“If we arrest Danton, the streets will explode. We don’t have the manpower to keep order.”
“I assume the minister knows that.”
“Then why won’t you speak to him?”
“I gave him my opinion.” Marcus shook his head. “He told me I needed to have faith.”
“Faith, sir?”
“One of his little jokes, I think.” Marcus sighed. “Look, Vice Captain. We don’t have a choice. Take whatever men and equipment you need, and do whatever’s necessary to keep our men safe. But I want Danton behind bars as soon as possible. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Giforte saluted, textbook-perfect. “Excuse me, sir. I have preparations to make.”
“Send me a report when he’s taken.”
Giforte saluted again and left the office. Marcus leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with two fingers.
It would be so much easier if I could trust him. Giforte was competent and conscientious. But Marcus, struggling through the files Eisen had brought him, had found at least a trace of what he’d been looking for. Other incidents, other accidents, where the Armsmen’s investigation had been only perfunctory. Not so unusual—there were accidents in the city every day—but these were cases where the Armsmen involved had wanted to dig deeper, only to end up stalled at Giforte’s desk. As far as Marcus could tell, none of the previous captains had even noticed.
So when he doesn’t want to arrest Danton, is he really worried about riots in the street? Or is there someone else pushing on him from the other direction?
He tapped one finger on the desk for a long minute. Then he shook his head, retrieved the stack of files from his cabinet, and resumed his painful search of the archives.
CHAPTER NINE
WINTER
Jane had organizational matters to discuss with Min and her other lieutenants in the morning, which she none too subtly told Winter would probably only bore her. She detailed Abby to escort Winter to breakfast. Something passed between the two of them that Winter couldn’t quite catch, but Abby accepted the task without arguing, and led the way back downstairs toward the makeshift dining room.
“What you told me,” Winter said, “when we first met. About how you came here. Was that true?”
“What?” Abby looked over her shoulder and looked thoughtful. “Oh. Yes, I think so.”
“So you didn’t come here from Mrs. Wilmore’s?”
“Ah. She told you about that, did she?”
Abby stopped beside a half-open door, through which Winter could see a half dozen young teenagers getting out of bed. The place was organized much like Mrs. Wilmore’s had been, with girls divided up roughly by age group and again into “dorms,” though here there were only separate hallways. The ones she thought of as lieutenants were the oldest, closer to her and Jane’s age, and they served the role of proctors and organizers. Someone, somewhere was spending some effort to keep things ticking over in an orderly manner—there was a list of names and times tacked to the bedroom door, which looked like a rota or duty roster.
“She did,” Winter said. “I’m still having a hard time believing it.”
Abby laughed. “I said the same thing, when I first got here. To answer your question, no, I was never at the Prison, and I’ve heard enough about it to be glad of that. After Jane set up shop here in the city, she started to take in strays. You’d never know it to look at her, but she’s a sucker for a sob story. Runaways, orphans, ex-prostitutes, all sorts of people. Only girls, though, and mostly those too young to look out for themselves. I think we’re nearly half and half now, between them and the original group from Mrs. Wilmore’s.”
Abby started walking again, and Winter followed. They passed more doors, open and closed, and a couple of gangs of chattering young women brushed past them on the way to breakfast.
I have to ask, Winter thought. It wasn’t as if she was spying, since she hadn’t decided what she would report to Janus. If he ever even comes asking. She was just satisfying her own curiosity. Besides, it can’t be spying if Abby is practically giving me the tour.
“The thing I don’t understand,” Winter said, as they stood aside to get out of the path of a gang of charging twelve-year-olds, “is how you keep this up. Who pays for all of this?”
“The building was abandoned. We fixed it up ourselves, mostly—”
“Jane told me. But what about the food? The clothes? You must have four hundred people here.”
“Three hundred sixty-eight,” Abby said, and shrugged. “Keeping track of that sort of thing is my job. Jane doesn’t have much of a head for numbers.”
“Three hundred sixty-eight, then. Food for that many doesn’t come cheap, especially if you always eat the way we did last night.”
“It’s true. Jane always says some of the little ones need more meat on their bones.” Abby smiled, looking oddly sad, then quickly shook her head. “Most of the girls work in the area, once they’re old enough.”
“Work at . . .” Winter trailed off.
“Odd jobs.” Abby shot her a look that showed she understood perfectly what Winter didn’t want to mention. “We send them out in groups, which keeps them safe, and the local tradesmen all know us.”
And they knew that laying a hand on one of them would earn a visit from “Mad Jane.” “I can’t believe you’re supporting a place like this on ‘odd jobs,’ though.”
“No, we’re not. The bulk of the money comes from our . . . other activities.”
Before Winter could follow up on this, they reached the dining room. Abby was greeted by waves and calls from a dozen quarters, but she made her way toward a group of older girls at one end of the tables, and Winter trailed behind her. They sat beside a small cluster who were bent over the table, all trying to read a broadsheet at once.
“Hey, Abby,” said one, a short, plump girl with brown ringlets. “Have you seen this?”
“No,” Abby said. “Is it Danton again? What did he do this time?”
“He only brought down a bank,” said a younger blond girl with crooked teeth.
“A Borelgai bank,” said another.
“There was nearly a riot in the Exchange,” the first girl said. “All the nobles were trying to get their money out, and they didn’t get the jam of carriages cleared up until after midnight!”
Winter managed to maneuver a look at the paper. Large type blared SECOND PENNYSWORTH FAILS AFTER DANTON’S DENUNCIATION! Beside the broadsheet was a pamphlet, bearing a crude woodcut she assumed was supposed to be Danton and the title ONE EAGLE AND THE DEPUTIES-GENERAL! DOWN WITH THE SWORN CHURCH AND THE BOREL PARASITES!
“Let me introduce you,” Abby said. “This is Molly, Andy, Becks, and Nel. Girls, this is Winter.”
The four of them looked up from the paper and seemed to notice Winter for the first time. Winter, suddenly shy, managed a little wave.
“Winter, as in the Winter?” said Nel. She was the one with the teeth.
“Winter the Soldier?” said Andy, an older girl with pretty black ringlets and pale skin.
“I don’t know,” Abby said, smiling. “Why don’t you ask her? I’m going to get something to eat.”
She left Winter standing awkwardly in front of the four of them, who continued to gape at her as though she were some weird deep-sea fish someone had hauled up onto the dock.
“Well?” said Molly, who was the first one who’d spoken. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” Winter said.
“Are you Winter the Soldier?” said Andy. “From the story.”
That rang a very tiny bell with Winter. Bobby had talked about it, hadn’t she? The story that went around after I left . . .
“Are you four from Mrs. Wilmore’s?” Winter said.
Three of them nodded. Becks, who was small with stringy, mouse brown hair, was taking the opportunity to study t
he papers.
“Everyone told stories about Winter,” Andy said. “How she ran away from the Prison and joined the army.”
Molly looked at her crossly. “Jane doesn’t like people telling that story.”
“Because she couldn’t find her when she went back,” Nel said. “After the fire.”
Fire? Winter opened her mouth to ask, but they’d moved on.
“But if she’s here,” Molly said, “then she has found her again, hasn’t she?”
“If it’s the same Winter,” Andy said. “There are a lot of Winters around.”
“I don’t really know the story,” Winter said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s completely wrong. I am the same Winter who was at Mrs. Wilmore’s with Jane, though.”
There was a collective indrawing of breath.
“Then you didn’t escape and join the army?” Andy said.
“I escaped,” Winter said. “But no, not the rest.” Best to start thinking up a cover story . . .
“I always liked the one where she became a bandit queen,” Nel said. “Did you become a bandit queen?”
Winter laughed. “No, I didn’t do that, either.”
“Listen,” said Becks, looking up. She had spectacles on, with one wire arm broken off and replaced with a bit of wood and string. “It says Danton is going to give another speech today! In Farus’ Triumph, like before.”
Winter immediately lost her place as the most fascinating thing at the table, which was all right with her. Abby returned a few moments later with a pair of plates and glasses. The plates were loaded with potatoes, sliced and fried in pork dripping, with a pair of fat, greasy sausages guarding the flanks. It was the kind of serious food that Winter would have happily killed for while on the march in Khandar, and it temporarily absorbed her full attention. In the background, she was vaguely aware of the girls debating the merits of Danton’s platform, whether a mandated price for bread would work and if the Deputies-General could really accomplish anything.
“We ought to go,” Becks said, as Winter was scrubbing the last of the grease from her plate with a slice of potato. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Absolutely,” said Nel.
Molly looked uncertain. “You think it’ll be safe?”
“Oh, come on,” said Nel. “It’s the Island in the afternoon, not the Bottoms at midnight. And with this”—she tapped the paper—“there’ll be Armsmen all over the place.”
“There was nearly a riot in the Exchange,” Molly said. “This time people might get angrier.”
“That was only because they weren’t getting their money back from the bank,” Becks said. “We don’t have to go anywhere near the Exchange.”
Andy decided to appeal to a higher authority. “Abby, what do you think? Is it safe to go and see him?”
Abby, in the middle of cleaning off her own plate, took a thoughtful moment to chew and swallow. “Probably,” she said. “Let me talk to Jane. I may want to come along, too.”
As though the name had been an invocation, another girl appeared behind them, short of breath. “I’ve got,” she gulped, “a message. Jane wants to see you.”
“Me?” Abby said.
“You and Winter,” said the messenger. “Upstairs.” She hesitated. “She sounded mad.”
Mad Jane. Winter suppressed a chuckle. Even her own people were half in terror of her.
“Well.” Abby pushed her plate back. “It looks like Jane has decided to bring you into the fold. Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”
“And you’ll ask about seeing Danton?” Andy said.
“I’ll ask.”
—
“Do you know anything about the tax farmers?” Abby said, as they navigated through the tide of late arrivers to breakfast.
“No,” Winter said. Her cover story had mentioned one, but the colonel’s briefing hadn’t had any details. “Except that Danton seems to be against them.”
“Everyone’s against them. See, back before the war, everyone knew where they stood with taxes. Each district had a royal customs officer to collect duties, and if you didn’t want to pay you just had to bribe him or sneak your stuff through in the middle of the night. It worked for everybody.”
“Except, presumably, the Treasury,” Winter said dryly.
Abby shrugged, as if this was of no great importance. “After the war, the Crown needed money to pay off the debts to the Borels, and Orlanko put Grieg in charge. Instead of appointing some dullard count to do the job, he had the bright idea to sell the warrant to collect taxes in a particular district to the Borels in lieu of cash up front on the debt.”
“And the Borels don’t take bribes?”
“That’s not the half of it. The old royals didn’t get to keep what they taxed out of people. They just got a stipend from the Crown in exchange for turning over the lot. So they were never very enthusiastic about their jobs. But the tax farmers need to make enough money to cover what they spent on the warrant, plus profits to satisfy their investors.”
“Investors?”
“Oh yes,” Abby said bitterly. “I hear shares of tax farm companies are the hot thing on the Viadre markets. Some of them even trade on the Exchange. They don’t care if they leave people enough to eat, or how many heads they have to break to get what they want. People here tried to fight back, but the farmers just sent bullyboys with their collectors and made sure the Armsmen weren’t going to listen to any complaints.” She rubbed two fingers together suggestively.
“I think I get the picture. What does that have to do with you, though?”
“This was before I got here, but they say Jane was drinking in one of the river taverns, listening to the fishermen bitch and moan. They’re hit the worst, you know. They’re supposed to pay a tax on every load, see, and in a good day a boat might take five loads. So the tax farmer says, you owe for five loads. And if the fisherman says he only took three, the farmer says, well, then you must be trying to smuggle the other two, so you owe for five. So if you have a bad day, or you have to stay home because your kids have the flu, or anything—”
Abby caught Winter’s eye and took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” she said. “It just makes me angry. That’s how I ended up here in the first place. Anyway, the fishermen were complaining, and Jane asked them why they didn’t do something about it. To make a long story short, they had a few more drinks, and then the whole pub went down to the nearest tax farm office and torched the place.” Abby smiled. “That was when the tax farmers found out the Armsmen are happy to take bribes to stay out of the Docks, but it’s much more expensive to get them to come in.”
“So Jane started fighting the tax farmers?”
“Not all by herself,” Abby said. “She got people organized, like a general. After a while things settled down. We let them take enough to get by, they don’t get greedy, and nobody’s head gets broken. And the locals, uh, express their gratitude.” She waved back toward the dining room. “That’s where most of this comes from.”
“These are the Leatherbacks I heard so much about, then,” Winter said.
“Yeah. I don’t know how the name got started, but the fishermen wear those leather aprons, and eventually we started wearing them, too.”
“‘We’? You mean the girls here go out and fight?”
“Not all of them,” Abby said. She was grinning. “Just the older ones. And Jane never made anyone go. They just didn’t want to let her go off by herself.”
I suppose I’m hardly one to complain about girls fighting. Still, she hadn’t joined the army with the expectation of actual combat. Everyone said Khandar was supposed to be a nice, safe, boring post at the end of the earth. The rest of it just sort of . . . happened.
“I’m just amazed you get away with it,” Winter said.
“Like I said, most of the tax farmers go
t the message after a while. They’ve got better things to do than bash their heads against a wall. And we don’t see much of the Armsmen around here.”
“What about Orlanko? I thought he was supposed to know everything.”
Abby’s steps slowed slightly. “That’s . . . more complicated. The head man in the Concordat for this part of the Docks is named Phineas Kalb. He and Jane have an arrangement.” Abby looked at Winter and sighed. “He makes sure we don’t turn up in the reports, and every couple of weeks he comes by and some of the girls . . . entertain him.”
That took a moment to sink in, like a bomb with a slow-burning fuse, but when she caught the meaning, Winter exploded. “What?”
She said it louder than she meant to, and the girls passing them in the corridor looked over curiously. Abby grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her into the nearest open doorway, which led to a storeroom half-full of sacks of potatoes. Winter rounded on her.
“You’re telling me Jane sends girls off to . . . to pleasure some secret policeman?” Winter was practically vibrating with rage, though she couldn’t have said at whom. At Abby? At Jane? After what happened to her, I can’t believe it. “I don’t believe that.”
“Jane told me you wouldn’t understand,” Abby said. “The girls volunteer to do it.”
“Sure,” Winter said. “They volunteer if they want to keep getting fed. I’ve heard this story before.” No better than goddamned Mrs. Wilmore.
“No,” Abby said. “Winter, listen to me. Before we all found out about this, Jane was doing it herself. We practically had to hold her down to let someone else go in her place. She’s . . . still angry about that.”
Winter paused in mid-rage, uncertain. Abby took the opportunity to kick the door to the storeroom closed, then rounded on Winter.
“Listen.” There was a catch in her voice, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I know you and Jane go back a long way. God, if I’ve heard her talk about you once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. But you haven’t been here for the past year, all right? You look at this now”—she thumped the wall, quite hard—“and it all looks so neat and tidy, and you don’t see what it took to make it this way. What we all had to do, but Jane more than anyone. So if she wants to move you in like a long-lost . . . sister, that’s fine, that’s her choice. But don’t you fucking dare think you can sit in judgment of her.”
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 22
