The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns (46 page)

“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.