There were more people about than Raesinia had seen on her previous visits. A big crowd had gathered in the open space between the table and the beds, standing in small groups and talking to each other in low tones. They looked considerably more hale than Mrs. Felda’s typical strays, who were usually crippled, elderly, insane, or all three at once. These people, though obviously poor, were mostly young men and women, with the occasional child huddling against its mother’s skirts.
Cora was hovering near the edge of the crowd, talking to a group of women in colorful skirts and shawls. She caught sight of Raesinia and hurried over, looking agitated.
“Raes,” Cora said. “You made it.”
“No problems,” Raesinia said.
“And you’ve got . . .” Cora’s eyes flicked to the satchel.
“I’ve got everything we need.” Raes eyed the crowd. “Are you sure we should go through with this?”
“None of these people know who we really are,” Cora said. “Even if one of them talks to Orlanko, we won’t be in danger.”
“I’m not worried about us,” Raesinia said. “I’m worried about them. If it goes wrong tomorrow, we could have a riot on our hands.”
“This was your idea, Raes.” Cora looked at the floor. “It’s the best chance we have of really hitting them where they’ll feel it without getting anybody killed in the process.”
“I know, I know.” She’d been the one who talked them all into the plan to begin with. Somehow, though, she hadn’t imagined coming face-to-face with the people who were going to be on the sharp end. Risking her own life—not that she was really risking it, a traitorous part of her mind supplied—was one thing. But we’re crossing the line here. No going back after this.
“It’ll be all right,” Cora said. “We’re going to have Danton ask everyone to stay calm. You know how convincing he is.”
Raesinia nodded. There was an odd gleam in Cora’s eyes, she thought. The girl’s genius had made this plan possible, and she was clearly eager to see it to fruition.
“I suppose we’ve got to do something with these letters,” Raesinia said. “You’re certain we don’t have any trouble here?”
“Oh yes. I know half of these people, and that half knows the other half. They’re mostly friends and relations of our regulars.”
“Where’s Mrs. Felda?”
“Upstairs.” Cora looked a little embarrassed. “I haven’t told her all the details. I don’t think she wants to know. Better for her if someone comes asking.”
“Okay. Let’s get started.”
Cora called for attention, and the assembled people stopped their whispering and looked up at her. Raesinia jogged over to the big table and clambered up on it to give herself some extra height, wishing they’d been able to bring Danton in to handle this part. She was used to lots of eyes on her—life at Ohnlei had been good training for that—but she knew she didn’t cut a terribly imposing figure.
“Um,” she began, and gritted her teeth. “Hi. I’m Raesinia Smith. I’m going to assume that Cora’s filled you in on the basics.”
“Only that we’ve got t’ go over t’ the Island tomorrow,” someone shouted. “An’ that we’ll get some money.”
“That’s about the shape of it,” Raesinia said. She set the satchel down, undid the laces, and extracted a single thin sheet from the stack inside. “This is a letter of deposit on the Second Pennysworth Bank for a hundred eagles. If you queue up at the bank and hand this over, they’ll give you a hundred eagles.”
“No, they won’t,” someone shouted. “Goddamned Borel bankers wouldn’t give a stiff like me the time of day.”
“If you show them this, they have to give it to you. It’s like a contract. If they break their word, none of the other banks will trust anything they’ve written.” Raesinia flourished the letter. She wasn’t sure how many people in the crowd could read, but it looked impressive enough, with a gilt border and embossed seal in the Borelgai colors.
“So that’s it?” someone near the front said. “We just got to take that paper and walk up to this bank? Sounds too damned easy to be worth a hundred eagles.”
“Together,” Raesinia said. “That’s important. Everyone has to go together. We’re going to gather at Farus’ Triumph before the bank opens, and Danton will make a speech, and then we’ll all go to the bank.”
The mention of Danton’s name sent a buzz through the crowd. Raesinia was surprised. She didn’t think his calls for the Deputies-General would have much resonance in Oldtown, where even an eagle a loaf might put good bread out of reach. Clearly, though, a few of those present had heard him speak, and the power of that voice had touched them out of all proportion to their understanding of what he’d said.
Dear God. He could make himself king, if he had half a brain to call his own. Thank Karis we got to him before someone else did. She gave a guilty wince at the thought but pushed it away.
“Why’re you givin’ away money?” said another, sharper voice. “What’s in it for you?”
Raesinia glanced at Cora, who shrugged helplessly. Staring out at the crowd, Raesinia fumbled for an answer they’d accept.
“Because every one of these letters means money out of Borel pockets,” she said. “Vordanai money, back to the Vordanai people where it belongs!”
This got a ragged cheer. Raesinia was no Danton, but, she reflected, it was easy to get a good response when you were handing out cash.
“Now,” Cora said, “let’s form a line. Remember, you need the letter to get the money, so make sure you keep it safe and don’t get it wet . . .”
—
Raesinia entered Farus’ Triumph from the west, having taken a circuitous route over the Saint Vallax Bridge. Sothe had insisted that the members of the cabal not arrive as a group, and that they keep their distance from Danton unless something went badly wrong. Raesinia could see the sense in that—Orlanko’s eyes would be everywhere—but it gave her an itchy sense of powerlessness, as though the thing she was about to unleash was already out of her control.
Which it is, of course. She might be able to stop Danton from giving his speech, but what the crowd would do then was anybody’s guess.
Farus’ Triumph was one of the many great public works—including Ohnlei itself—erected by Farus V in honor of the military achievements of his late father, made possible by using the vast resources that Farus IV had expropriated from the dukes and other rebellious nobles.
It was a huge stone-flagged square, a quarter mile across, built in the very center of the Island. The square had four subsidiary fountains at the center of its four quadrants, boxing in one great central monster of statuary and foaming water. An equestrian statue of Farus IV, rearing with sword in hand, formed the centerpiece, while closer to ground level a ring of saints looked up at the king adoringly while various nymphs, water sprites, and the occasional swan spouted streams of water into a broad reflecting pool.
On the north side of the statue the pool was split by a stone staircase leading up to a flat disc that went all the way around the column, above the nymphs but well below the dead king. This had been the rostrum from which Farus V had loved to speak to the multitudes, at least until the ruinous expense of his projects had nearly wrecked the state and turned the commons against him. Since then, tradition had made the platform available to anyone who wished to speak publicly. The implicit understanding was that nothing treasonous or blatantly commercial was permitted, on pain of the displeasure of the Armsmen and the Last Duke. Danton’s speech today would push the boundaries of both, Raesinia thought, but Orlanko would have plenty of reasons to be angry anyway.
From the northwest corner of the square, Raesinia could see that the space was beginning to fill up, though from this distance it was hard to tell how many were Cora’s friends-of-friends from last night and how many were simply confused onlookers. There was a fair n
umber of Armsmen as well, conspicuous with their head-tall staves and dark green uniforms.
She made a half circuit of the square, dodging touts and street vendors. In addition to the purveyors of food and drink, the pamphleteers seemed to be out in particular force today. Raesinia recognized several of her own broadsheets, along with quite a few others that had picked up the banner. ONE EAGLE AND THE DEPUTIES-GENERAL! blazed in huge type across half the papers she saw, along with DOWN WITH THE SWORN!, NO OATHS TO ELYSIUM!, NO MORE FOREIGN BLOODSUCKERS! and a great deal of anti-Borelgai raving.
The latter made Raesinia more than a little uncomfortable. The arrogance and general foreignness of the Borelgai, along with their dedication to the Sworn Church and domination of the banking and tax-farming establishment, made them an easy target for heated rhetoric. Some of Danton’s speeches had played on that theme, though Raesinia had done her best to keep the focus on the Church and the bankers rather than the Borelgai nation. Unfortunately, her efforts had not been enough to prevent a deep vein of anti-Borel sentiment from exploding upward along with the outpouring of anger they’d been hoping for. In particular, a great many young men of Vordan, having grown up with their fathers’ bitter stories of the War of the Princes, seemed to think that the best thing to do would be to go another round and hope to even the score.
Near the northeast corner of the square was a café, with wrought-iron tables and chairs set up in a jealously guarded bit of street space. One of these tables was already staked out by Ben, who sat with a cup of coffee by his side and his feet propped up on a second chair. Raesinia drifted over idly, as though she’d happened to see someone she knew, and he gave her a smile and gestured to another seat.
“Getting busy over there,” Ben said. “Anyone following you?”
“I don’t think so,” Raesinia said. Actually, Sothe was following her, which meant that any tail Orlanko had assigned would be having a bad time. “You?”
“Not that I could see.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes to showtime, assuming Danton stays on schedule.”
“That’s up to Faro.”
“Maurisk and Sarton are camped out at the Exchange. I think Maurisk is still sulking because you took out that piece explaining the essential inequity of fractional-reserve lending.”
“He means well.” Raesinia sighed. A flash of movement caught her eye. “Here comes Cora.”
The teenager was visibly excited, bouncing across the flagstones as though she might be ready to take flight with any step, though bags under her eyes told of a night without sleep. Raesinia didn’t know whether the rest of the cabal ever wondered how she herself was able to stay up nights, sometimes for days at a time, with no ill effects. Maybe they think I’m a vampire.
“I think it’s going to work!” Cora said, too loudly. Raesinia winced, but the noise of the crowd would probably cover any casual conversation. “Look at all these people. It’s got to work!”
“No way to tell, until Danton does his thing,” Raesinia said. “Are you all right?”
“Just a little tired,” Cora said, flopping into a chair. “After this is over I think I’m going to sleep for a week.”
“After this is over,” Ben said, “I intend to get very, very drunk.”
“If we get away with it,” Raesinia said. “I don’t think they allow liquor in the Vendre.”
“We should get closer,” Cora said, bouncing back up from her chair and peering at the fountain. “Don’t you think we should get closer? We won’t be able to hear anything.”
Raesinia glanced at Ben. “I think it would be appropriate to join the crowd at this point, don’t you?”
He nodded. The inner circle of onlookers, those who’d known what was going to happen this morning, was now surrounded by a much larger crowd that had seen the gathering and wandered over out of simple curiosity. All around the square, people were leaving the cafés and heading inward, so as to be close enough to catch a glimpse of whatever had attracted the attention of so many people. The conspirators did the same, Raesinia and Ben strolling casually while Cora raced ahead.
They found a spot near the outer edge of the throng with a decent view of the central column, and Raesinia took a moment to assess the character of the crowd. The air was abuzz with the expectation of something, but there was less anger than she’d expected. Nearer the center, the mass of people were mostly poor workers, students, women, and vagabonds, but on the outskirts there were a fair number of middle- or upper-class types who wanted to see what the spectacle was about.
That was good, in Raesinia’s book. Anything that decreased the risk of outright violence. The specter of a riot, with the inevitable casualties and arrests, still haunted her. Not to mention that if the Armsmen have to shut down the Exchange, this will all have been for nothing.
A flurry of shouting and scattered cheers at the front of the crowd told them something was happening. Eventually a solitary figure emerged onto Farus V’s rostrum, dressed in a dark, sober coat and a respectable hat. Faro had done wonders with Danton—he’d trimmed the wild beard and slicked back his hair, then taken him on a round of the Island’s best tailors and haberdashers until he looked every inch the reputable man of business. He was almost handsome, in a rough sort of way, as long as you didn’t spend a minute talking to him to discover he had the mind of a five-year-old.
“My friends,” he said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the crowd.
Even though she knew what was coming, Raesinia couldn’t help shivering as that voice rolled over her. It echoed across the square with effortless power, slicing through the buzz of a thousand conversations and silencing them midsentence. It rang with stentorian authority off the cobbles and made the shopwindows rattle in their frames. It wasn’t the voice of a rabble-rouser or the shrill screech of a fanatic, or even the rolling, practiced tone of a veteran preacher. It was the calm, knowledgeable voice of a man of the world, sharing a few facts of life with a beloved but impetuous companion. Raesinia half expected to feel an avuncular hand patting her firmly on the shoulder.
“My friends,” Danton repeated, as the murmur of the crowd died away. “Some of you know me. Some of you have no doubt heard my name in the paper. To those who are strangers, I will begin by saying that I am Danton Aurenne, and a little bit about why I have been compelled to speak.”
“Compelled” was a nice touch, Raesinia thought, as the speech rolled onward. She’d written it, apart from a few of the more technical flourishes, but seeing it in her own hand on an ink-splattered page and hearing it ring out across a mob of thousands in the middle of the Triumph were very different matters. Raesinia’s heart beat faster as Danton picked up the pace. He seemed to have an instinctive feel for the material—God knows he doesn’t understand it—and gradually let his slow, measured delivery take on more emotion and power as he went along.
Banking, he said, was an old and honorable tradition. There had been bankers in Vordan as long as there had been a Vordan, helping people through bad times with loans, providing safe haven for surpluses in good years, showing restraint and compassion to debtors whose luck had gone sour. Danton’s father—an imaginary figure, of course—had instructed him in that way of doing business, and when he’d come to manhood he’d fully intended to follow that ideal.
When Danton paused, the whole square was hushed, as though everyone present were holding their breath at once.
“But things are different now, aren’t they?” he said.
An incoherent mass of shouts and cheers answered him, until he cut it off with a gesture. Then he explained just how things were different. The bankers had changed, and the banks had changed with them. They were foreigners now, outside the community of which they had once been pillars. Interested only in how much profit—how much of the sweat and toil of good, honest people—they could drain out of Vordan entirely. Parasites, sucking the lifeblood of a country like a gang of s
wamp-bound leeches. The bankers and the tax farmers—Raesinia was proud of how she’d slipped that conflation in—were to blame for all the ills of Vordan. If not for them, there would be work for everyone. Bread would be an eagle a loaf again.
“One eagle!” someone shouted, and it quickly became a chant. “One eagle and the Deputies-General! One eagle and the Deputies-General!”
“The Deputies-General,” Danton mused, as though it had just been suggested to him.
It would be the answer. Representatives of the people, working together in confraternity to solve the people’s problems, under the august blessing of the Crown. But it wouldn’t happen unless they made it happen.
“But,” Danton said, “we must hit them where it stings. ‘Burn down the banks,’ they tell me. ‘Burn down the Exchange.’ But what’s the use in that? The workers in the bank are Vordanai like you or me, and they’d be thrown out of work. The farmers who sell their food on the Exchange are Vordanai, like you or me. The Armsmen are Vordanai. Would you force them to arrest their own brothers? No. Our enemies are not things, not mere assemblies of iron and stone, vaults and marble floors. Our enemies are ideas.
“So, what can we do?”
He reached inside his coat and drew out a slip of paper. When he unfolded it, gilt lettering flashed in the sun.
“This is a bill on the Second Pennysworth Bank. It represents a promise to pay the bearer one hundred eagles. A promise—that’s all a bank really is, in the end. Promises.” He held the paper out at arm’s length, between two fingers, as though it were a stinking dead fish. “So we can do this.”
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 18
