The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  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 i
f 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.”

  “Really?” Cyte shook her head. “I thought I was the only one in the world who bothered with that stuff. At the University, only third-raters go into pre-Karis history.”

  “You’re a third-rater, then?” Winter smiled, to show it was a joke, but Cyte’s face went dark.

  “I’m a girl,” she said. “Girls are automatically third-rate, at best.”

  There was a pause, and then Cyte relaxed a fraction, running a hand through her dark hair.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Old wounds, you know?”

  Winter nodded and pointed the way down to the riverbank. “We’d better see if we can find those boats.”

  The crowd thinned out as they got farther away from the gate, but here and there small groups congregated around a fire or sent dancing shadows out from a swinging lantern. As the Vendre passed out of view behind a line of town houses, the deadly serious air of the riot dissipated somewhat, and some of the previous sense of revelry returned. Here, the doors had been smashed open and the houses ransacked, sometimes for valuables but mostly for liquor, and groups of younger dockmen were passing these finds around. Some of them were even singing, though rarely in the same key. None of the student-revolutionaries from Cyte’s group seemed to have made their way this far south.

  “How old are you?” Winter asked, abruptly.

  “Twenty.” Cyte looked at her curiously. “Why?”

  Twenty. Winter felt as though her time in Khandar had aged her by a decade. She was only two calendar years older than Cyte, but for all that the University student felt like a girl to her, which made Winter the adult. It was an echo of what she’d felt for the men of her company, back when Captain d’Ivoire had first put her in command. Though most of them were younger than Cyte.

  “I just . . .” Winter shook her head. “You don’t have to do this. I know how you feel, but—”

  “I doubt it,” Cyte said darkly. “And I know I don’t have to. I volunteered, same as you.”

  “I’m not sure you know what you’re getting into, is all,” Winter said. “Have you ever been in a fight?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “A real fight, with someone trying to kill you? And you trying to kill them?”

  Cyte pursed her lips, silently.

  “Do you know how to use a weapon?”

  “I’ve studied with the rapier,” Cyte said stiffly. “Four years now.”

  “With padded tips and paper targets,” Winter said.

  “I see,” Cyte grated. “And I suppose you’ve killed a dozen men?”

  “Not a dozen,” Winter said, “but one or two.” Or three, or four. She tried to count but couldn’t keep track. Do green-eyed corpses count? “I’m not saying you’re—”

  “I don’t care what you’re saying,” Cyte said. “I volunteered. I’m going. I can take care of myself.”

  “I didn’t say you—”

  “Here’s a dock,” Cyte said. She vaulted a rope and walked carefull
y out onto the stone quay. “Do you think these boats will do? Or do we need something bigger?”

  Winter put her hands in her pockets, gave a little inward sigh, and went after her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WINTER

  Clouds were rolling in from the east. That was good and bad; it would hide them from any watchers on the parapets, but it made even finding the dock under the Vendre’s walls far from a sure thing. Fortunately, Rose’s sense of direction was apparently not hampered by either the darkness or the current. She and Winter rowed in tandem, as gently as they could manage, pushing the little boat closer and closer to where the fortress blotted out the sky. Behind them sat Cyte and Raesinia, with Vice Captain Giforte huddled uncomfortably in the rear.

  The wind was a bare breath on her cheek, and the gray surface of the Vor was glassy smooth. The sheer walls of the prison rose above them like a cliff, darkness broken here and there by the faintest lines of light, reflections of firelight through the gun slits. Winter held her breath as they came close. Here even Rose’s instincts were not enough to guide them, and she was forced to let a trickle of light out of her hooded lantern. By its faint gleam, she saw piles of jumbled rocks where the wall met the river, worn smooth by centuries of wind-driven swells. And, so small that she would have missed it from any farther away, a narrow passage between them, leading to a low, vaulted passage under the wall.

  They began rowing again, slipping nearly silently through the gap into a long, watery tunnel. The air stank of mold, and streaks of dried slime on the walls charted the rise and flow of the river. Winter stared ahead, trying to discern the outlines of the dock in the gloom. She reached for the lantern to let out a little more light, now that they were out of view of the sentries on the walls, but Rose’s hand slammed down over hers. The boat bumped against one dripping wall and rocked to a halt.

  “There’s a guard,” she whispered, nearly inaudibly. “A light, anyway. Shut the lantern.”

  Winter did so, blinking in near-total darkness. Near, she found, but not quite. There was another light somewhere, around the curve of the corridor, and it speckled the water and the damp walls with tiny reflections. How the hell did she see it, though? Winter looked back at Rose to find her tugging the laces off her boots.