The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER TWELVE

MARCUS

“What about the river?” Marcus said.

“I took a look at the docks this morning,” Giforte said. He sounded gloomy. “There’s one small pier and a couple of boats.”

“How many men would they hold?”

“Call it a dozen each. Not nearly enough.”

“Not for all of us, no.” Marcus frowned. “I should have thought of that sooner. We could have sent to the shore and arranged a whole flotilla.”

“There isn’t room for a whole flotilla,” Giforte said. “This place was designed to defend against an attack from downriver. Most of the wall goes right down to the waterline.”

“What about the. .” Marcus hesitated, not wanting to use the word “rebels.” Rebels were crazed fanatics screaming for blood. These are. . something else. “The rioters? Have they tried to block the crossing?”

“There’s a few small boats out there, but they’re just watching for now. I don’t think they’re organized enough to stop an armed force. Once they figure out we’re trying to move people that way, though. .”

Marcus could imagine it all too easily. Lumbering barges full of struggling prisoners, with every rowboat and fishing skiff on the river closing in around them. Not good. “And the ram?”

“I think they’ll be ready by nightfall, or a little before.”

The sun was already well past the meridian. That left four or five hours for Janus or the Royal Army or someone to come riding to the rescue. Once they started battering down the door, Marcus would have to choose one way or the other.

“Balls of the Beast.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes. How long since I slept? Twenty hours? More? “All right. We need to start planning for contingencies. I want you to get fifteen men together, and-what the hell was that?”

The noise that had interrupted them had been a combination of a splintery wooden crash and an enormous metallic ringing, like the striking of the world’s largest gong. It was followed by a great deal of swearing.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the vice captain said. “It came from the main stairwell.”

“I’m going to go find out.”

He quickly dictated the rest of his instructions to Giforte, who saluted and hurried off. Marcus levered himself out of his chair with an effort, calves aching from too many hours of nervous pacing. He shrugged into his green uniform jacket-now rumpled and stained with sweat-and took to the stairs, navigating as carefully as an old man. The stone-floored fortress was unforgiving of slips and tumbles.

The noises were coming from below, and Marcus followed the main stairs down until he found them blocked by a knot of sweating, cursing men in Concordat black. They’d stripped off their leather coats and were wrestling some enormous object around the corner of the steps. Someone was trying to improvise a rope harness, while more men grunted and tried to lift from below. Standing at the top, above the fray, was Ross, who looked very pleased with himself.

“Captain?” Marcus said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah!” Ross turned, beaming. “Sorry about the noise, sir. We found something down in one of the half-flooded levels.”

“What is it?” Through the crowd of laboring men, Marcus could only get a partial view of the object they were lifting.

“A cannon. An eight-inch mortar, I think.”

Marcus suddenly felt very cold. “I didn’t think there were any guns left here.”

“Neither did I, but this one must have been too much trouble to move. There aren’t any bombs left, but it shouldn’t be hard to improvise some canister. We’ll set it up opposite the main doors. Then once they break through with their damned ram, they’ll be in for a hell of a surprise!” He chuckled.

The image came to Marcus’ mind’s eye all too easily. Ross, he suspected, had never seen a cannon fired in anger.

“The recoil. .,” Marcus began, weakly.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re setting up a position in the front hall, and we’ll clear a space for this bastard once we get it up the stairs.” Ross smiled. “You know, sir, I admit I was worried when you pulled the men back from the walls. But I’m man enough to admit when I was wrong. This is a much better position. As long as they have to come at us through those doors, we can hold out here until we can build a barricade out of corpses!” He seemed to be looking forward to this prospect.

This new, cheerful Ross was a change, and not a welcome one. Marcus muttered something noncommittal and hurried back upstairs, looking for Giforte. The vice captain had not yet returned, but there was a sergeant in Armsmen green there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He saluted and came to attention as Marcus entered, sweat running into the crevices of his jowly face.

“Beg pardon, sir!”

“Yes?” Marcus snapped the word out more harshly than he’d intended, and the sergeant quailed. “What is it?”

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir. Only there’s been a bit of a disturbance with the prisoners, sir, and you asked to be kept informed-”

“What’s happened?”

“A gang of them is kicking up a fuss. Bunch of young women. Saying they can help us, and that they want to talk to-” He broke off and looked around.

“Right.” Marcus desperately wanted to sit in his chair, pull his cap over his eyes, and rest for a few hours. “You’d better take me to them.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it was Vice Captain Giforte they were asking to see.”

Marcus blinked. “Giforte? Did they say why?”

“No, sir.”

“He ought to be down at the riverside dock,” Marcus said. “Come on. We’ll send someone to find him on the way.”

The dungeon levels were as dank as ever, but the tables borrowed from the main floor gave the prisoners something dry to sit on. Concordat men still guarded the halls, but the cells themselves were watched by Armsmen, and the mood of the prisoners seemed much improved. Most of the cell doors were open, under a guard’s careful eye, and Marcus saw the merry flicker of flames as the prisoners huddled round to warm themselves.

“Over here, sir,” said the sergeant. He gestured to a room at the end of the corridor, where a closed door was flanked by a pair of musket-armed men. They saluted as Marcus approached, and one of them unlocked the cell with a key and stepped aside.

“Finally,” said a young woman’s voice, as he opened the door. “I-” She stopped as Marcus stepped into the doorway. A lone torch was burning in a wall bracket, and in its light Marcus could see a girl of eighteen or so, with frizzy, matted brown hair and freckles. She stood between the door and the rest of the prisoners in the cell, who were huddled in the shadowy corner.

“You’re not my-you’re not Vice Captain Giforte,” she said.

“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “Captain of Armsmen. Whatever you have to say to the vice captain, you can say to me.”

“But. .” The girl trailed off, her lip twisting.

“Why don’t you start with your name?”

“Abigail,” she said. “Everyone calls me Abby.” Then, reaching some kind of decision, she straightened up. “Listen. It’s Jane who’s leading the mob out there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if they have a leader, per se. The one shouting up to me was some sort of giant.” Marcus frowned. “And you’re remarkably well informed for someone who’s been locked in a cell with no windows.”

There was a cough from behind Marcus. “Sorry about that, sir,” the sergeant said. “Some of the boys got to talking. Arguing, more like. It got a little heated. The prisoners must have overheard.”

“The giant is named Walnut,” Abby said. “If he’s here, Jane is, too. Mad Jane, you must have heard of her.”

Marcus shrugged and looked over his shoulder.

The sergeant nodded. “I know the name, sir. She leads a sort of gang in the Docks called the Leatherbacks.”

“Do you have any idea if she’s in charge outside?” Marcus said.

“Not that I’ve heard,” the sergeant said. “Like you said, sir, it didn’t look like they had a real strict chain of command.”

“She’s there,” Abby said stubbornly. “She’s the only one who could get the dockmen so worked up.”

“Even if she is,” Marcus said, “what does that have to do with you?”

“Jane and I are. . friends. Have you tried talking to them?”

Marcus stiffened. “We offered to negotiate, but they didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation.”

Abby nodded eagerly. “That’s why you have to let me see her. I can get her to talk! She’ll listen to me, and then. . we can figure out some way out of this.”

There was a long pause.

“What makes you think I’m looking for a way out?” Marcus said.

“Your men were talking about surrender,” Abby said. “They’re worried about what the mob will do to them if they lay down their weapons. If you’ll just let me talk to Jane, I’m sure she’ll agree to let you leave safely.”

“Captain?” Giforte’s voice came from the hall outside. Marcus turned and beckoned to the sergeant, who fell in behind him, pulling the door shut.

“Wait!” Abby said. “You have to let me see-”

The clang of the closing door cut off her words. Giforte hurried over, looking a little flushed, as though he’d run all the way. A couple of anxious rankers trailed him.

“You asked for me, sir?”

Marcus nodded, thinking hard. “You gave orders to prepare the boats?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus turned to glare at the sergeant, who was sweating even harder. “What’s this she was saying about surrender?”

“I. . Sir, I mean. . That is. .” The man squirmed, took a deep breath, and straightened up. “It was just talk.”

“What kind of talk?” Marcus paused, then added, “Tell me, Sergeant. I promise no one will be punished.”

“Well. .” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Some of the boys-not me, you understand-were saying that it didn’t make much sense to fight once the doors get broken in. There’s only a hundred of us, even counting the duke’s bootlickers, and thousands of dockmen. Seems like a pretty foregone conclusion. And it seemed to us-to them-that anybody who fought back was likely to get his head bashed in. Some of the boys weren’t too keen on shooting at them anyway. I mean, they’re our own people, when all’s said and done. So if we’re going to lose anyway, it seemed like it might be best if we just gave up at the beginning. Less pain all around, you might say.” He gulped for air, and added, “Not that I agreed with them for a minute, sir.”

Marcus glanced at Giforte, who gave a small shrug.

An Armsman, Marcus always had to remind himself, was not a soldier. And even a Royal Army garrison would be considering surrender at this point, outnumbered hundreds to one with no relief in sight. It was the only sensible thing to do.

“There’s a girl in there,” Marcus said slowly, “who says she’s a personal friend of one of the leaders of the mob. She thinks she can set up negotiations.”

Giforte scratched his chin through his beard. “Not a bad idea, if it’s true. And if she’s not just trying to buy her own way out of here.”

“She wanted to talk to you, specifically. Any idea why?”

“No, sir.”

“Well. We can at least see what she wants from you.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Open the door.”

This time Giforte led the way into the cell, the torchlight laying long shadows across his face. Marcus followed behind. Abby was still waiting near the doorway, but at the sight of Giforte, she shuffled backward a step and looked at the floor.

“I’m Vice Captain Giforte,” Giforte said. “What’s your business with me?”

“Ah.” Abby shuffled uncertainly, right hand gripping her left elbow behind her back. When she raised her face, Marcus heard Giforte’s breath hiss. “Um. Hello, Father.”

The doors in the Vendre were thick and heavy, as befitted a fortress, but not enough so to block out the shouting from the next room. Marcus sat on a stool in the corridor, feeling like a boy sent out of class for raising a fuss, and tried his hardest not to overhear. After a while, the yelling fell to murmurs and what sounded like occasional sobbing. He wasn’t sure which state was worse.

I’m so tired. Marcus leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“Captain.”

Marcus sat up hurriedly, blinking. The door was slightly open, and Giforte stood diffidently behind it, not wanting to catch his captain napping.

“Sorry.” Marcus stifled a yawn. “Is everything. . all right?”

“For the moment.” He pulled the door open wider. “You can come in.”

Marcus climbed painfully to his feet, shoulders aching where they’d been jammed against the hard stone. Inside, Abby sat behind the table Marcus had been using as a desk, looking pale except for spots of color in her freckled cheeks. Her eyes were slightly red, but her expression was determined.

“My daughter tells me that she’s been working with this ‘Mad Jane’ for some time now,” Giforte said. “She’s convinced that this woman is the one responsible for the mob.”

Abby opened her mouth to speak but stopped at a glance from her father. Her cheeks colored further.

Marcus shifted awkwardly. “And what do you think?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve her. But sending someone outside to negotiate is extremely risky. There’s no guarantee Mad Jane would remain friendly, or that she’s even in control. Our men in the towers have reported a great many new arrivals in the last few hours.”

“If I can talk to Jane,” Abby said, “I’m telling you-”

“Abigail,” Giforte snapped.

“Don’t you ‘Abigail’ me,” she said. “You can’t treat me like a child.”

Marcus cleared his throat to cut off the impending argument. “Young lady, would you mind if I spoke to your father in private for a moment?”

Abby sniffed and crossed her arms. Marcus touched Giforte on the shoulder and led him to a corner of the room, facing away from the girl.

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” Marcus said, in a low voice. “What do you want to do?”

Giforte looked pained for a moment. Marcus wondered if he’d been hoping the decision would be taken out of his hands. Eventually he let out a sigh.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “But I think it’s our best chance of avoiding a bloodbath. I. .” He hesitated. “I’d like to suggest that I accompany her. If she can bring Mad Jane to a conference, better to have someone on the spot ready to talk to her.”

For a moment, Marcus wondered if Giforte planned to use the opportunity to take his daughter and escape. But no, not him. Whatever his hidden connections, reading all those records had drawn a clear picture of the man, and he would no more abandon men under his command than Marcus himself would. He gave a quick nod. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Giforte said. “Thank you, sir.”

Because there were no openings in the Vendre’s landward face, Marcus had to ascend to the tower at the opposite end of the fortress to get a view of the proceedings. Even here all the gun slits and embrasures faced the wrong way, toward the rivers, so he had to take the stairs all the way up and pry open an old trapdoor to make his way up to the roof. It was a narrow stretch of flagstones, swept by a continuous wind from the river and long abandoned even by the sentries. The waist-high parapet was crumbling, and big chunks of the mortar had come loose and fallen four stories to slide down the sloping roof of the lower fortress.

Marcus leaned against one of the solider-looking blocks, trying to ignore the tingling in the soles of his feet every time the wind caught in his coat. He badly wanted a spyglass. There was a particularly fine one in his office at the Ministry of Justice, in fact, but he hadn’t thought to bring it.

Far below, across the bulk of the fortress, Marcus could see the inner courtyard packed with rioters. Giforte had warned that it was no longer only dockmen in the mob, and even from this distance Marcus could see it was true. The crowd grouped up in tight bunches, as separate as oil and water, and while some of these wore the leather and gaudy colors of the South Bank workers, others had the darker, sober look of prosperity. Students, was Marcus’ guess. Danton’s speeches had always played well at the University.

He could tell by the reaction of the crowd when the big doors started to open. The mob took a few collective steps back in sudden shock. Then, seeing that this was not a desperate sortie, they surged back, and the background roar increased dramatically in volume. After a few moments a knot of people began to force its way out into the courtyard. Marcus could only guess that Giforte and his daughter were in the center.

The trapdoor gave a long, anguished scream of unoiled hinges. Marcus looked over his shoulder as Captain Ross came into view, his heavy boots clomping on the narrow wooden stairs. He was followed by a pair of musket-armed Concordat men. Marcus said nothing until all three had emerged onto the roof, their leather coats flapping like flags in the wind.

“Captain,” Marcus said.

“Sir,” Ross said. “Enjoying the view?”

Marcus raised his eyes beyond the courtyard. The sun was still an hour from the horizon, but the towers of the Vendre threw a long shadow across the Island, like the gnomon of a monstrous sundial. Already lanterns and torches glowed like tiny sparks in the courtyard, while in the streets beyond, the sullen glow of bonfires lit up the facades of the buildings and gleamed from the few unbroken shopwindows.

“Not really,” Marcus confessed.

He looked back down at the courtyard. Someone had established a kind of order, clearing a ring around Giforte and Abby, who were now identifiable in the mob. They shared the space with a flock of young women, who were fighting with one another in an effort to be the first to hug Abby. An emotional reunion was apparently in progress.

“You released her.” Ross followed his eyes. “One of my prisoners.”

It wasn’t a question. Marcus supposed he’d gotten the story from the guards downstairs.

“I didn’t release her. I paroled her, on my own responsibility, to attempt to negotiate with the leaders of the riot.” Marcus pushed himself away from the parapet and turned to face Ross. “And as I am in command here, she was one of my prisoners, Captain.”

“Of course.” Ross’ lip quirked. “And what do you hope to accomplish with this. . negotiation?”

“To see if there is any mutually acceptable way of settling their grievances, and to buy time for the Cabinet to come up with a solution.”

“Some would say that an offer to negotiate is an admission of weakness.”

Marcus shrugged. “You said yourself, Captain, that we could hold off an army here. What’s the harm in keeping them talking?”

“None.” Ross’ eyes went cold. “Provided you actually mean to fight when the time comes.”

“When the time comes-”

“Let me tell you what I think,” Ross interrupted. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked thoughtfully out at the river. “I think you are a coward. I think you have no intention of doing your duty and defending this fortress. I think you are ‘buying time,’ as you put it, to prepare for your personal escape while you leave the rest of the garrison and the prisoners to fall into the hands of the mob.”

Marcus felt as though he’d been hit in the face by a bucket of cold water. He’d grown used to the gibes of the Concordat officer, but-

“I suggest,” he growled, “that you retract that statement.”

“Why? It’s only the truth. Or do you deny that your men are preparing boats for a getaway across the river?”

“Captain Ross,” Marcus said, raising his voice. “You are relieved of your command, and I’m placing you under arrest for insubordination.”

Ross glanced over his shoulder. One of the two Concordat men was staring down at the scene in the courtyard, but the other raised his musket to his shoulder and thumbed back the hammer. The barrel pointed squarely at Marcus’ chest.

There was a long silence.

I should have expected that. God knew Ross had given him no grounds for trust. But this wasn’t the Khandarai desert, with thousands of miles of sand and ocean between them and the Ministry of War. This was Vordan, where laws were supposed to mean something.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Marcus said, “you’re going to regret it.”

“I very much doubt that.” Ross held out his hand, and after a long moment Marcus unbuckled his sword and handed it across. “His Grace always protects those who act in his interests.”

“As does my lord the Minister of Justice.”

“By the time this is over, I doubt Count Mieran will have much say in the matter.” Ross turned to his second man. “Ranker Mills, what do you think?”

“Call it eighty yards,” the man said, unstrapping his weapon. “No problem.”

It wasn’t a musket he was carrying, Marcus saw now. It was a longer-barreled weapon, slightly narrower, with a complex iron mechanism above the stock. A military rifle, he guessed. Probably one of the infamous Hamveltai Manhunters.

“Ranker Mills is an excellent shot,” Ross said. “Once this Mad Jane shows herself, we’ll have an excellent chance to dispose of her. It may break the morale of the mob entirely.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Marcus hissed. “They’re not going to break. They’ll rush the door-”

“And we’ll be ready for them,” Ross said. “My men have the mortar in place, and we’re well barricaded. It will be a slaughter.”

He sounded pleased at the prospect. Marcus turned frantically back to the courtyard, where another group was working its way through the press to join Giforte and Abby. Jane and her companions, he assumed. Mills sighted carefully, tweaking the back sight of his rifle.

It was probably too far for anyone to hear him, but it was worth a try. Marcus cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

“Giforte! Jane! Up here-it’s-”

A musket butt slammed against his jaw, slamming his teeth together with a clack and filling his head with shooting stars. He stumbled backward, grabbing at the parapet for support, and ended up flopping to the flagstones when his legs refused to support him. The Concordat musketeer stood above him, weapon raised for another blow.

“Not very smart,” Ross commented. “Pick him up.”

Marcus’ head swam as they dragged him to the stairs. More Concordat men were waiting down below to take hold of his feet and lower him like a sack of potatoes. As they bound his hands behind his back and dragged him away, he heard the sharp crack of the rifle.

WINTER

“I think,” Winter said, “that getting them started tearing down buildings may have been a mistake.”

“We needed a timber for the ram,” Jane said. “Besides, I didn’t tell them to-”

She was interrupted by a drawn-out crash as the second story of an engraver’s shop leaned drunkenly out over the street, wobbled, and collapsed into a pile of broken beams and brick dust. A cheer rose from the crowd, and before the rubble had settled, looters were swarming over the wreckage. Larger groups milled around, uncertain what to do next, until someone shouted that a handsome marble-fronted building up the street was the headquarters of a Borelgai fur importer. With a shout, the mob rushed in that direction.

“I didn’t tell them to start pulling down the whole damned street,” Jane finished, lamely. She gave a halfhearted shrug. “What am I supposed to do?”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Rescuing Abby and the others was my idea. Not all this. .” She waved one arm to encompass the carnival of destruction and shook her head, at a loss for words.

Winter felt as though she should have been horrified, or even terrified, but a night without sleep and the stress of worrying about Jane made her simply numb. The rescue mission-or mob, or riot, or revolution, whatever it was-had grown beyond any possibility of control; that much was clear. She could feel the circle of her cares contracting, as it had done in Khandar when the Redeemer cavalry had come over the rise. The regiment, the country, the city, and even Janus would have to look out for themselves. Winter only had enough energy to concern herself with what was within arm’s reach.

That meant, primarily, Jane. She’d been bouncing from one extreme to the other, alternating between a strange, manic energy and moments of black, vicious temper. The exhaustion Winter was feeling had to be a hundred times worse for her, with everyone looking to her for answers. Winter remembered all too well how draining that could be.

Another crash, from farther down the street, barely registered. The mob had quickly learned the best technique for demolition: a rope, tied tight around key beams, could be tossed out into the street and drawn by hundreds of hands until the whole front of a building came crashing down. Other groups were wandering about with sacks of broken bricks, looking for unshattered windows, or collecting scraps of wood to feed to the bonfires. Anything associated with the Borelgai or the duke was the target of special ire, and Winter had watched furious rioters feed thousands of eagles’ worth of fur or fine fabrics to the flames.

Jane’s Leatherbacks brought in scraps of information, but their picture of what was going on outside the immediate area was sketchy. The Armsmen had rallied on the east side of the Island, protecting the Sworn Cathedral and the bridges to the Exchange. As best Winter could tell, they seemed uninterested in challenging the mob west of Farus’ Triumph, in spite of a few attempts by the North Bank rabble-rousers to gather a force to attack them, and she was happy to leave them be.

The sun was disappearing behind the buildings of the western skyline. Jane half turned, attention caught by some distant act of destruction, and its orange light caught her hair and made it shine like beaten gold. For a moment the sight of her took Winter’s breath away.

“I didn’t want this,” Jane repeated. The shadow of the buildings reached out for her, snuffing out the fire in her hair, and she crossed her arms and looked down. “I just wanted. .”

“I know.” Winter slipped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right.”

Jane turned her head away. “I should never have let her go. Fucking Danton. I should have known.”

“There’s no way you could have known today was going to be the day Orlanko would bring the boot down,” Winter said. “But it’s all right. They’ll be fine.”

“What if they aren’t?” Jane’s jaw tightened. “What if they’ve hurt her? Or if she’s. .”

“I trust Captain d’Ivoire,” Winter repeated. “He won’t let anything happen to Abby or the others.” Though God alone knows who’s going to protect him when we get to storming the place.

Jane nodded, miserably, and took a shaky breath. She took Winter’s hand in hers and squeezed. “Balls of the fucking Beast. I’m glad you’re here.”

They stood for a long moment in companionable silence, broken by the crackle of bonfires and the shuddering crunch of collapsing buildings. There was a distant scream, suddenly cut off. Jane frowned.

“At least the Borels had the good sense to run away when they saw us coming,” Winter said. “Along with everybody else.”

That got a weak chuckle. It wasn’t strictly true, of course, and Winter suspected Jane knew it as well. Most of the buildings on the Island were shops or businesses, whose inhabitants had indeed fled at the approach of the mob, and the few residences were mostly abandoned as well. Jane had even used her Leatherbacks to conduct a few families to safety. Now, with the arrival of the Dregs contingent and thousands more from the Docks and the other poor quarters of the city, matters had gotten out of hand. Most of the inhabitants had fled, but Winter had carefully steered away from some groups of rioters who looked as though they’d been engaged in more than mere drunken destruction. Here and there, pathetic bundles hung from the lampposts, like gory decorations. Winter tried to keep Jane pointed in the other direction. She doesn’t need any more on her conscience.

“We should get back,” Jane said. “They must be nearly done with the ram by now.”

“I wish you’d take the chance to sleep.”

“You think I could sleep?”

Winter shrugged. “I could. It’s been almost two days.”

“That must be your soldier’s instincts.” Somehow they’d shifted to walking arm in arm, like a young couple strolling out for a night on the town. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Winter said.

“Why Khandar? Why did you go so far away?”

There was a long pause. Winter swallowed hard.

“I wasn’t. . thinking clearly, after I ran away.” Winter paused. “I had this idea that Mrs. Wilmore was some all-seeing monster, I think. Like the Last Duke, only worse. I felt like I had to get as far away as I possibly could, or else they’d come and drag me back.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Jane said. “I remembered her as this huge, evil person. But when I went back there, she was. . nothing. Just a little old woman.”

Winter nodded. They lapsed into silence again, and she couldn’t help wondering what Jane was thinking. If I hadn’t been such a coward, if I hadn’t run away, she might have found me again. Hell, I might have rescued her. If I hadn’t-

“That’s Min,” Jane said, raising her hand. Across the street, the slight girl waved back and hurried over. She was breathing hard.

“We need you at the gate,” Min said. “Now.”

“What’s happened?” Winter said.

“Someone came out to negotiate. Abby’s with him. But Peddoc and the others-”

Winter grabbed the girl’s arm and dragged her into a run. Jane was already a half street ahead of them, and accelerating.

The courtyard of the Vendre was even more crowded than they’d left it, with both dockmen and University students pressing in as tight as they could without actually mixing with one another. In spite of the agreement between Jane and the council leaders, tensions between the groups remained high, and by the sounds of argument coming from the center of the yard, they weren’t getting any better.

Winter broke away from Min as the girl pressed through the mob to join a crowd of Jane’s Leatherbacks clustering around their leader. Winter herself stayed on the periphery, but she was close enough to catch Peddoc shouting.

“Of course it’s a damned trap! This is the Last Duke we’re dealing with! He lives and breathes treachery.”

“Besides,” said another councilman, “why should we negotiate? Just the fact that they’re offering means they’re at our mercy. We’ve finished the ram, and once we break down the door-”

“First of all,” said another man that Winter didn’t recognize, “I am Vice Captain Alek Giforte of the Armsmen. I am here on behalf of Captain of Armsmen Marcus d’Ivoire, and I do not answer to the Ministry of Information.”

“Everyone knows this is a Concordat prison!” shouted a dockman from the crowd.

Winter was too short to get a decent view from the floor of the courtyard. She worked her way to the edges, where crates and barrels of supplies were stacked. Chris, who was already perched there, recognized her and obligingly gave her a hand up to share her vantage point. From there, she could see Giforte standing in the center of an angry circle of council people and dockmen. Beside him, a tight-packed mass of young women was centered on Jane, who was hugging someone tight. Winter sighed with relief when she recognized Abby.

I knew Marcus wouldn’t let anything happen to his prisoners. She glanced up at the forbidding bulk of the fortress, now in shadow as the sun sank behind its towers. There were only a few men visible, up on the highest parapet and looking down at the scene below.

“Second,” Giforte thundered, in the voice of a sergeant on a parade ground, “the captain is well aware that we are, as you put it, at your mercy. However, if you insist on storming the gates, we will be forced to defend them, and the waste of life will be enormous.”

Winter, looking at the gate, was inclined to agree. A narrow approach against prepared positions, with no way to outflank the defenders. An attacking force might lose ten for one and consider itself lucky.

“The captain has asked me to speak to you to attempt to avoid this bloodshed. He recognizes that we are all, after all, Vordanai, and he is no more eager to begin the killing than you are.” Giforte looked around. “In particular, he asked me to speak to the leader named Mad Jane. Is she here?”

“I don’t see why-” Peddoc began, but Jane cut him off, emerging from the crowd of girls with Abby behind her.

“I’m Jane,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And Abby tells me I can trust you.”

There was an odd note of humor in Giforte’s voice when he replied, “I’m glad she thinks so.”

“So what terms does your captain propose?”

A hush fell across the courtyard, as everyone strained to hear what Giforte would say. In that instant, another voice floated down from afar, so distant as to be barely a murmur.

“. . Jane. . up here!. .”

Giforte started to speak, but Winter was no longer listening. She couldn’t tell if anyone else had heard the distant warning, but all eyes but hers were on Jane and Giforte. Winter looked up, to the parapets of the Vendre tower, where-

“Jane!” Winter screamed, loud and shrill. Heads snapped around.

The crack of the shot was like a distant handclap in a crowded theater, almost inaudible. But Winter’s whole being was tensed and waiting for the sound, and in her mind it was as loud as a cannon. Someone had fallen in the center of the crowd. Winter could no longer see Abby or Jane as the Leatherback girls closed in around them while the rest of the crowd opened outward like a blossoming flower. The courtyard began to fill with shouts and screams.

“There! Fire!”

Walnut’s enormous voice cut through the babble. The Leatherbacks had brought a few muskets and carbines, and a few more had fallen into their hands when they took the courtyard. Jane had stationed men who had some experience with the weapons on the outer wall, to watch both the approach to the fortress prison and the towers. Now they fired a ragged volley, aimed at the parapet of the tower. It was too long a shot for a musket, nearly a hundred yards in the gathering darkness, but the roar and muzzle flashes were obvious to whoever was up there. Dark figures scurried for cover.

Winter jumped from her perch, twisting at the last minute to avoid colliding with a student scurrying for cover, and landed badly. One ankle gave way, and pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself back to her feet and sprinted as best she could to the center of the yard. Behind her, the musketeers kept up an enthusiastic but erratic fire, drowning out the screams. Ahead, the Leatherbacks had formed a tight, huddled mass, interposing their bodies between their leader and the shooter on the parapet.

That has to be eighty yards, Winter told herself. No chance. Not in the dark. Even with a good rifle, that’s too long a shot-Jane was moving-she can’t-

She came to the edge of the group and started prying surprised young women aside. Her voice of command would have been instantly recognizable to any soldier of the Seventh Company.

“Get out of the fucking way! Now!”

A path cleared. Someone was down, two people, and Winter’s heart lurched at the sight of blood. It was everywhere, in dark spray patterns and a great pool soaking into the dirt.

Jane lay on her stomach, atop another girl. Her face was dark and slick with blood.

“Jane!” Winter fell to her knees and grabbed Jane’s shoulder, pulling her up, dreading and praying all at once. Please, please, please, God, not now, not-

“Help her.” Jane’s voice sounded distant and tinny through the blood thumping in Winter’s ears.

“Are you all right?” Winter rolled her over, roughly. There was blood everywhere, but she couldn’t see an actual injury. “Jane! Can you hear me?”

“Fine.” Jane spit a spray of blood. “I’m fine, damn it. Help her.”

Winter looked at the other girl for the first time. It was Min, lying on her back with one arm over her stomach and the other flung wide. The shot had gone through her neck, tearing a huge chunk of it clean away. She was still breathing, fast and shallow, but each gasp only bubbled blood in her ruined throat. Her eyes were very wide.

That there was nothing to be done was obvious, even to Winter. She turned back to Jane, who was trying to sit up.

“Help her,” Jane said. “She’s bleeding. Winter-”

“Lie still for a minute.” Winter pressed Jane’s shoulders to the ground.

“She pushed me away,” Jane said. “When she heard you shouting.”

Min made a gurgling sound, one hand clutching convulsively at the dirt. Finally, mercifully, she was silent.

“She. .” Jane couldn’t see Min, but her eyes were locked on Winter’s.

“She’s gone,” Winter said. “We have to get you out of here. They might try again.”

“Abby,” Jane said. “Where’s Abby?”

“I’m here.” Abby knelt down beside them, grabbing Jane’s hand. Winter took her other arm, and together they got her on her feet. The rest of the Leatherbacks closed in again, a shield of flesh and bone. Winter glanced up at the parapet. Walnut’s men were still firing, but there were no figures visible.

Jane was looking down at Min’s corpse. Her hand, sticky with blood, closed tight on Winter’s arm.

“Get the ram,” she said, very quietly.

“If we go in there,” Winter said, low and fast, “more people are going to die. A lot more. We might be able to-”

Jane raised her voice to a shout that echoed across the square. “Get the goddamned ram!”

A thousand pairs of eyes took in her bloodstained features, and a roar rose as one from a thousand throats. The mob surged onward.