“I was at the University,” Winter said, feeling a bit more comfortable. This part of the story she’d practiced. “My father owned an apothecary northside. We weren’t rich, but he saved everything he could to send me there. He didn’t have a son, you see, and I was supposed to carry on the family business.”
Abby nodded appreciatively. “Go on.”
“I don’t know all the details. But Father got involved with a tax farmer named Heatherton.” This, Janus had assured her, was a real person. “He fell behind and got into debt, then got further into debt trying to dig himself out. Eventually Heatherton turned up with a warrant that said he owned the shop, and Father went to prison. They tossed me out of the University as soon as my tuition dried up.” She tried to put a little quaver into her voice, as though she were only remaining calm by dint of much effort. “I’d heard stories, and I had a little money left, so I thought . . .”
“You thought you’d come and ask for help?”
Winter shook her head. “That would be silly. I know I’m not going to get the shop back, or even get Father out of prison. I just wanted to . . . do something. To hurt them. To help someone else, if I could. I don’t know.” It wasn’t hard to feign embarrassment. “Maybe it was a stupid idea.”
“You’d be surprised what can come out of stupid ideas,” Abby murmured.
“Are you one of them, then?” Winter said. “Is it true about the Leatherbacks?”
“Some of the stories are greatly exaggerated,” Abby said. “You might say I’m an associate member.”
“Can you get me a meeting with them?” Winter let a touch of her real eagerness creep into her voice. She thought it would be in character.
Abby sighed. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’ve been down here for days,” Winter said. “They have my father. Of course it’s what I want.”
“You know the story of Saint Ligamenti and the demon, right? ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”
“If I remember the story,” Winter said, “Saint Ligamenti tricks the demon and sends it back to hell.”
“It depends on which version you read,” Abby said brightly. “All right. Are you going to finish that, or are you ready to go?”
Winter looked down at the plate, a sudden unease sitting poorly amid the boiled meat and mashed potatoes in her stomach. “Let’s go. I’ve lost my appetite.”
—
“How did you join the Leatherbacks?” Winter said, as Abby led her away from the crowded River Road and into the dense tangle of plaster-and-timber buildings that housed the population of the Docks. Aside from a few major thoroughfares connecting the market squares, there were no official streets, just a wandering warren of alleys established by consensus and tradition. With the sun well up and no clouds in the sky, washing lines had sprouted from every doorway and window, like fast-growing creepers adorned with fluttering, colorful flowers. They had to pick their way carefully to avoid getting a face-full of someone’s underthings when the wind blew the wrong way.
“By doing a lot of really stupid things and getting very lucky,” Abby said. “Honestly, what I deserved was to be found floating naked in the river with my throat slit. It must be true what they say about God looking out for idiots and children.”
That stymied Winter for a while, conversation-wise. Abby led confidently but apparently at random, taking this turning or that without a second thought, making wide circles when a more direct route seemed available. Winter wondered if it was all for her benefit, to keep her from remembering the way to some secret hideout. If so, it was wasted effort—Winter had been lost the moment they left sight of the river. Maybe Abby is just lost, too.
“I ran away from home, if you can believe it,” Abby said eventually. They separated to pass to either side of a fishmonger gutting his latest acquisitions into a bucket in the middle of the street. “I didn’t even have a good reason. We’re a good family, plenty of money, nobody taking a switch to me or anything like that.”
“What happened, then?”
“I had a difference of opinion with my father. His ideas are . . . old-fashioned.”
Winter did her best to sound sympathetic. “Marriage?”
“Politics.”
Abby stopped in a tiny square where five of the little streets came together, and looked around. She selected the narrowest one, a thin dirt lane squeezed so tightly between two houses there was barely room for two people to pass each other. Winter looked at it dubiously.
“Come on,” Abby said. “This way.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” Winter said, hurrying a little to keep up.
“Right here.” Abby turned around, in the center of the alley, and gave her sunny smile again. “One of the things I learned pretty quickly was not to follow strangers down narrow alleys, even in the middle of the day.”
A change in the quality of the light told Winter that there was someone behind her, blocking the mouth of the alley by which they’d come in. Another shadow loomed across the exit. She considered her options. The buildings close on each side meant it was unlikely she’d be able to scramble past an attacker, and she wasn’t a good enough climber to get up the pockmarked plaster walls before someone got a hand on her. The damned dress would make running difficult, too. She had a knife, stashed in her waistband beside her coin purse, but the only thing she could think to do with it was take Abby hostage. That didn’t seem like a good option; the girl looked fleet and spry, and in any case Winter wasn’t sure she could cut her throat in cold blood.
Instead she smiled back and kept her hands carefully at her sides. “I hope it wasn’t too painful a lesson.”
There were footsteps in the dirt behind her. Two men, it sounded like. A quick kick to the groin or stomach might get her past one, but that would leave the other, with no room to get around. A nicely planned ambush, I must say.
“I really don’t know who you are,” Abby said, “but you certainly were never a University student. We have close contact with the people there. At the same time, I meant what I said about the Concordat.”
“That you think I’m a spy?”
“That I think you’re not competent enough to be one of Orlanko’s.” Abby shrugged. “This is your chance to come clean. If you’re working for Big Sal or one of the other dock gangs, we’re not going to hold it against you. Though they ought to know not to mess with us by now.”
“I’m not working for Big Sal.”
For a moment, Winter thought about telling the truth, but she held back. She wasn’t certain how Abby would react, and there was always the possibility that this was some kind of hazing ritual. Admit defeat early, and at best she’d have to go back to Janus and tell him she’d failed utterly. At worst—she didn’t want to think about at worst. Better to stick to the story for now.
“Have it your way,” Abby said. “Don’t squirm. You might hurt yourself.”
A hood came down over Winter’s face, smelling of leather and horses. Thick hands gripped her arms, and she felt herself being lifted into the air.
—
“I’m still not sure,” Abby said, her words muffled by the leather over Winter’s ears. “The Last Duke can’t think we’re that stupid.”
“Could be an assassin,” came another young woman’s voice. “Come to kill the boss.”
“How’s she going to manage that tied up on the floor?” said another.
“You hear stories,” said the first, darkly. “Some of the things that come out of the Cobweb aren’t human.”
Winter thought of Jen Alhundt, and shivered. You have no idea how right you are.
She was lying on what felt like threadbare carpet. After dragging her through the streets for some distance, with a little bit of spinning and doubling back for good measure, the men who’d carried her had delivered her to a doorway. They’d bound her hands,
then departed, leaving Winter in Abby’s charge. At that point she might have been able to make a run for it, but tied and blind she wouldn’t have gotten farther than the nearest wall, so she’d allowed Abby to lead her through a building and up at least two flights of stairs. All around her, muffled by the hood, were the sounds of people talking, laughing, joking, swearing, as though they were passing through a barracks or a dormitory. The words were indistinct, but a couple of times someone hollered Abby’s name in a friendly fashion. All of the voices Winter could make out were female.
After delivering her to this carpeted room, Abby had left for a minute and returned with these two other girls, who were apparently to make some kind of decision about her fate. It was, Winter thought, time to speak up.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?” She tried to put some bravado into her voice, but the leather hood somewhat spoiled the effect.
“What?” Abby said.
“I said,” Winter began, but accidentally got a mouthful of leather and gagged at the awful taste. She spent a few moments coughing, the inside of the bag getting slick and hot with her own breath.
“Oh, take that thing off her,” Abby said, exasperated. “She’s not going to bite us, I think.”
Someone loosened the drawstring at Winter’s neck, and the bag came off. She drew in a great breath, thankful for even the dusty, stale air, then looked around curiously. They were in a small, unfurnished room, with only a rug on the floor and a boarded-up window. Candles burned and flickered in the corners. Abby had been joined by two girls of roughly her own age, seventeen or eighteen, dressed for labor in trousers and leather vests over linen blouses, with their hair tied up in colorful kerchiefs. The one on the left looked so pale she seemed about to faint, while the one on the right was enormous, a head taller than Winter, with the thick, muscled arms and ruddy complexion of someone used to serious outdoor work.
They hadn’t searched her, which meant she still had the knife, but her hands were well secured. If they left her alone, she might be able to squirm around to the point where she could do something with it, but for now she settled for glaring at Abby.
“I said,” Winter said, “do you treat all your guests this way?”
“We don’t get many guests,” Abby said. “We keep to ourselves, for the most part. That’s part of what makes this so difficult.”
“I’ll do it,” the smaller girl said eagerly. She took a knife from her belt, a thick cleaverlike kitchen blade with a glittering edge that spoke of many loving hours of honing. “She must be Concordat.”
“If she’s Concordat, we’d better ask Conner first,” the big girl said thoughtfully. “He might not like it if she turned up dead.”
“I certainly wouldn’t like it,” Winter said. “Especially since I’m not Concordat.”
“Put that away, Becca,” Abby said. “Nobody’s killing anybody until the boss gets back. It shouldn’t be long now.”
Becca put the knife away with a certain reluctance. Abby looked from her to the other girl. “Chris, do you think you can watch her for a while?”
The big girl nodded. Abby and Becca went out and closed the door behind them. Winter didn’t hear the click of a lock, but Chris settled herself deliberately against it and crossed her arms. Her posture dared Winter to try to get past her, but there was something off about her eyes. Winter thought there was fear there, and uncertainty, and something else she couldn’t quite identify.
Winter rolled over until she got her legs underneath her and sat up, maneuvering awkwardly with her arms still bound behind her back. Chris’ eyes followed her every move, as though she expected her to pounce like a mad dog.
“I’m not Concordat, you know,” Winter said.
Chris grunted and shifted uneasily against the door.
“My name is Winter,” Winter said. This got another grunt. “You’re Chris? Is that short for Christina?”
“I shouldn’t talk to you,” Chris said. “If you’re a spy.”
“If I’m a spy,” Winter said, trying to stay reasonable, “then you’ll kill me, and it doesn’t matter what you’ve told me. And if I’m not, then it doesn’t matter anyway. Besides, is your name that important?”
Chris’ lip twisted. Winter sighed.
“I’m just trying to pass the time,” she said, honestly. “Waiting for someone to decide if they’re going to kill you is . . . unpleasant.” Her mind raced back to Adrecht’s mutiny, and the look on Sergeant Davis’ face as he tried to choose between rape and murder. With an effort, she pulled her thoughts back to the present.
“It’s Christabel,” Chris said finally. “After my mother.”
“That’s nice. I never knew my mother. She died when I was very young.” This wasn’t part of her cover story, but a bit of ad-libbing seemed to be called for. It’s the truth, anyway.
“My mother died,” Chris said. “Last year, of the root flu. And my da’s in prison.” Chris looked at her feet. “I tried to keep our patch going, with my brother and sisters, but last winter we nearly starved, and in the spring the tax farmer came. They took my brother for the army, and sent me and my sisters . . .” She stopped.
“I have a . . . friend in the army,” Winter said, desperate to keep the conversation going. “He went to Khandar with the Colonials. Do you know where your brother ended up?”
“Somewhere to the east,” Chris said. “He said he would send letters, but I never got any. James was never much for reading and writing.”
“How long have you been here?” Winter said. “With the Leatherbacks, I mean. If that’s who you people are.”
“Don’t try to trick me,” Chris said, crossed arms tightening. “Don’t think I’ll let you get away with anything, just because I’m not as crazy as Becca. If you’re a spy . . . if you came here to hurt the boss, I’ll . . .”
“It’s all right,” Winter said, cursing mentally. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
But Chris had decided it was safest to say nothing at all. They sat in silence, Winter twisting her hands and worrying at the cord that bound them, until there was a knock at the door.
“Chris?” It was Abby.
“Yeah?”
“Is she still tied?”
“Yeah.”
The door opened a crack. “The boss wants to talk to her alone.”
“It might not be safe!” Chris protested.
“Don’t tell me that. Come on. We can wait outside.”
“But—”
“Chris.” This was a third voice, an older woman. The boss? Something about it tickled the back of Winter’s mind. “Get out of the way, would you?”
Chris opened the door, reluctantly, and stepped outside. Winter struggled to her feet, staggering a little, and waited.
Another woman came into the room and closed the door behind her. Winter’s eyes went very wide.
That is not possible.
The boss of the Leatherbacks looked a year or two older than Winter herself, tall and buxom, dressed in the trousers and leather vest that seemed to be a uniform. Unlike the others, she left her hair unbound, cut man-short like Winter’s own and clumped by sweat into a spiky mess—
—dark red hair, soft as silk, sliding through her fingers like liquid fire—
—green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the sun—
—that lip-quirking smile, alive with mischief.
Not possible.
Jane took one step closer, then another, cocking her head as she examined Winter’s trembling face. Winter felt frozen in time, like a mouse staring into the golden eyes of a cat, her whole body locked rigid. Her hands were still tied behind her, and she could feel her fingers curling over the cords and digging into her palms. Something thick blocked her throat.
Not possible . . .
Jane crossed the rest of the distance between them in two q
uick steps, grabbed her by both shoulders, and kissed her. Winter felt as if she were frozen in a block of ice, a marble statue. Jane’s lips were soft and sweet, tasting faintly of mint, and the smell of her sweat catapulted Winter across time and space to a hedgerow behind the Nursery. Sweat, and mud, and a tentative touch—
Winter’s reaction was instinctive. It couldn’t have been anything else—her conscious mind was still too stunned to contribute, but the instincts built up over two years in hiding, terrified of this very scenario, did her thinking for her. Her hands were still bound, but by twisting her body she could get some leverage, and she pushed back against Jane’s grip and drove her shoulder into the other girl’s chin. Jane’s teeth came together with a clack, and she staggered backward. Winter hooked one of her ankles with her own and turned the stumble into a fall, and Jane hit the threadbare carpet with a muffled oof. Winter backed up until she felt a wall against her shoulders, heart pounding as though it meant to explode.
I’m sorry. She couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t get anything out. Couldn’t even breathe. Her eyes filled with tears.
Jane rolled over and climbed to her knees, a trickle of blood smeared at the corner of her mouth. She fixed Winter with an unreadable look—those green eyes—and got silently to her feet.
Jane! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . But her traitor throat was still locked closed. Jane turned and walked to the door, wobbling a little. It shut behind her with a slam that shook dust from the plaster, and Winter’s legs gave way underneath her. She rolled onto her side and curled up on the carpet, unable to get her arms up to stanch the flow of tears.
—
Winter had no idea how much time passed. It could have been weeks. Something in her chest felt as though it had broken loose, a steel shard that drifted through her innards, tearing great ragged holes with every breath and every heartbeat. Her face was wet with tears, and her arms ached and were cramping.
There was a knock at the door. It took her a moment to realize that there was no one in the room but her, so she must be meant to answer.
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 11