The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (35 page)

“We won’t have long to wait,” Faro said. “Peddoc was arguing strategy with Jane, but they’re bringing up the ram. Once they have the gate down they’ll storm the place.”

“Saints and martyrs. If the guards open fire—” Everyone had been so sure they’d surrender, but that had been before the rifleman had tried to kill Jane in the courtyard.

“It’s a death trap,” Faro said. “But they haven’t got enough men to keep us out.”

“And then it’ll be a massacre on
both
sides.”

Faro nodded. “They’re already shouting, ‘No quarter’ in the courtyard.”

“This isn’t going to work. What if the guards start killing the prisoners? Hell, what if they decide to blow the magazine?”
There
was a gloomy thought. Raesinia imagined sitting up, alone, her skin a blistered ruin, amid the wreckage of half the Island and thousands of corpses.

“I know. But what else can we do? As you said, we’re running out of time. If we wait around until they send in the army, things will be even worse.”

“I need to talk to Jane. Can you set that up?”

“I can try,” Faro said.

“Tell her . . . tell her I have a plan.”

Faro blinked. “You have a plan?”

“No.” Raesinia sighed. “But I might think of something by then. We have to do
something
. This is
our fault
, Faro, even if we didn’t want it to end up like this. We wrote every word Danton said. I’m not going to let this turn into a bloodbath.”

“All right,” Faro said. “I’ll do what I can.”

He turned around and crawled out of the little shelter. Raesinia held the carpet up for a moment after he went, looking out at the fire-studded darkness.

She’d always known that her path would provoke some kind of confrontation. Once they’d started using Danton, that had become a near certainty. But she’d always imagined it as being . . . more civilized, somehow.
A gathering of statesmen. Eloquent arguments in marble halls. Perhaps a few mass demonstrations to peacefully show the will of the people.
Orlanko and his cronies would be forced out, but . . .

Not like this. Not mobs with battering rams, shouting, “No quarter!”

Either she’d overestimated her ability to control the situation or underestimated the viciousness of Orlanko and those underneath him.
Or, most likely, both.
Damn, damn, damn.
She could feel Ben hovering nearby in the darkness, smiling gently.

What did you expect, Raes? A peaceful revolution?

“Raesinia.”

The voice came out of nowhere. Occupied as she was communing with ghosts, Raesinia started, getting tangled in the hanging carpet and nearly bringing the whole makeshift thing down on top of her.

“Who—” she got out, before realization dawned. “Sothe!”

Her maidservant appeared from the shadows, like a patch of mobile darkness. Raesinia extricated herself from her shelter and scrambled to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Raesinia said. “I shouldn’t have sent you on by yourself. I didn’t know things had gotten this bad.”

“I’m fine.” Sothe’s voice was grim. “And if I had known how matters were going, I never would have left.”

“I’m sorry.” Raesinia looked down and shook her head. “Ben’s dead.”

“I know. The story is all over the city.”

“Where have you
been
?”

Sothe nodded over her shoulder at the dark bulk of the fortress, looming near invisibly against the skyline. “In there.”

“You’ve been inside? Did you see Cora?”

“Not personally, but the prisoners seem to be well treated so far,” Sothe said. “That may not last, though. Do you know Captain d’Ivoire?”

“The Armsman? I’ve met him.”

“Pulling back from the wall was his idea, and he’s put Armsmen on guard duty instead of Orlanko’s thugs.”

“He seemed like a reasonable man. Do you think he’d be willing to surrender?”

“Willing, yes. Able, no. The Concordat captain has him locked in the tower. He’s getting ready to blast whoever goes through that gate into bloody ruin. They dug up a
cannon
from somewhere, and they’re setting up barricades for a room-to-room fight all the way to the dungeons.”

“Saints and martyrs,” Raesinia swore. “That’ll be bloody murder.”

“If we go in through the gate, it will.”

Raesinia had known Sothe a long time. “You’ve got another way in.
Please
say you’ve got another way in.”

Sothe nodded. “There’s a dock below the tower. D’Ivoire had men on it, but this new captain has pulled them off to man the barricades. I think we could get a small boat in without the sentries on the parapets noticing.”

“How small?”

“Four or five.”

Raesinia frowned. “How much could they accomplish?”

“I have an idea how to go about it.” Sothe hesitated. “It’s . . . risky. You would have to come with us.”

“Me?” Raesinia blinked. Sothe was usually insistent that Raesinia keep herself
away
from possible dangers, in spite of her supernatural invulnerability, for fear that her secret would be exposed. “I mean—I’m willing, of course. But why?”

“We need someone Danton will trust. That means one of the cabal. And the only one of
them
I trust is you.”

“The others are trustworthy,” Raesinia protested.

“Princess,” Sothe said softly. “Please.”

“All right.” Raesinia sighed. “I started this whole thing, didn’t I? It’s only fair.”

Sothe looked unhappy but said nothing. Raesinia took a deep breath and blew it out.

“All right,” she repeated. “What’s the plan?”

—

“That’s it,” Raesinia said. “It’s risky, but it sounds a hell of a lot better than storming a barricade in the face of muskets and canister.”

The leaders of the riot had prudently moved to the far side of the outer wall, in case any Concordat marksmen decided to try their luck with another shot. On top of the wall, a squad of amateur musketeers kept watch on the
parapet, occasionally loosing a volley when one of them spotted a creeping shadow or errant cloud.

The ram itself, an ugly thing with a cold-hammered iron head that resembled a lumpy knuckle, was being borne through the gate and into the yard on a tide of shouting, angry men. Behind it, the mob was filling up the courtyard, heedless of the threat of sharpshooters on the towers. Men with makeshift weapons pressed to the front, eager to be the first through the doorway when the breach was made.

Jane, Abby, and Winter sat on boxes in front of a small fire built of bits of scrap from demolished houses, surrounded by a group of young women in the leather aprons that seemed to be some sort of uniform or mark of distinction among the Docksiders. From the council only Cyte was in attendance, sitting cross-legged beside the fire. Maurisk, Dumorre, and the others were presumably off haranguing the crowds, and she’d seen Peddoc and his followers positioning themselves in the vanguard, eager for glory.

Jane looked at her two lieutenants. Winter, chewing her lip, nodded slowly.

“I don’t know anything about the layout of the fortress,” she said. “But even without artillery on the inside, getting through that door is going to be a bloody business, and they can make us repeat it at every barricade. If they
have
found a gun somewhere, it could be a disaster.”

“We don’t know they’ve found one,” Abby said. She glanced at Sothe, who stood at Raesinia’s shoulder. “All we have to go on is the word of this . . .”

“Rose,” Sothe said. “Call me Rose.”

“Rose,” Abby said. “For all we know she could be Concordat.”

“I’ll vouch for Rose,” Raesinia said.

“And who vouches for you?” Abby countered.

Jane shrugged. “She has a point. You and your people turned up late to the ball. That leaves plenty of time for Orlanko to get his agents in place.”

“What do we have to lose, though?” Winter said. “Raes and . . . Rose have said they’ll be going themselves. If it’s a trap and Concordat soldiers are waiting on the dock, how does it hurt us?”

“You wanted three volunteers,” Abby said. “It would hurt
them
.”

“If we storm the doors, a hell of a lot more than that are going to die,” Winter said. “Even if we win. I think it’s worth the risk.” She paused, then added, “I should go.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Jane said. “If any of us is going in there, it’s me.” But both Abby and Winter were shaking their heads.

“We need you out here,” Abby said. “If this is going to work at all, they can’t start the attack on the doors yet. You’re the only one who can hold everyone back, if anyone can.”

“But—” Jane began.

Winter cut her off. “That leaves two.”

Raesinia nodded. “If he’s willing,” she said, “one of them should be Vice Captain Giforte. Rose talked to Captain d’Ivoire and he thought that most of the Armsmen would surrender if the vice captain were giving the orders.”

Abby’s face hardened at the suggestion, but she said nothing.

“I don’t suppose you want to explain how you ‘talked’ to Captain d’Ivoire in the middle of a fortress full of Orlanko’s men?” Jane said to Sothe. Sothe only shrugged, and Jane gave an irritated sigh. “Okay. I don’t like it, but if Winter wants to go . . .”

“I’ll be the last one,” Abby said. “If . . . if the vice captain is going, I ought to—”

“No.” Jane grabbed her arm, as if to hold her in place. “I need one of you here to keep things in line. Besides, you just got
out
of there.”

“And left the others inside!”

Abby turned to Jane, and the two locked gazes for a long moment. Abby subsided, looking weary.

“I’ll go.”

Everyone turned to look at Cyte, who thus far had said nothing. She flinched at the sudden attention, then straightened up. Her black makeup had smeared and run until there was nothing left but dark streaks from her eyes across her cheeks, like savage war paint.

“Are you certain?” Jane said.

“Someone from the council ought to,” Cyte said. “Would you rather I went to fetch Peddoc?”

Raes winced and nodded. Jane looked from her to Winter, who frowned at Cyte, but said nothing.

“Well. We should get started.” Jane put her hands on her knees and got to her feet. She glanced at Winter. “And if you’re not back by daylight I’m going to break down that door and come in after you.”

“I’ll find us a boat,” Winter said. “Raes, you see if Giforte is on board.”

“He will be,” Abby said gloomily. “He’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, but when it comes to his men . . .” She sighed. “Take care of him, would you?”

Raes nodded. “I’ll do my best.” She held out her hand for Winter to shake. “Meet you at the waterfront?”

Winter nodded, and shook it. Or
nearly
shook it. As their fingers came together, something leapt between them, like a spark of static electricity. Raesinia felt the binding come to sudden, thrashing life within her, emerging from its torpor and winding itself tight around the core of her soul. Her whole body hummed with the energy of it, ready to fight, run, or do anything in between. She’d never felt anything like it, not even remotely, and from Winter’s widening eyes she’d gotten some echo of the same sensation.

The binding couldn’t control Raesinia’s actions, but in a dim and distant way it could make its wishes known. It wanted her to back off, to run, to take a swing at Winter with the nearest available weapon, and most of all on
no account
did it want to touch her. If Raesinia hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the damned thing was terrified.

WINTER

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Cyte said.

“Fine,” Winter muttered. “I just . . . thought of something.”

In truth she wasn’t sure
what
that had been. Sometimes it was easy to forget the spell she’d carried since that night in the temple; that she
would
carry, if Janus was to be believed, until her death.
Obv-scar-iot
, the Infernivore, the demon that feeds on its own kind. For the most part it was not a demanding passenger, and Winter felt only its occasional twitch and rumble deep in her being, like a trickle of smoke from a cave that betrayed the presence of a fire-breathing dragon.

As she’d reached to shake Raesinia’s hand, the Infernivore had awoken. She’d felt it reaching out, straining at the leash, pulling taut whatever arcane lashings bound it to Winter. Winter felt the sudden conviction that if she’d touched the girl and exerted her will,
obv-scar-iot
would have surged across the gap between their souls and devoured whatever magic hid inside Raesinia, leaving her comatose like Jen Alhundt, or worse.

But that means she
has
some spell to devour.
Where had a teenage revolutionary gotten her hands on such a thing? According to Janus, the only remaining sorcerers in the civilized world were those in the service of the Priests of the Black, who had set themselves the task of exterminating all others. He’d mentioned that there was such a thing as a rogue talent, someone who enchanted himself
without outside intervention, but the colonel had not been forthcoming with the details.
So Raesinia is either one of those or an enemy agent.

Either way, Janus would have to be told. That was for later, though.
Assuming we survive.
A proper agent might have dropped everything to report this surprising intelligence to her master, but Winter was not about to abandon Jane and the others.
If I die, Janus will just have to take his chances.

“I’m fine,” Winter repeated, aware that she’d spent too long staring into space. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Cyte met her eyes only briefly, then returned her gaze to the cobbles when she saw Winter looking back.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Winter said. “You’re Cyte, I think? I’m Winter.”

“It’s Cytomandiclea, really,” Cyte said. “But Cyte is fine.”

“After the ancient queen?”

Cyte looked up, blinking. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I used to read a lot of history.” History, particularly
ancient
history, was one of the few subjects on which Mrs. Wilmore’s expurgated library had had plenty of materials. Winter and Jane had spent a lot of time there, hiding from the proctors, and she’d acquired quite a broad, if patchy and uneven, education. “Jane always loved her. She has a thing for noble last stands.”