The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER FIVE

WINTER

In an effort to calm her jangling nerves, Winter was trying to make an inventory of all the things that were making her anxious. This didn’t help, but once she’d started she found she couldn’t stop.

First and foremost was the dress, or “the damned dress” as she thought of it. It had been uncomfortable to begin with, but she’d assumed that it wouldn’t take long before old habits reasserted themselves. Now it had been two days, and while she was able to go for minutes at a time without thinking about it, sooner or later she would turn around quickly or get hit by a gust of wind, and the feel of the long skirt’s fabric brushing against her legs would have her grabbing for it in a panic.

The top was nearly as bad. It was by no standards indecent, but the short sleeves and billowing fit made her feel half-naked. The figure it draped was, while not generous, still clearly that of a young woman, and every time Winter caught sight of her reflection in a shopwindow she had to fight a powerful urge to find something with which to cover herself. She even found herself missing the tight pinch of her self-tailored undershirts. At least she still had a hat, even if it was a slouching felt thing instead of the brimmed officer’s cap she’d grown used to.

Second-or maybe it was part of the first-was the constant dread of impending discovery. Winter had lived for two years among the men of the Royal Army, knowing that any slip that led to someone finding out her true gender would lead to her being locked up and sent home at the very best. Walking around a crowded city, dressed like this, was worse than walking around naked. She felt like the most brazen of whores, shouting out her most closely held secret for all to hear. The apparent unconcern of those around her would be shattered at any moment by-someone, some authority, who would drag her away somewhere to answer for her crimes.

Third was the more mundane anxiety that she was not getting anywhere with her assigned task. She had given herself a day of simply walking around in her new garb, getting used to the idea. She’d somehow expected to attract stares from every eye, as though the news would race out ahead of her that here was Winter Ihernglass, dressed as a girl! In fact, nobody paid her the least attention, aside from a few street vendors who took her relatively well-washed appearance to mean that she had money.

Walking through the streets of a city unobserved was a new experience for Winter. A few vague early memories aside, she’d spent her entire childhood at Mrs. Wilmore’s and had gone more than a decade without venturing farther from the old manor house than the neighboring estates. Then she’d run away to Khandar. The Colonials had had the run of the city before the Redemption, but their uniforms and skin color meant they would always be objects of attention.

It was something they’d all gotten used to, and she’d stopped noticing the feeling until it was suddenly gone. Here she was just a girl, one among thousands, a little out of the ordinary for this neighborhood but no more so than dozens of others. She felt as if some sorcerer had turned her invisible.

The second day, she’d resolved to get down to work. Janus had supplied her with plenty of coin, and she’d rented a room at a hostel, then set about canvassing the town for some sign of the Leatherbacks, the revolutionary group she was supposed to be joining. This proved to be less than successful. Winter found that while people didn’t pay her any mind walking by, the minute she opened her mouth she was irretrievably marked as an outsider. Quite apart from her not knowing any of the locals, her voice lacked their twanging accents, and she was so ignorant of the local dialect that she found some of the patois borderline incomprehensible.

The district was loosely referred to as the Docks, a poorly defined area covering roughly half of Vordan’s Southside. It was bounded in the north by the bank of the Vor and in the south by Wall Street, a broad thoroughfare that was all that remained of Vordan’s medieval city wall. There were more houses beyond Wall Street, but that was widely agreed to be where the Bottoms began, a swampy, unhealthy district that even the Docks looked down on. In the west the river and the street met at the southern water battery, forming a section of city shaped like a wedge of cheese. To the east, though, the Docks gradually petered out, residential buildings, shops, and wine sinks gradually transforming into the warren of dirt roads and vast warehouses that surrounded the Lower Market.

Life in the Docks had three poles, one of which was those warehouses. Every day, thousands of tons of goods-produce, meat, cereals, animal fodder, and other foodstuffs for the most part-were brought into the city via the Green Road from the south, the wagons forming a line miles long down the swamp-bound causeway. Thousands more tons-almost anything that could fit aboard a ship, including silk and coffees that had originated in Ashe-Katarion-entered the city from the west, shipped upriver by barge from Vayenne at the Vor’s mouth or from another city on one of the river’s many tributaries. More barges, narrower and shallow-drafted, brought stone, cheeses, and wool from upriver. All of these things needed to be moved from boat to wagon, wagon to boat, boat to warehouse, or any combination of the three, and a substantial portion of the people living in the Docks made their living doing exactly that.

The second pole was the Fish Market, hard against the river. People who worked in the Fish Market were easily distinguishable by scent, and mostly lived in their own section of the district known as Stench Row. Every morning before dawn the fishermen laid out the day’s catch, and representatives from kitchens all over the city, from the noble estates to the lowliest slop houses, came to browse. Thriving if whiffy businesses at the edges of the square processed the rotten rejects and unwanted organs into various forms of fertilizer or pig slop.

On the southern side of the Docks was the Flesh Market, which Winter had learned was not nearly as vile as it sounded. It was simply a large square where farmers from downcountry could come to hire extra hands, and as such waxed and waned with the seasons. Right now, at midsummer, business was booming as the planters hired help in advance of the autumn harvest. Farmhands were traditionally paid their first week’s wages in advance, and the presence of large numbers of young men with money in their pockets had encouraged the growth of a complex network of brothels, wine shops, and feuding gangs of thieves.

All of this Winter had been able to discover in the first couple of days, just by wandering around and observing who went where. That there were discontent and revolutionary activity going on, too, was beyond a doubt, because everywhere she looked there were posters and painted graffiti inveighing against the king, the Last Duke, the Borelgai, the Sworn Church, the tax farmers, the bankers, and any other group that could conceivably hold any power. One intense-looking young man had given her a pamphlet claiming that there was a conspiracy among the greengrocers to take over the city, which even as an outsider Winter had to say sounded a little unlikely.

What she hadn’t been able to find was any evidence that the Leatherbacks existed outside of popular fantasy. The broadsheets sold at street corners for a penny were full of their doings, how they’d robbed this shop or beaten up that Armsman, but details were suspiciously few. There were certainly no Leatherbacks chapter houses, no signs saying “Revolutionary Conspiracy This Way!” and by the third day Winter had started to wonder what Janus had been thinking to give her this assignment. She’d spent a lot of time and quite a bit of his money in wine shops and taverns, buying rounds all through the evenings and pumping her new best friends for information, but no one had been able to tell her anything beyond vague rumors.

Nevertheless, focusing on the task at hand had calmed her down a bit, as had the reflection that it could have been much worse. Since that horrible night in the ancient temple in Khandar, she’d played host to a thing-a demon, the Church would have it, though the Khandarai word was naath or “reading”-that Janus had named Infernivore. A demon that ate other demons, that had torn the power right out of the body of the Concordat agent Jen Alhundt. Winter could feel it, deep in her mind, waiting like a river crocodile, placidly but with the coiled-spring potential for sudden violence.

She’d been certain, when Janus insisted she accompany him on the breakneck voyage home, that it was Infernivore he really wanted. Winter had expected him to be sent into battle against Black Priests and supernatural horrors; her current task, while it went against the grain, was certainly better than that.

Now she was sitting in a tavern that fronted on the River Road, which was as close as the Docks came to an upscale area. It was a big establishment, built to serve the evening rush of workers coming off their loading shifts, and at midday there were only a scattering of patrons. The plank floor was covered in sawdust (easier to sweep up spilled beer, not to mention blood and vomit) and the round tables were big, heavy things on wide, solid bases, unlikely to get smashed in the event of roughhousing. The mugs and flatware were of the cheapest clay kind, the sort that would start to flake and fall apart after a few washes, but Winter suspected they rarely survived that long. Clearly, the tavern-keeper knew his clientele.

Winter had one of the tables to herself. Most of the rest of the customers were women, sitting in pairs or small groups and talking quietly. A few older men or odd-shift workers congregated near the fire, where a desultory dice game was in progress. A bored-looking serving girl brought Winter a plate of something she claimed was beef, boiled into unrecognizability and floating in its own juices inside a rampart of mashed potatoes. She attacked it voraciously. Two years eating either army food or Khandarai cuisine had given her a longing for good old-fashioned Vordanai fare, and she’d discovered the tavern meals here in the Docks were exactly the sort of bland, brick-heavy stuff she’d eaten as a girl at Mrs. Wilmore’s. The beer was good, too. The Khandarai made good wine and liquor, but what they called beer was, at best, an acquired taste.

She hadn’t intended this to be an intelligence-gathering stop. That usually came later in the day, as chairs filled up and the drink started to flow freely. She barely looked up at a nearby rustle, and nearly choked on a mouthful of beef when a woman flopped into the chair beside her with a flounce of colorful skirts.

“Hi,” the woman said. “You’re Winter, right?”

Winter sputtered, grabbed for her beer, and gulped frantically. The woman waited patiently while she swallowed, and Winter used the opportunity to look her over. She was a girl of eighteen or a little older, with a broad, heavily freckled face and brown hair in a tightly pinned bun that exuded a halo of frizzy, escaping strands. She wore a long skirt with a red-and-blue pattern and a sleeveless vest, exposing pale-skinned arms and shoulders already showing a hint of red from the summer sun. Her button nose was peeling, and she scratched it absently.

“I’m Winter Bailey,” Winter said, when she’d recovered. That was the name she’d given in the course of her investigations, and she didn’t see any point in denying it. “May I ask who you are?”

“I’m Abigail,” the girl said. “You can call me Abby. Everyone does. Do you mind if I have a drink?”

“I don’t think you need my permission for that,” Winter said, buying time.

“A drink here, I mean. I’d like to talk to you.” Before Winter could answer, Abby waved at one of the serving girls and pointed to the mug in Winter’s hand, then held up two fingers. “I hope you’ll join me.”

“Much obliged,” Winter said. She looked down at the remains of her meal and decided she wasn’t hungry anymore. “Would it be fair of me to ask how you know my name?”

“Perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances,” Abby said. She gave a smile so sunny Winter could almost feel the warmth on her face. “You’ve been asking questions about the Leatherbacks, haven’t you?”

Winter froze. But, again, she could hardly deny it. She reached for her mug, took a sip, and nodded cautiously.

“And you’re obviously not from around here,” Abby said.

“Neither are you.” Abby lacked the characteristic Docks accent.

“True! I suppose that makes us strangers together.” The serving girl arrived with two more mugs, and Abby took them and set one in front of Winter. “Now, either you’re a Northside girl who has gone chasing the wrong rumors-”

Winter was about to speak up, since that was exactly what she was claiming to be, but Abby went on quickly.

“-or you’re a spy. Armsmen, Concordat, something like that. Although, no offense, if you were Concordat I would expect you to do a better job of blending in.”

“So I clearly can’t be a spy,” Winter said. “I’m too incompetent.”

“You can’t be a Concordat spy,” Abby corrected. “I wouldn’t put it past the Armsmen to send some clueless girl over to the Docks to ask silly questions. Or you could be a very good spy, posing as an incompetent one to get your targets to let their guard down. That sounds more like Orlanko to me.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

“We were curious which it was. Had a little money on it, in fact. So I thought, well, the quickest way to get an answer is always to ask directly.”

“So you want to know if I’m a spy?” Winter said.

“Exactly!”

“I’m not a spy.”

“Ah,” Abby said, “but that’s exactly what a spy would say, isn’t it?”

Winter raised her mug, found it empty, and took a long pull from the new one Abby had ordered. The girl matched her enthusiastically.

“All right,” Winter said cautiously. “I’ve answered the question. Now what?”

“What do you know about the Leatherbacks?”

“Only what I’ve heard,” Winter said. “They stand up to the Concordat and the tax farmers, try to help people. And that the inner circle is all women.”

“Not many people know that last part,” Abby said. “Or else they don’t believe it. So you just decided to come down here and try your luck?”

“I was at the University,” Winter said, feeling a bit more comfortable. This part of the story she’d practiced. “My father owned an apothecary northside. We weren’t rich, but he saved everything he could to send me there. He didn’t have a son, you see, and I was supposed to carry on the family business.”

Abby nodded appreciatively. “Go on.”

“I don’t know all the details. But Father got involved with a tax farmer named Heatherton.” This, Janus had assured her, was a real person. “He fell behind and got into debt, then got further into debt trying to dig himself out. Eventually Heatherton turned up with a warrant that said he owned the shop, and Father went to prison. They tossed me out of the University as soon as my tuition dried up.” She tried to put a little quaver into her voice, as though she were only remaining calm by dint of much effort. “I’d heard stories, and I had a little money left, so I thought. .”

“You thought you’d come and ask for help?”

Winter shook her head. “That would be silly. I know I’m not going to get the shop back, or even get Father out of prison. I just wanted to. . do something. To hurt them. To help someone else, if I could. I don’t know.” It wasn’t hard to feign embarrassment. “Maybe it was a stupid idea.”

“You’d be surprised what can come out of stupid ideas,” Abby murmured.

“Are you one of them, then?” Winter said. “Is it true about the Leatherbacks?”

“Some of the stories are greatly exaggerated,” Abby said. “You might say I’m an associate member.”

“Can you get me a meeting with them?” Winter let a touch of her real eagerness creep into her voice. She thought it would be in character.

Abby sighed. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’ve been down here for days,” Winter said. “They have my father. Of course it’s what I want.”

“You know the story of Saint Ligamenti and the demon, right? ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”

“If I remember the story,” Winter said, “Saint Ligamenti tricks the demon and sends it back to hell.”

“It depends on which version you read,” Abby said brightly. “All right. Are you going to finish that, or are you ready to go?”

Winter looked down at the plate, a sudden unease sitting poorly amid the boiled meat and mashed potatoes in her stomach. “Let’s go. I’ve lost my appetite.”

“How did you join the Leatherbacks?” Winter said, as Abby led her away from the crowded River Road and into the dense tangle of plaster-and-timber buildings that housed the population of the Docks. Aside from a few major thoroughfares connecting the market squares, there were no official streets, just a wandering warren of alleys established by consensus and tradition. With the sun well up and no clouds in the sky, washing lines had sprouted from every doorway and window, like fast-growing creepers adorned with fluttering, colorful flowers. They had to pick their way carefully to avoid getting a face-full of someone’s underthings when the wind blew the wrong way.

“By doing a lot of really stupid things and getting very lucky,” Abby said. “Honestly, what I deserved was to be found floating naked in the river with my throat slit. It must be true what they say about God looking out for idiots and children.”

That stymied Winter for a while, conversation-wise. Abby led confidently but apparently at random, taking this turning or that without a second thought, making wide circles when a more direct route seemed available. Winter wondered if it was all for her benefit, to keep her from remembering the way to some secret hideout. If so, it was wasted effort-Winter had been lost the moment they left sight of the river. Maybe Abby is just lost, too.

“I ran away from home, if you can believe it,” Abby said eventually. They separated to pass to either side of a fishmonger gutting his latest acquisitions into a bucket in the middle of the street. “I didn’t even have a good reason. We’re a good family, plenty of money, nobody taking a switch to me or anything like that.”

“What happened, then?”

“I had a difference of opinion with my father. His ideas are. . old-fashioned.”

Winter did her best to sound sympathetic. “Marriage?”

“Politics.”

Abby stopped in a tiny square where five of the little streets came together, and looked around. She selected the narrowest one, a thin dirt lane squeezed so tightly between two houses there was barely room for two people to pass each other. Winter looked at it dubiously.

“Come on,” Abby said. “This way.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” Winter said, hurrying a little to keep up.

“Right here.” Abby turned around, in the center of the alley, and gave her sunny smile again. “One of the things I learned pretty quickly was not to follow strangers down narrow alleys, even in the middle of the day.”

A change in the quality of the light told Winter that there was someone behind her, blocking the mouth of the alley by which they’d come in. Another shadow loomed across the exit. She considered her options. The buildings close on each side meant it was unlikely she’d be able to scramble past an attacker, and she wasn’t a good enough climber to get up the pockmarked plaster walls before someone got a hand on her. The damned dress would make running difficult, too. She had a knife, stashed in her waistband beside her coin purse, but the only thing she could think to do with it was take Abby hostage. That didn’t seem like a good option; the girl looked fleet and spry, and in any case Winter wasn’t sure she could cut her throat in cold blood.

Instead she smiled back and kept her hands carefully at her sides. “I hope it wasn’t too painful a lesson.”

There were footsteps in the dirt behind her. Two men, it sounded like. A quick kick to the groin or stomach might get her past one, but that would leave the other, with no room to get around. A nicely planned ambush, I must say.

“I really don’t know who you are,” Abby said, “but you certainly were never a University student. We have close contact with the people there. At the same time, I meant what I said about the Concordat.”

“That you think I’m a spy?”

“That I think you’re not competent enough to be one of Orlanko’s.” Abby shrugged. “This is your chance to come clean. If you’re working for Big Sal or one of the other dock gangs, we’re not going to hold it against you. Though they ought to know not to mess with us by now.”

“I’m not working for Big Sal.”

For a moment, Winter thought about telling the truth, but she held back. She wasn’t certain how Abby would react, and there was always the possibility that this was some kind of hazing ritual. Admit defeat early, and at best she’d have to go back to Janus and tell him she’d failed utterly. At worst-she didn’t want to think about at worst. Better to stick to the story for now.

“Have it your way,” Abby said. “Don’t squirm. You might hurt yourself.”

A hood came down over Winter’s face, smelling of leather and horses. Thick hands gripped her arms, and she felt herself being lifted into the air.

“I’m still not sure,” Abby said, her words muffled by the leather over Winter’s ears. “The Last Duke can’t think we’re that stupid.”

“Could be an assassin,” came another young woman’s voice. “Come to kill the boss.”

“How’s she going to manage that tied up on the floor?” said another.

“You hear stories,” said the first, darkly. “Some of the things that come out of the Cobweb aren’t human.”

Winter thought of Jen Alhundt, and shivered. You have no idea how right you are.

She was lying on what felt like threadbare carpet. After dragging her through the streets for some distance, with a little bit of spinning and doubling back for good measure, the men who’d carried her had delivered her to a doorway. They’d bound her hands, then departed, leaving Winter in Abby’s charge. At that point she might have been able to make a run for it, but tied and blind she wouldn’t have gotten farther than the nearest wall, so she’d allowed Abby to lead her through a building and up at least two flights of stairs. All around her, muffled by the hood, were the sounds of people talking, laughing, joking, swearing, as though they were passing through a barracks or a dormitory. The words were indistinct, but a couple of times someone hollered Abby’s name in a friendly fashion. All of the voices Winter could make out were female.

After delivering her to this carpeted room, Abby had left for a minute and returned with these two other girls, who were apparently to make some kind of decision about her fate. It was, Winter thought, time to speak up.

“Is this how you treat all your guests?” She tried to put some bravado into her voice, but the leather hood somewhat spoiled the effect.

“What?” Abby said.

“I said,” Winter began, but accidentally got a mouthful of leather and gagged at the awful taste. She spent a few moments coughing, the inside of the bag getting slick and hot with her own breath.

“Oh, take that thing off her,” Abby said, exasperated. “She’s not going to bite us, I think.”

Someone loosened the drawstring at Winter’s neck, and the bag came off. She drew in a great breath, thankful for even the dusty, stale air, then looked around curiously. They were in a small, unfurnished room, with only a rug on the floor and a boarded-up window. Candles burned and flickered in the corners. Abby had been joined by two girls of roughly her own age, seventeen or eighteen, dressed for labor in trousers and leather vests over linen blouses, with their hair tied up in colorful kerchiefs. The one on the left looked so pale she seemed about to faint, while the one on the right was enormous, a head taller than Winter, with the thick, muscled arms and ruddy complexion of someone used to serious outdoor work.

They hadn’t searched her, which meant she still had the knife, but her hands were well secured. If they left her alone, she might be able to squirm around to the point where she could do something with it, but for now she settled for glaring at Abby.

“I said,” Winter said, “do you treat all your guests this way?”

“We don’t get many guests,” Abby said. “We keep to ourselves, for the most part. That’s part of what makes this so difficult.”

“I’ll do it,” the smaller girl said eagerly. She took a knife from her belt, a thick cleaverlike kitchen blade with a glittering edge that spoke of many loving hours of honing. “She must be Concordat.”

“If she’s Concordat, we’d better ask Conner first,” the big girl said thoughtfully. “He might not like it if she turned up dead.”

“I certainly wouldn’t like it,” Winter said. “Especially since I’m not Concordat.”

“Put that away, Becca,” Abby said. “Nobody’s killing anybody until the boss gets back. It shouldn’t be long now.”

Becca put the knife away with a certain reluctance. Abby looked from her to the other girl. “Chris, do you think you can watch her for a while?”

The big girl nodded. Abby and Becca went out and closed the door behind them. Winter didn’t hear the click of a lock, but Chris settled herself deliberately against it and crossed her arms. Her posture dared Winter to try to get past her, but there was something off about her eyes. Winter thought there was fear there, and uncertainty, and something else she couldn’t quite identify.

Winter rolled over until she got her legs underneath her and sat up, maneuvering awkwardly with her arms still bound behind her back. Chris’ eyes followed her every move, as though she expected her to pounce like a mad dog.

“I’m not Concordat, you know,” Winter said.

Chris grunted and shifted uneasily against the door.

“My name is Winter,” Winter said. This got another grunt. “You’re Chris? Is that short for Christina?”

“I shouldn’t talk to you,” Chris said. “If you’re a spy.”

“If I’m a spy,” Winter said, trying to stay reasonable, “then you’ll kill me, and it doesn’t matter what you’ve told me. And if I’m not, then it doesn’t matter anyway. Besides, is your name that important?”

Chris’ lip twisted. Winter sighed.

“I’m just trying to pass the time,” she said, honestly. “Waiting for someone to decide if they’re going to kill you is. . unpleasant.” Her mind raced back to Adrecht’s mutiny, and the look on Sergeant Davis’ face as he tried to choose between rape and murder. With an effort, she pulled her thoughts back to the present.

“It’s Christabel,” Chris said finally. “After my mother.”

“That’s nice. I never knew my mother. She died when I was very young.” This wasn’t part of her cover story, but a bit of ad-libbing seemed to be called for. It’s the truth, anyway.

“My mother died,” Chris said. “Last year, of the root flu. And my da’s in prison.” Chris looked at her feet. “I tried to keep our patch going, with my brother and sisters, but last winter we nearly starved, and in the spring the tax farmer came. They took my brother for the army, and sent me and my sisters. .” She stopped.

“I have a. . friend in the army,” Winter said, desperate to keep the conversation going. “He went to Khandar with the Colonials. Do you know where your brother ended up?”

“Somewhere to the east,” Chris said. “He said he would send letters, but I never got any. James was never much for reading and writing.”

“How long have you been here?” Winter said. “With the Leatherbacks, I mean. If that’s who you people are.”

“Don’t try to trick me,” Chris said, crossed arms tightening. “Don’t think I’ll let you get away with anything, just because I’m not as crazy as Becca. If you’re a spy. . if you came here to hurt the boss, I’ll. .”

“It’s all right,” Winter said, cursing mentally. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Chris had decided it was safest to say nothing at all. They sat in silence, Winter twisting her hands and worrying at the cord that bound them, until there was a knock at the door.

“Chris?” It was Abby.

“Yeah?”

“Is she still tied?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened a crack. “The boss wants to talk to her alone.”

“It might not be safe!” Chris protested.

“Don’t tell me that. Come on. We can wait outside.”

“But-”

“Chris.” This was a third voice, an older woman. The boss? Something about it tickled the back of Winter’s mind. “Get out of the way, would you?”

Chris opened the door, reluctantly, and stepped outside. Winter struggled to her feet, staggering a little, and waited.

Another woman came into the room and closed the door behind her. Winter’s eyes went very wide.

That is not possible.

The boss of the Leatherbacks looked a year or two older than Winter herself, tall and buxom, dressed in the trousers and leather vest that seemed to be a uniform. Unlike the others, she left her hair unbound, cut man-short like Winter’s own and clumped by sweat into a spiky mess-

— dark red hair, soft as silk, sliding through her fingers like liquid fire-

— green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the sun-

— that lip-quirking smile, alive with mischief.

Not possible.

Jane took one step closer, then another, cocking her head as she examined Winter’s trembling face. Winter felt frozen in time, like a mouse staring into the golden eyes of a cat, her whole body locked rigid. Her hands were still tied behind her, and she could feel her fingers curling over the cords and digging into her palms. Something thick blocked her throat.

Not possible. .

Jane crossed the rest of the distance between them in two quick steps, grabbed her by both shoulders, and kissed her. Winter felt as if she were frozen in a block of ice, a marble statue. Jane’s lips were soft and sweet, tasting faintly of mint, and the smell of her sweat catapulted Winter across time and space to a hedgerow behind the Nursery. Sweat, and mud, and a tentative touch-

Winter’s reaction was instinctive. It couldn’t have been anything else-her conscious mind was still too stunned to contribute, but the instincts built up over two years in hiding, terrified of this very scenario, did her thinking for her. Her hands were still bound, but by twisting her body she could get some leverage, and she pushed back against Jane’s grip and drove her shoulder into the other girl’s chin. Jane’s teeth came together with a clack, and she staggered backward. Winter hooked one of her ankles with her own and turned the stumble into a fall, and Jane hit the threadbare carpet with a muffled oof. Winter backed up until she felt a wall against her shoulders, heart pounding as though it meant to explode.

I’m sorry. She couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t get anything out. Couldn’t even breathe. Her eyes filled with tears.

Jane rolled over and climbed to her knees, a trickle of blood smeared at the corner of her mouth. She fixed Winter with an unreadable look-those green eyes-and got silently to her feet.

Jane! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . But her traitor throat was still locked closed. Jane turned and walked to the door, wobbling a little. It shut behind her with a slam that shook dust from the plaster, and Winter’s legs gave way underneath her. She rolled onto her side and curled up on the carpet, unable to get her arms up to stanch the flow of tears.

Winter had no idea how much time passed. It could have been weeks. Something in her chest felt as though it had broken loose, a steel shard that drifted through her innards, tearing great ragged holes with every breath and every heartbeat. Her face was wet with tears, and her arms ached and were cramping.

There was a knock at the door. It took her a moment to realize that there was no one in the room but her, so she must be meant to answer.

“Yes?” she tried to say. It came out as a cough. She rolled off her side to a sitting position, spit a glob of phlegm onto the carpet, and tried again. “What?”

“It’s me.” Jane’s voice.

“Oh.”

“May I come in?”

Winter swallowed hard. She tried and failed to wipe her snotty nose on the shoulder of her blouse, and blinked tears out of her eyes. “Y. . yes.”

The door opened, slowly. Winter got a brief glimpse of Abby waiting anxiously in the corridor before Jane closed it again.

They stared at each other for a long moment. There was still a smear of blood on Jane’s cheek, and a corner of her lip was already swelling.

“I-” Winter swallowed again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Jane said. Her eyes were bloodshot, Winter noted, as if she’d also been crying. “Coming at you like a horny sailor. You had every right.”

“It’s just. .” Winter tried to gesture, but her hand only tugged weakly at the cord behind her back. “Do you think you could untie me?”

“Oh!” Jane’s eyes went wide. “Goddamn. I didn’t even think about that. Just a minute.”

A knife appeared in her hand, so fast that Winter didn’t see where she’d gotten it from. She put her other hand on Winter’s shoulder, a tentative touch with fingers extended, and Winter obligingly turned round. The cord fell away, and Winter winced as sensation flooded back into her fingers and filled with pricking needles. Jane stepped back, formally, as though they were fencers at a duel, and made the knife disappear again.

“I had this. . idea,” Jane said, as Winter cautiously worked her fingers and felt her shoulders pop. “A fucking fantasy, more like. One day I’d be walking along, and I’d turn a corner, and you’d just be. . right there. And I’d grab you, and kiss you, and then everything would. . be all right. Just a dream, right? When I opened the door, I wasn’t sure I was awake.” She ran her hand through her spiky hair and gave an exasperated sigh. “That sounds like I’m making excuses. Fuck. No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s. . all right,” Winter said. “I didn’t hurt you very badly, did I?”

“Busted my lip pretty good, but I’ve had worse.” Jane shook her head, eyes locked on Winter’s face. Winter took her sleeve in one hand and dabbed at her eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “I am awake, right? You’re really here? This isn’t some goddamned dream?”

“Apparently not,” Winter said. “Though I think I may still be in shock.”

“Goddamn. Goddamn.” Jane shook her head. “They told me they’d brought in someone called Winter, and I thought. . no. That’s not the way the world fucking works.” She swallowed, and her voice got very quiet. “I thought you were dead.”

That caught Winter off guard. “What? Why?”

“I went looking for you. You weren’t at Mrs. Wilmore’s, and nobody knew where you’d gone. There was this rumor that you’d escaped, run away, and become a soldier or a bandit chief, but I never believed it. I thought for sure that you’d died somehow, and that withered bitch was covering it up. Did you really get away?”

Winter nodded. “I thought. .”

“How? What happened?” Jane caught Winter’s expression, and the eager tone in her voice fell away. “What’s wrong?”

Three years of nightmares. Winter bit her lip. “I never thought I’d see you again. I didn’t think you’d. . want to find me.”

“What?” Jane took a half step forward, then checked herself. Her cheeks flushed, and her hands gripped the edges of her trousers and twisted the fabric. “Winter. Why would you say that?”

“It. . it was. .”

Winter’s throat was blocked again. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped at them angrily with her sleeve. Jane swore under her breath, and after a moment Winter felt her standing close, inches away. She hovered, halfway to gathering Winter to her chest.

There was a long pause. Winter stepped forward, pressing her face against Jane’s shoulder, and Jane’s arms surrounded her with a tangible feeling of tension released. After a moment, Winter felt Jane’s cheek resting on the top of her head.

“I like the short hair,” Jane whispered, after a brief eternity. She rubbed her cheek back and forth. “It tickles.”

Winter smiled shakily, face pressed into the leather of Jane’s vest. I have to say it. She wanted to stay here, in the circle of Jane’s arms, and never leave. But if I don’t say it, none of this is real.

“It was my fault,” Winter said, barely audible. “I was supposed to get you out. That night, when Ganhide. . visited you. I was. . I couldn’t do it.” That was the night that had haunted her dreams for years. The night she’d been supposed to escape with Jane, only to find that the brutish Ganhide had gotten to her first.

“You’ve been worried about that?” Jane squeezed Winter a little tighter. “Balls of the Beast. Winter, I was crazy. You know that, right? I mean, I told you to kill him if you ran into him.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“No shit you couldn’t do it. You were what, seventeen? And if you had done it we’d probably both be hanged by now.” Jane rubbed Winter’s shoulder. “Come on. I was a teenager, too, and scared out of my wits. That ‘plan’ would have gotten us killed.”

“I got all the way to the door,” Winter said. The lump in her throat was melting. “I had the knife. Ganhide was right there. I almost. .”

“Karis Almighty. Really?” Jane rocked her, gently, back and forth. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

“But. .” Winter rubbed her face against Jane’s vest one more time, then looked up. “I left you for him. I just left you there. How can that. . how can you say that was all right? He took you away and-”

“Married me?”

Winter nodded, lower lip trembling.

“That was the plan all along, remember? One of my better plans, from when I was a little more in my right mind. I told you it would be easier to get away from some idiot husband than from Mrs. Wilmore and her crew of dried-up old cunts. I was out of Ganhide’s place in less than a month.”

She smiled, and that almost made Winter start crying all over again. It was the same Jane smile, crooked at one side, alive with intelligence and mischief. Winter let out a breath, and something else escaped with it, something she’d been holding in the pit of her stomach for three years. Her body felt light, as if she’d just shed a sixty-pound pack, and her limbs were as wobbly as after a long day’s march. She shifted, to unpin her arms from her sides, and nearly fell over. Jane linked her hands at the small of Winter’s back to keep her upright, and Winter let her own hands rest on Jane’s shoulders.

“You really don’t. . hate me? You’re not angry?” Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

“Winter, listen to me.” Jane matched her stare, eyes locked on each other. “I should apologize to you. I never should have asked you to do that. Hell, I wouldn’t have done it myself. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Winter said. “I think we’ve both apologized enough.”

Jane’s smile returned. They held perfectly still for a long moment, still staring. Winter felt as though they were breathing in unison, as though animated by a single bellows. Jane licked her lips nervously.

“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you,” she said, in a whisper.

“It’s all right.”

“You’re sure? What I did before-I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t-”

“It’s all right.”

Winter smiled, and when Jane hesitated a moment longer, she pulled herself up and kissed her instead. She still tasted of mint, and very slightly of blood from where she’d cut her lip. Winter’s hand slid across Jane’s back, up the nape of her neck, and twisted itself in her hair.

“Your hair looks nice short, too,” Winter said, when they finally came up for air. Their faces were only inches apart, noses almost touching. “But I’m going to miss wrapping it around my fingers.”

“You know what’s strange? I miss brushing it. It was always such a chore, but it made me feel calm, sometimes.” She shook her head. “It was that fucker Ganhide who made me cut it, you know. He said it only got in the way. Maybe I ought to grow it out again.”

“You really just ran away from him?”

“More or less.” There was an odd look in Jane’s eyes, as though she was seeing something she preferred not to remember. She blinked rapidly, and it was gone. “But what happened to you? I couldn’t find anything but rumors. It was like you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”

Winter closed her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “That,” she said, “is a long story.”

MARCUS

Vice Captain Giforte came into Marcus’ office and dropped a stack of pamphlets on his desk, beside the piles of reports and cleaning rotas.

“This is becoming a real problem,” he said.

“Good morning, Vice Captain,” Marcus said mildly.

He sipped from his cup of coffee and made a face. For five years in Khandar, he’d put up with drinking coffee because there wasn’t a decent cup of tea to be had in Ashe-Katarion for love or money. The supply of dried leaves Janus had brought along had been almost as much a boost to Marcus’ morale as the two thousand extra troops. But now that he was back in Vordan, where the best tea in the world could be had on any street corner for a couple of pennies, he found himself missing the thick, dark coffee of Khandar. A Khandarai would have confused what the Vordanai called coffee with river water. Marcus set the cup down, regretfully.

“Good morning, Captain,” Giforte said.

“You’re fully recovered?”

“Yes, sir. It was only bruises.”

“And you’ve made arrangements for. .” Marcus realized, with a guilty pang, that he’d already forgotten the names of the Armsman who had died. He cleared his throat. “You’ve made arrangements?”

“Yes, sir. By the grace of His Majesty, families of men who fall in the line of duty are well provided for.”

“Good.” That was a new wrinkle. None of the men Marcus had commanded in the Colonials had had any family to speak of. “And Eisen?”

“He should recover fully, sir. He expressed a desire to be back on duty as soon as possible. I believe he wanted to thank you for saving his life.”

“Let him take as much time as he needs.” Marcus scratched his cheek. “Now. What are these?”

“Broadsheets and pamphlets, sir. All printed since last night. Take a look.”

Marcus flipped through the stack, looking at the front pages. The inking had a smudged, hasty look, with lots of big blocks of barely readable text. They differed in what they considered important, but the phrase “One Eagle and the Deputies-General” appeared in nearly every headline. Marcus tapped it and looked up at Giforte.

“What does this mean?”

“‘One Eagle’ refers to the traditional price of the four-pound loaf, sir. It’s over four eagles now. And the Deputies-General was the assembly that first offered the crown to Farus the Conqueror after-”

“I know what they are, Vice Captain. Why have they got everyone so worked up?”

“It’s Danton,” Giforte said. “That’s his new slogan. Cheap bread and political reform.”

“Fair enough. So what’s the problem?”

“He’s drawing big crowds, sir. Bigger every day. People are starting to take notice. They say the Exchange is getting skittish.”

“I don’t think protecting people from falling share prices is in our jurisdiction.”

“No, sir,” Giforte said. “But I’m starting to hear talk.”

“Talk from whom?”

The vice captain’s features froze into a grimace. “Leading citizens, sir.”

Ah. In other words, someone’s been leaning on him. Marcus himself hadn’t been in place long enough to attract that kind of pressure-presumably it was easier to ignore him and go straight to the man with the real authority. “Has Danton done anything illegal?”

“Not that I can see, sir. Although we could probably come up with something if you wanted to have a chat with him.”

“If he hasn’t done anything wrong, then I don’t want to worry about him just yet.” Catching the vice captain’s expression, he sighed. “I’ll pass your ‘talk’ on to the minister. He can decide whether there’s anything to be done about Danton.”

“Yes, sir.” Giforte looked relieved to have passed the burden up the chain of command.

“Is there anything else pressing this morning?”

“Not particularly, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus pushed his coffee away. “I’m going to have a chat with our prisoner. See if a night in the cells has done anything to loosen his tongue.” Giforte’s interrogators had questioned the man; they’d taken all evening, to no avail.

Giforte’s face froze again. He could give Fitz a run for his money, Marcus thought, in the carefully-not-saying-how-stupid-you-are-sir department.

“Are you certain you want to do that yourself, sir?” the vice captain said. “My men are more. . experienced with that sort of thing. He’ll talk eventually.”

“The minister wishes me to ask some questions that need to be kept as quiet as possible,” Marcus lied. “If he’s uncooperative, I’ll ask His Excellency if I can brief you.”

“As you say, sir. Be careful. We searched him thoroughly, but he may still be dangerous.”

Marcus remembered a discordant tone, like the world tearing apart, and ripples in the air that shattered solid stone statues like toys. You have no idea.

The majority of the prisoners kept by the Armsmen were distributed among several old fortresses in the city, more convenient than the old palace grounds. The city’s most notorious prison, the Vendre, belonged to Duke Orlanko’s Concordat, but some of the most dangerous Armsmen prisoners went there as well. The cells in the Guardhouse were for captives of special interest, who had to be kept separate from the general prison population for one reason or another. Marcus had directed that the young man they’d taken in the Oldtown raid be kept in a cell as far as possible from any others, with a guard on his door at all times. So far, he seemed utterly mundane, but Marcus didn’t want to take chances.

The guard was waiting in front of the solid iron-banded door, and he saluted at Marcus’ approach.

Marcus nodded acknowledgment. “Has he said anything?”

“No, sir. Not a peep. He takes his meals readily enough, though.”

“All right. Let me in. Then make sure we aren’t disturbed until I call for you.”

“Yessir.” With another salute, the green-uniformed Staff turned a key and swung the door open. Inside was a small room, divided in half by iron grillwork. There were no windows, and an oil lamp hanging from a wall bracket provided the only illumination. A small hatch at waist height provided a way that food and water could be passed in without unlocking the cell door.

Marcus’ half of the room was empty. The other half had a cot with a sheet and a lumpy pillow, a bucket, and a three-legged stool. The prisoner, now dressed in black-dyed linens, sat beside the grille, looking comfortable. He glanced up as Marcus entered, and smiled.

“Captain d’Ivoire,” he said, in his faint Murnskai accent. “I thought I would see you eventually.”

Marcus shut the door behind him, the latch audibly snicking closed. He regarded the young man for a long moment, then shook his head. “Have you got a name?”

“Adam Ionkovo,” the young man said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“How did you know my name?”

“You featured centrally in the reports from Khandar. There was even quite a good likeness.”

“Whose reports?”

Ionkovo waved a hand. “The reports His Grace the duke was good enough to share with us, of course.”

“Then you don’t deny it. That you work with the Concordat. That you’re one of-”

“The Priests of the Black?” Ionkovo nodded. “No, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to argue the point. Though of course I am not an ordained priest, merely an. . adviser.”

The Priests of the Black. Jen Alhundt, the Concordat liaison who had become Marcus’ lover, had turned out to be a member of that order, long thought extinct. More than a member-one of the Ignahta Sempria, the Penitent Damned, with powers that Marcus could hardly comprehend. His stomach crawled as he looked into Ionkovo’s bright, beaming eyes.

“Why did your men try to kill us?” Marcus said, after a moment.

“They weren’t ‘my men.’ They were protectors assigned to us by the order, and they took their assigned duties very seriously. I advised them to surrender, but. .” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry it had to come to bloodshed.”

“So am I.”

Silence fell again, stretching on until it became awkward. Ionkovo scratched his chin and yawned.

“Come, now, Captain,” he said. “We both know why you’re here. Save yourself a lot of trouble and just ask your question.”

“This was a mistake,” Marcus said. “I shouldn’t have come here. How could I possibly trust anything you tell me?”

“If you won’t ask, I will.” Ionkovo leaned forward. “Our reports said you were very close to Jen Alhundt. But we have no record of what happened to her, in the end. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“No? I worked closely with her for years. We were practically family. It’s only natural to ask about family, don’t you think?”

He’d hit the word “family” a little too hard. Or did he? Marcus glared through the bars, anger mixing with a roiling uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

A lifetime ago, when Marcus had been only a boy going through his first round of education at the War College, a fire had ripped through the d’Ivoire estate. His mother, father, and little sister had lost their lives, along with most of the servants. It had been an accident, they told him, a tragic, stupid accident that had destroyed his life when it had barely gotten started.

Except. . Jen had as good as told him it wasn’t an accident. That there was some truth, buried in the burned-out wreckage, that he’d been too young and too blinded by grief to see. She’d been doing her best to enrage him, and he’d tried to dismiss it, but. .

Are you certain? she’d asked. It nagged at him, like a half-lifted scab he couldn’t help picking at, no matter how much it hurt. Does he know something?

“You want to ask, Captain,” Ionkovo said. “It’s written in your face. How about a trade, then? Answer my question, and I’ll tell you the truth.” He spread his hands. “What’s the harm? It’s not as though I’m going anywhere.”

The truth. It was tempting, so tempting. He certainly isn’t going anywhere. What would be the harm? But something deep in Marcus’ soul stopped him. He’d disobeyed orders even to come down here; telling Ionkovo what he knew of that horrible night in the temple would be a betrayal of Janus’ trust he wasn’t sure he could live with. Slowly, he shook his head.

Ionkovo leaned back, his face hardening. “Fair enough. Let me ask you something else, then. Did Jen just lead you on, or did she actually let you fuck her?”

Marcus’ head snapped up, color rising in his face. “What?”

“Ah, I see that she did.” Ionkovo’s smile had changed to a predatory leer. “I ask only out of professional interest. I’d guessed that with a simple man like yourself, she would stick to the most basic methods.”

“That’s enough.”

“You’re a lucky man, Captain. Jen is very skilled.” His smile widened. “I can attest to that personally.”

“Shut up.” Marcus slammed a hand against the grille, producing a ringing, metallic tone and a stinging pain in his knuckles. “We’re done here.”

“If you like. My offer remains open.”

“I hope it entertains you,” Marcus said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here until you rot.”

Ionkovo chuckled. Then, as Marcus thumbed the latch, he said, “May I offer a suggestion?”

Marcus pulled the door open, teeth clenched.

“You did answer a question, after a fashion, so I owe you something. Call it a show of good faith.”

Marcus wanted to slam the door in his face and keep walking, but the nagging at the back of his mind wouldn’t let him.

“What?” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Have you been back to your old estate? Since. . well, you know.”

“No,” Marcus said.

“It might be worth your time to have a look. Just for nostalgia’s sake.”

Marcus paused, deliberately, then stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. The Armsman outside saluted nervously.

“No one is to speak to him without my permission,” Marcus growled. “Not Giforte, no one. Understood?”

“Ah, yessir.”

“Good.”