touched solid ground again. Those in front were hesitating to move closer to the threatening line of bayonets, while the mass behind who couldn’t see pressed forward. The bridge’s arch acted as a kind of amphitheater, and Marcus found himself looking up into rank after rank of staring faces. Every eye was on Raesinia as she came forward in the company of the two uniformed officers.

Some kind of a scuffle was taking place at the front of the crowd. Eventually three people forced their way through to emerge onto the bare cobblestones. It took them a moment to get their bearings, but before too long they squared off and walked out to meet Raesinia and the others halfway. In the lead was a young man with a bright green coat and a rapier on his hip, marking him as a noble. His two companions were more soberly dressed, and neither was armed. All three were disheveled from their trip through the mob, but the leader made an effort to brush some of the dirt from his coat before stepping forward to introduce himself.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing very low. “I am Deputy Alfred Peddoc sur Volmire, at your service. This is Deputy Dumorre and Deputy Maurisk. We are here to speak on behalf of the Deputies-General.”

Marcus saw Raesinia go stiff as a board, just for a moment. Whatever had afflicted her, she soon snapped out of it and inclined her head graciously.

“Deputy Peddoc. This is Count Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, my Minister of Justice, and Captain of Armsmen Marcus d’Ivoire.” She paused. “But I must admit to some confusion. I was on my way to address the Deputies-General, which I was under the impression was in session at the cathedral.”

Peddoc hesitated. Maurisk was absorbed in studying Raesinia’s face, but Dumorre stepped forward into the silence.

“The deputies came under attack. Mercenaries in the employment of the Minister of Information attempted to illegally take the entire assembly into custody.”

“I take it the attack failed,” Janus said.

“It was thwarted,” Peddoc said, “by Deputy Danton Aurenne. He took the floor and made a speech so moving that everyone present threw down their weapons and embraced one another like brothers in the service of Vordan.”

“Until he was assassinated,” Maurisk said.

“Assassinated?” Raesinia stepped forward, and Marcus caught a slight hitch in her voice. “Danton is dead?”

Peddoc nodded solemnly. “He was a martyr to our cause, and his sacrifice will not be in vain. The Deputies-General will be established.”

“Of course,” Raesinia said. “But what are you doing here?”

“The deputies are nothing but a polite fiction so long as the Last Duke and his supporters control the city,” Maurisk said. “His Concordat have terrorized us for long enough.”

“I quite agree,” Janus said. “In fact-”

“As such,” Maurisk went on, cutting him off with a glare, “the Deputies- General will assume its proper place over all the essential functions of government. Until a proper vote can be taken, we must ask that all armed men, in whoever’s service, submit to our authority.”

“Y. . yes,” Peddoc said, glancing uncertainly at Maurisk. “Well. It seemed best, under the circumstances. We don’t know how deep the Last Duke’s influence extends, but it must be cut out, root and branch. All who surrender their weapons will be treated with courtesy. Your Majesty, of course, will accompany us as an honored guest.”

“I can assure you,” Marcus said, “my lord Mieran had nothing to do with the Last Duke-”

“That is for us to decide,” Maurisk said. “And he would do well to remember that it was his order that led to the arrest of Danton and the fall of the Vendre.”

“I have not forgotten,” Janus murmured. “May I have a moment alone with Her Majesty?”

Maurisk looked sour, but Peddoc interrupted him. “I don’t see why not.”

Janus took Raesinia’s arm-a shocking breach of protocol, under other circumstances-and the three withdrew a few steps.

“If we run,” Marcus said, keeping his voice low, “we can make it back to the carriage. A few volleys will slow them down, and we ought to be able to get it turned around before-”

“Are you suggesting I should ask Count Mieran’s men to fire on the crowd?” Raesinia said.

“They would, if Your Majesty required it,” Janus said.

“I’m just suggesting an option,” Marcus said. “I don’t like the way this Maurisk is talking.”

Raesinia had an odd smile on her face. “I don’t, either. But I don’t see what choice we have. Even if we make it away, Lieutenant Uhlan and his men would be slaughtered. And then what? Back to Ohnlei?”

“I’m forced to agree.” Janus looked over his shoulder at the mob. “I. . was not expecting this.”

Coming from Janus, this was a shocking admission. Marcus let out a sigh. “Then we go along quietly?”

Raesinia nodded, decisively. She turned around and went back to face Peddoc.

“I want you to guarantee fair treatment for these officers and their men,” she said.

“Of course,” Peddoc said.

“We will hold them for a time,” Maurisk said. “But when things are settled, they will be released.”

“Very well.” Raesinia drew herself up, though she still made for a tiny figure. “I place myself in your care, then. Count Mieran, would you ask your men to stack arms?”

Janus turned to address Lieutenant Uhlan. His orders were almost drowned out by the cheers of the mob. Shouts and hurrahs started at the front, where people could see what was happening, but they spread backward through the vast mass. Like sparks down a powder trail, the news and the exultation passed back over the bridge and spread outward in ripples, through the heart of the city.