The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (32 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All of them at once?”

“As best I can tell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who are you?” Jane said.

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

“And the Deputies-General?” Jane said.

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

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

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

“Contravallation,” said Winter.

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

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

There was a long silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peddoc, mesmerized, simply nodded.

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

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

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

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

MARCUS

“W
hat about the river?” Marcus said.

“I took a look at the docks this morning,” Giforte said. He sounded gloomy. “There’s one small pier and a couple of boats.”

“How many men would they hold?”

“Call it a dozen each. Not nearly enough.”

“Not for all of us, no.” Marcus frowned. “I should have thought of that sooner. We could have sent to the shore and arranged a whole flotilla.”

“There isn’t
room
for a whole flotilla,” Giforte said. “This place was designed to defend against an attack from downriver. Most of the wall goes right down to the waterline.”

“What about the . . .” Marcus hesitated, not wanting to use the word “rebels.”
Rebels
were crazed fanatics screaming for blood.
These are . . . something else.
“The rioters? Have they tried to block the crossing?”

“There’s a few small boats out there, but they’re just watching for now. I don’t think they’re organized enough to stop an armed force. Once they figure out we’re trying to move people that way, though . . .”

Marcus could imagine it all too easily. Lumbering barges full of struggling prisoners, with every rowboat and fishing skiff on the river closing in around them.
Not good.
“And the ram?”

“I think they’ll be ready by nightfall, or a little before.”

The sun was already well past the meridian. That left four or five hours for Janus or the Royal Army or
someone
to come riding to the rescue. Once they
started battering down the door, Marcus would have to choose one way or the other.

“Balls of the Beast.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes.
How long since I slept? Twenty hours? More?
“All right. We need to start planning for contingencies. I want you to get fifteen men together, and—what the
hell
was that?”

The noise that had interrupted them had been a combination of a splintery wooden crash and an enormous metallic ringing, like the striking of the world’s largest gong. It was followed by a great deal of swearing.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the vice captain said. “It came from the main stairwell.”

“I’m going to go find out.”

He quickly dictated the rest of his instructions to Giforte, who saluted and hurried off. Marcus levered himself out of his chair with an effort, calves aching from too many hours of nervous pacing. He shrugged into his green uniform jacket—now rumpled and stained with sweat—and took to the stairs, navigating as carefully as an old man. The stone-floored fortress was unforgiving of slips and tumbles.

The noises were coming from below, and Marcus followed the main stairs down until he found them blocked by a knot of sweating, cursing men in Concordat black. They’d stripped off their leather coats and were wrestling some enormous object around the corner of the steps. Someone was trying to improvise a rope harness, while more men grunted and tried to lift from below. Standing at the top, above the fray, was Ross, who looked very pleased with himself.

“Captain?” Marcus said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah!” Ross turned, beaming. “Sorry about the noise, sir. We found something down in one of the half-flooded levels.”

“What is it?” Through the crowd of laboring men, Marcus could only get a partial view of the object they were lifting.

“A cannon. An eight-inch mortar, I think.”

Marcus suddenly felt very cold. “I didn’t think there were any guns left here.”

“Neither did I, but this one must have been too much trouble to move. There aren’t any bombs left, but it shouldn’t be hard to improvise some canister. We’ll set it up opposite the main doors. Then once they break through with their damned ram, they’ll be in for a hell of a surprise!” He chuckled.

The image came to Marcus’ mind’s eye all too easily. Ross, he suspected, had never seen a cannon fired in anger.

“The recoil . . . ,” Marcus began, weakly.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re setting up a position in the front hall, and we’ll clear a space for this bastard once we get it up the stairs.” Ross smiled. “You know, sir, I admit I was worried when you pulled the men back from the walls. But I’m man enough to admit when I was wrong. This is a much better position. As long as they have to come at us through those doors, we can hold out here until we can build a barricade out of corpses!” He seemed to be looking forward to this prospect.

This new, cheerful Ross was a change, and not a welcome one. Marcus muttered something noncommittal and hurried back upstairs, looking for Giforte. The vice captain had not yet returned, but there was a sergeant in Armsmen green there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He saluted and came to attention as Marcus entered, sweat running into the crevices of his jowly face.

“Beg pardon, sir!”

“Yes?” Marcus snapped the word out more harshly than he’d intended, and the sergeant quailed. “What is it?”

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir. Only there’s been a bit of a disturbance with the prisoners, sir, and you asked to be kept informed—”

“What’s happened?”

“A gang of them is kicking up a fuss. Bunch of young women. Saying they can help us, and that they want to talk to—” He broke off and looked around.

“Right.” Marcus desperately wanted to sit in his chair, pull his cap over his eyes, and rest for a few hours. “You’d better take me to them.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it was Vice Captain Giforte they were asking to see.”

Marcus blinked. “Giforte? Did they say why?”

“No, sir.”

“He ought to be down at the riverside dock,” Marcus said. “Come on. We’ll send someone to find him on the way.”

—

The dungeon levels were as dank as ever, but the tables borrowed from the main floor gave the prisoners something dry to sit on. Concordat men still guarded the halls, but the cells themselves were watched by Armsmen, and the mood of the prisoners seemed much improved. Most of the cell doors were open, under a guard’s careful eye, and Marcus saw the merry flicker of flames as the prisoners huddled round to warm themselves.

“Over here, sir,” said the sergeant. He gestured to a room at the end of the corridor, where a closed door was flanked by a pair of musket-armed men. They saluted as Marcus approached, and one of them unlocked the cell with a key and stepped aside.

“Finally,” said a young woman’s voice, as he opened the door. “I—” She stopped as Marcus stepped into the doorway. A lone torch was burning in a wall bracket, and in its light Marcus could see a girl of eighteen or so, with frizzy, matted brown hair and freckles. She stood between the door and the rest of the prisoners in the cell, who were huddled in the shadowy corner.

“You’re not my—you’re not Vice Captain Giforte,” she said.

“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “Captain of Armsmen. Whatever you have to say to the vice captain, you can say to me.”

“But . . .” The girl trailed off, her lip twisting.

“Why don’t you start with your name?”

“Abigail,” she said. “Everyone calls me Abby.” Then, reaching some kind of decision, she straightened up. “Listen. It’s Jane who’s leading the mob out there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if they have a
leader
, per se. The one shouting up to me was some sort of giant.” Marcus frowned. “And you’re remarkably well informed for someone who’s been locked in a cell with no windows.”

There was a cough from behind Marcus. “Sorry about that, sir,” the sergeant said. “Some of the boys got to talking. Arguing, more like. It got a little heated. The prisoners must have overheard.”

“The giant is named Walnut,” Abby said. “If he’s here, Jane is, too. Mad Jane, you must have heard of her.”

Marcus shrugged and looked over his shoulder.

The sergeant nodded. “I know the name, sir. She leads a sort of gang in the Docks called the Leatherbacks.”

“Do you have any idea if she’s in charge outside?” Marcus said.

“Not that I’ve heard,” the sergeant said. “Like you said, sir, it didn’t look like they had a real strict chain of command.”

“She’s there,” Abby said stubbornly. “She’s the only one who could get the dockmen so worked up.”

“Even if she is,” Marcus said, “what does that have to do with you?”

“Jane and I are . . . friends. Have you tried talking to them?”

Marcus stiffened. “We offered to negotiate, but they didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation.”

Abby nodded eagerly. “That’s why you have to let me see her. I can get her to talk! She’ll listen to me, and then . . . we can figure out some way out of this.”

There was a long pause.

“What makes you think I’m looking for a way out?” Marcus said.

“Your men were talking about surrender,” Abby said. “They’re worried about what the mob will do to them if they lay down their weapons. If you’ll just let me talk to Jane, I’m sure she’ll agree to let you leave safely.”

“Captain?” Giforte’s voice came from the hall outside. Marcus turned and beckoned to the sergeant, who fell in behind him, pulling the door shut.

“Wait!” Abby said. “You have to let me see—”

The clang of the closing door cut off her words. Giforte hurried over, looking a little flushed, as though he’d run all the way. A couple of anxious rankers trailed him.

“You asked for me, sir?”

Marcus nodded, thinking hard. “You gave orders to prepare the boats?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus turned to glare at the sergeant, who was sweating even harder. “What’s this she was saying about surrender?”

“I . . . Sir, I mean . . . That is . . .” The man squirmed, took a deep breath, and straightened up. “It was just talk.”

“What kind of talk?” Marcus paused, then added, “Tell me, Sergeant. I promise no one will be punished.”

“Well . . .” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Some of the boys—not me, you understand—were saying that it didn’t make much sense to fight once the doors get broken in. There’s only a hundred of us, even counting the duke’s bootlickers, and thousands of dockmen. Seems like a pretty foregone conclusion. And it seemed to us—to
them
—that anybody who fought back was likely to get his head bashed in. Some of the boys weren’t too keen on shooting at them anyway. I mean, they’re our own people, when all’s said and done. So if we’re going to lose
anyway
, it seemed like it might be best if we just gave up at the beginning. Less pain all around, you might say.” He gulped for air, and added, “Not that I agreed with them for a minute, sir.”

Marcus glanced at Giforte, who gave a small shrug.

An Armsman, Marcus always had to remind himself, was not a soldier. And even a Royal Army garrison would be considering surrender at this point, outnumbered hundreds to one with no relief in sight. It was the only sensible thing to do.

“There’s a girl in there,” Marcus said slowly, “who says she’s a personal friend of one of the leaders of the mob. She thinks she can set up negotiations.”

Giforte scratched his chin through his beard. “Not a bad idea, if it’s true.
And
if she’s not just trying to buy her own way out of here.”

“She wanted to talk to you, specifically. Any idea why?”

“No, sir.”

“Well. We can at least see what she wants from you.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Open the door.”

This time Giforte led the way into the cell, the torchlight laying long shadows across his face. Marcus followed behind. Abby was still waiting near the doorway, but at the sight of Giforte, she shuffled backward a step and looked at the floor.

“I’m Vice Captain Giforte,” Giforte said. “What’s your business with me?”

“Ah.” Abby shuffled uncertainly, right hand gripping her left elbow behind her back. When she raised her face, Marcus heard Giforte’s breath hiss. “Um. Hello, Father.”

—

The doors in the Vendre were thick and heavy, as befitted a fortress, but not enough so to block out the shouting from the next room. Marcus sat on a stool in the corridor, feeling like a boy sent out of class for raising a fuss, and tried his hardest not to overhear. After a while, the yelling fell to murmurs and what sounded like occasional sobbing. He wasn’t sure which state was worse.

I’m so tired.
Marcus leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“Captain.”

Marcus sat up hurriedly, blinking. The door was slightly open, and Giforte stood diffidently behind it, not wanting to catch his captain napping.

“Sorry.” Marcus stifled a yawn. “Is everything . . . all right?”

“For the moment.” He pulled the door open wider. “You can come in.”

Marcus climbed painfully to his feet, shoulders aching where they’d been jammed against the hard stone. Inside, Abby sat behind the table Marcus had been using as a desk, looking pale except for spots of color in her freckled cheeks. Her eyes were slightly red, but her expression was determined.

“My daughter tells me that she’s been working with this ‘Mad Jane’ for some time now,” Giforte said. “She’s convinced that this woman is the one responsible for the mob.”

Abby opened her mouth to speak but stopped at a glance from her father. Her cheeks colored further.

Marcus shifted awkwardly. “And what do you think?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve her. But sending someone outside to negotiate is extremely risky. There’s no guarantee Mad Jane would remain friendly, or that she’s even in control. Our men in the towers have reported a great many new arrivals in the last few hours.”

“If I can talk to Jane,” Abby said, “I’m telling you—”

“Abigail,” Giforte snapped.

“Don’t you ‘Abigail’ me,” she said. “You can’t treat me like a child.”

Marcus cleared his throat to cut off the impending argument. “Young lady, would you mind if I spoke to your father in private for a moment?”

Abby sniffed and crossed her arms. Marcus touched Giforte on the shoulder and led him to a corner of the room, facing away from the girl.

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” Marcus said, in a low voice. “What do you want to do?”

Giforte looked pained for a moment. Marcus wondered if he’d been hoping the decision would be taken out of his hands. Eventually he let out a sigh.