The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  Jane came to her rescue.

  “I don’t know about you,” she shouted, cutting through the babble. “But I need a drink!”

  —

  A Leatherback named Motley, whose face was half-covered by a plum-colored birthmark, turned out to be the owner of a nearby watering hole. Casks of beer and barrels of wine were rolled out of the back room, an assortment of mugs and glasses were produced from somewhere, and the celebration commenced in earnest.

  Winter was surprised to see the girls from Jane’s party joining in as heartily as any of the dockworkers. Some of the men looked a little awkward around these women-in-men’s-clothing, but the majority seemed to take their behavior in stride. Chris, pale face flushed red with drink, already had a small court of admirers attempting to match her drink for drink, and Winter had spied Winn dragging a blushing younger Leatherback up the stairs in the back to some private rendezvous. Becca was playing a knife-throwing game in the corner, and by the clink of coins and the groans of the spectators doing rather well.

  In truth, Winter could have done with a drink herself. She had to think hard to remember the last time she’d been truly drunk—in Ashe-Katarion, with Bobby and Feor, the night before the city burned. She’d happily have split a bottle with Jane, but the presence of all these strangers made her too nervous to do more than sip from a mug of beer, which in all fairness was quite awful.

  Jane herself barely indulged. She sat at a table near the door, fielding congratulations and enthusiastic, table-slapping declarations of eternal gratitude, but she kept glancing between the street outside and the door to the storeroom. The latter was where they’d stashed Bloody Cecil, bound and gagged. As for the former, she’d sent one of her girls running back to check with Min for news of Abby, and no messenger had yet returned. It was obviously preying on her mind.

  Winter received quite a few congratulations, too. More than her fair share, as she saw it. Jane had put it about that the whole plan had been her idea, when in fact she’d only contributed the ruse with the barricade and the idea of grabbing Cecil himself to end matters quickly. And it’s not like that was a stroke of genius, either. Engaging an enemy in front while you turn his flank is about the oldest trick in the tactical book. If Janus had been here, no doubt he would have somehow argued Cecil’s men into laying down their weapons and turning out their pockets.

  In spite of her protests, the good wishes continued, growing increasingly incoherent as the night wore on. It was a warm summer night, and the air soon grew hot and smoky with the fire, the candles, and the close-packed heat of so many excited people. The smell of spilled beer mingled with the odor of unwashed bodies, smoke, and piss to produce an almost visible miasma. Winter felt herself passing into a bit of a daze as the excitement washed out of her, leaving her drained and shaky. She mechanically shook hands or accepted shoulder-buffeting clouts of endearment, nodding and smiling and pretending not to hear the questions about where she’d come from or how she knew Jane.

  Movement by the door caught her eye, and she shook herself back to wakefulness. The crowd had cleared out somewhat, some to weave their way to their homes, others to the upstairs rooms. A contingent of hard-core drinkers had pushed their tables together, and matters had degenerated into tavern songs. Winn and Chris were among them, belting out the lewd verses as loudly as anyone. In one corner Walnut sat with a young woman on his lap, lips locked and one of his broad hands exploring under the hem of her shirt. His size made her look like a doll by comparison.

  And Jane had gotten up and gone to the storeroom. She emerged a moment later leading the gagged Cecil by his bound hands, and dragged him toward the front door. A few of the revelers noticed, and they shouted encouragement at her. Only Winter seemed to see Jane’s expression—not merry at all, but furious, and full of cold determination. As Jane headed out the front door, Winter struggled to her feet and went after her.

  The air of the street outside was refreshing after the dense stink of the tavern. Jane had paused to change her grip to the back of Cecil’s coat, the better to prod him along, and she glanced over her shoulder when Winter emerged. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. She forced the tax farmer into motion, and Winter followed behind.

  They walked for several minutes in silence, except for the occasional whimper and groan from Cecil. Jane answered these with vicious jabs, and eventually he kept up a steady pace. Before long they reached the broad mud-churned stretch of the River Road, which they had to pick a careful path across to avoid the puddles and mounds of dung.

  On the other side, the Vor stretched calm and dark into the distance. The western tip of the Island was directly in front of them, a blaze of lights stretching high into the air. It took Winter a moment to see a silhouette, and when she did, she shivered; that was the crumbling spire of the Vendre, aglow tonight for who knew what sinister purpose of the Last Duke’s.

  Upstream of the big piers where the cargo barges unloaded was an accumulation of smaller quays, knocked together from whatever bits of wood were at hand. These were home to the water taxis, smaller fishing vessels, and other little boats, and Jane steered Cecil in their direction. They clumped down across the muddy flood zone and out onto one of the piers. The far end was surrounded by a trio of deep-keeled rowboats tied to a post. Here Jane finally stopped and with a bit of effort forced Cecil to his knees.

  Winter had watched all of this in silence, but she took a step forward when Jane’s knife appeared in her hand.

  “Jane—”

  “Quiet,” Jane said. There was something in her voice Winter hadn’t heard before. It was nearly a snarl. She bent over and cut the gag off Cecil, though she left his hands bound. “Bloody Cecil. You’ve had a nice long time to think about what you’ve done, haven’t you?”

  Cecil took a few ragged breaths, then shuffled around on his knees so he could look up at Jane. “What do you want from me? Is it money? I can pay you whatever you want. Just don’t—” The knife was suddenly at his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Don’t kill me.”

  “Jane,” Winter said. “What are you doing?”

  “Winter, please shut up and listen. Cecil, do you remember a night in February, when your men came looking for salt taxes? They went into Vale’s preserved-fish shop and started smashing up the place.”

  His eyes, terrified, darted from Jane to Winter and back again. “I don’t—I don’t remember! We’ve raided hundreds of shops. How am I supposed to remember each one—” It occurred to him that this might not be the best tack to take, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Some of my people decided to put a stop to it,” Jane went on. “I think it was Becca who took them down there. Vale’s married to her older sister, you know. There wasn’t time to gather up anybody from the neighborhood, so they went down there themselves, just a dozen girls. I’m not sure Becca realized it was your people they were dealing with. The other tax farmers would back off if you said you were from Mad Jane’s place, but not your men. Not this time.

  “Well. There was a bit of an altercation.” Jane grinned, showing her teeth. “A bit of a fucking fracas, you might say. Becca got her arm broken. The others got scrapes and bruises. It didn’t help Vale one bit, but otherwise, you might say we got off lightly. Except one of the girls didn’t get away. Somebody must have grabbed her, and when our people scattered, nobody noticed she was gone.

  “We found her when we went to clean up in the morning. Your men had taken turns with her, half the night, it looked like. Then, when they were finished, they cut her throat like a hog and left her on a pile of rotting fish.”

  Winter felt her fists clench tight. Jane’s voice was deceptively calm, but there was something tight underneath, like a gut string wound round over and over until it hums on the point of snapping.

  “I . . .” Cecil hesitated. “You can’t mean . . . That wasn’t my fault. I didn�
��t tell them to kill anybody!”

  “Her name was Sarah,” Jane said, her tone flat and dangerous. “She was seventeen. She was one of mine. She had a copy of the Wisdoms that she read from every day, until it was practically falling apart. She liked to eat broccoli raw so it would still have some crunch. There was a boy she was sweet on, one of the fishermen’s sons, but I don’t think he knew she existed. She wanted to . . .” Jane’s voice cracked. “She was one of mine. And you raped her, cut her throat, and tossed her into a pile of rotten fish.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Cecil said, his Borelgai accent getting harsher as he grew terrified. “I didn’t—bhosh midviki—you can’t blame me for what some ghalian Vordanai thugs did!” He drew in a deep breath. “You know the kind of people I have to work with. They’re the scum of the earth. I don’t have a choice!”

  “They wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t sent them,” Jane snapped. “If you’d been reasonable like all the other fucking tax farmers.”

  “And your Sarah wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for you,” Cecil said. The blood was rising in his face. “Blani Mad Jane. You run around the Docks like you’re some sort of hero from a fairy tale, and these idiot girls just follow your example. Have you ever thought they might be better off if you’d left well enough alone?”

  “I help them.”

  “Like you helped Sarah? Instead of staying in her father’s house minding her own business like a young woman should be doing, she was out trying to fight grown men with a stick! And look what happened to her.” Cecil’s thin face twisted into a snarl. “Blani ga taerbon midviki. You’re going to kill me, I can see it. But I won’t let you pretend to be a saint while you do it.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” Jane said. “I’m going to kill you—”

  “Jane!” Winter said.

  Jane paused, the knife half-raised, as though she’d forgotten Winter was there. Without looking round, she said, “I let you come because I thought you ought to know why I was doing this. But I shouldn’t have. Go back, Winter. You don’t have to live with this.”

  Too late for that. “You can’t kill him.”

  “Why not? Are you going to stop me?”

  “If I have to.”

  Jane turned around, finally, the knife still held in front of her. She’d unconsciously dropped into a fighter’s crouch. “You don’t mean that. Just go.”

  “I won’t.” Winter spread her hands. “You know that killing him won’t help anyone.”

  “It’ll help Sarah.”

  “Sarah’s dead. Come on, Jane. You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

  Jane stared at Winter, eyes as wide as a hunted animal’s, searching for a way out. “He deserves it.”

  “You don’t.”

  “You don’t understand. I . . .” Jane shook her head savagely. “And who are you to tell me what to do? Did you never have to hurt anybody in—”

  Winter cut her off hurriedly. “I did, in battles. I’ve killed . . . I don’t know how many. But they were armed, and trying to kill me. He’s a prisoner.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It has to!” Winter bit her lip. “Besides, he’s wrong. You know he’s wrong.”

  “Of course he’s fucking wrong. What does that have to do—”

  “Sarah volunteered. Abby told me that. Everyone who helps you, who does what you do, they all choose to do it. Do you think they didn’t know they might get hurt in the process?”

  “I . . .”

  “You don’t need to kill him to prove your point. You don’t, Jane. Please.” Winter took a cautious step forward and grabbed Jane’s arm, easing around the quivering point of the knife.

  Jane said something too low for Winter to hear. Then, before Winter could ask her to repeat it, she spun around, breaking Winter’s loose grip, and planted a kick solidly in Cecil’s midsection. The Borelgai coughed and toppled backward, sprawling on the end of the pier. A further kick from Jane encouraged him to roll over, and he dropped six inches with a thud to the bottom of one of the little boats. The momentum set the craft bobbing out into the river, restrained by a single taut line. Jane sawed at this with the knife for a few moments until it broke with a snap, then put her foot on the gunwale and shoved the boat out into the river.

  “If I ever see you in the Docks again,” she said, “I will kill you. Slowly. You understand? Find yourself a ship and go back to fucking Borel, or jump off a bridge for all I care. But your work in Vordan is over.”

  Cecil responded with a stream of Borelgai profanity as the boat drifted farther from shore, out into the sluggish current. “Blani fi’midviki! How am I supposed to go anywhere with my hands tied behind my fucking back?”

  Jane wound up, paused to judge the distance, and sent the knife whirling end over end toward the boat that was rapidly vanishing into the river darkness. There was a thok as the blade bit into wood, and a screech from Cecil.

  “And I’m sending you a bill for the fucking boat!” Jane called after him, as he disappeared.

  She stood staring after him for a long moment, hands clenched and vibrating with tension. Winter stepped up behind her, uncertainly, and tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but Jane spun away from her touch and stalked back up the pier. She sat down on a post and crossed her arms, curling up as though she wanted to withdraw inside herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Winter said.

  Jane muttered something indistinct.

  Winter paused. “Jane?”

  “I said go fuck yourself.” Jane raised her head. “You should leave. Go home. Back to wherever you came from. Just leave me here with the rest of the scum and go.”

  “No,” Winter said. Her heart hammered double time, and tears stung her eyes.

  “Just go.”

  “I won’t. Never again.”

  “Fuck,” Jane said quietly, and curled up again. “Nobody fucking listens to me.”

  Winter sat down beside her, on the soggy wood of the pier, and waited. Even back at Mrs. Wilmore’s, Jane had suffered from foul moods. Winter had learned that the only remedy was silence. She always resurfaced, eventually.

  The city was quiet at this time of night. The ever-present sounds of distant crowds and thousands of plodding horses and rattling cartwheels were absent. Instead Winter could hear the quiet lapping of the river, and the slow creaks and groans from the tied-up fishing fleet. A distant whistle sounded, where an Armsman needed assistance. Somewhere, a dog barked.

  “She was one of mine,” Jane said. “She followed me because she believed what I told her, that I could keep her safe. I told her that. And I brought her here, and she . . . she died.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jane snapped. “You don’t understand what it’s like. I have a responsibility, and I . . .”

  Winter eased closer. When Jane didn’t flinch away, she slipped an arm, gently, around her shoulders.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “I do understand. I may be the only one here who does.”

  Winter thought about the ambush by the river, the charge up the hill with Auxiliary cannonballs coming down all around them, the long march through the wasteland of the Great Desol. And, deep in her heart where she hardly dared acknowledge it was real, the last desperate square in the darkness under the temple, with green-eyed corpses clawing at them from every side. And the looks on the men’s faces when I turned up. The relief, as though now that I was there everything was somehow taken care of. Just the memory of it slammed her like a fist in the gut. She’d gotten them out, in the end, but . . .

  . . . but not all of them.

  Something else twitched, down in the depths of her mind. A flick of the tail, a tiny gleam of light on ivory fangs, something to remind her that the viper was still coiled comfortably in its hole. The other thing she’d acquired that nigh
t, aside from nightmares. Infernivore.

  Jane had relaxed, letting her arms fall to her side and her head rest on Winter’s shoulder. They stayed like that a long time.

  “We should get back,” Winter said, eventually. “The others will be wondering what happened to us.”

  “And coming to all the wrong conclusions, no doubt,” Jane said. Her grin was back, mad and infectious. She bounced up from the post, grabbing Winter’s hand and pulling her to her feet through an elegant twirl. When the turn brought their faces close, Jane leaned in and planted a kiss, light and fast.

  “Come on,” she said. “It must be nearly dawn.”

  They expected to find Motley’s tavern nearly deserted, as the sun was indeed making its presence known on the eastern horizon by the time they made their way back. Instead it was packed, both with Leatherbacks and those of Jane’s girls who had not returned home. They looked as though they had assembled in haste; one of the girls had obviously been rousted out of bed and was wearing nothing but a bedsheet, coiled round her like a winding shroud.

  All attention was focused on one younger girl at the center of the crowd. Winter recognized Nel, her spectacles askew, her clothes dirty with soot and torn in places. She looked close to tears, but her eyes lit up the moment Jane came in.

  “Jane!”

  The whole crowd turned to look at them, their collective stare freezing Winter and Jane in their tracks. Jane blinked.

  “What? What in the hells is going on?”

  “They took her,” Nel said, fighting back sobs. “They took all of them. I tried to help, but all I could do was hide. Then the Armsmen had closed the bridges, and I couldn’t find a way through. I tried . . .”

  She broke off, snuffling.

  Jane stepped forward. “Calm down. Who took who?”

  “They took Abby. And Molly and Becks and the others.”

  Crooked Sal spoke up. “The Armsmen have arrested Danton, and the Concordat are rounding up everybody who might have had anything to do with him. I heard they took nearly a hundred people from the big speech, and now they’re all over the place taking people for who knows what. Everybody’s locking themselves in and barring the doors.”