His other hand emerged from his coat pocket holding a match. He struck it on the stone of the column, and it flared brilliantly for a moment, provoking an intake of breath from the crowd. Danton held it to the corner of the bill, and it grudgingly took fire, curling up toward his fingers and gouting thick black smoke.
“This is what their promises are worth, when all is said and done,” Danton said. As the flames licked toward his fingers, he let the bill fall, blazing as it drifted to the stone. “And we have to make them see it, too.”
He turned his back on the still-burning bill and walked off the rostrum. Faro would be waiting for him on the steps, ready to hustle him out of the square. In the meantime, the crowd waited in stunned silence for a few long moments, not quite realizing that the speech was over. Then, as if on cue, it erupted in a single voice, a throaty combination of a roar of triumph and a scream of rage.
At the center of the tight-packed mob were the vagrants from the Third. They’d waited patiently for Danton to appear, but now that he was done, they were eager to receive their promised reward. They began to shove their way through the crowd in a body, headed east, for the bridges that connected the Island with the Exchange. The rest of the crowd parted to let them pass, then filled in behind them, dragged onward by curiosity and the power of Danton’s voice. It was like a comet falling to earth, with the vagrants at the head and everyone else as the trailing, blazing tail, aimed directly at the Vordan headquarters of the Second Pennysworth Bank.
—
“My word,” Sarton said, looking down from the balcony. “There m . . . m . . . must be a thousand carriages down there.”
Faro, uncharacteristically, had thought ahead and reserved a balcony suite in the Grand, one of Vordan’s finest hotels. It overlooked the Exchange and happened to have an excellent view of the granite-and-marble facade of the Second Pennysworth Bank. So Raesinia, leaning on the balcony rail, had a box seat at the grand spectacle of one of mankind’s classic debacles: a run on the bank.
The Exchange was actually larger than Farus’ Triumph, but not nearly as impressive. It was simply a large, open, irregular space, dirt-floored and rutted with cart tracks. On a normal day it would have been scattered with clusters of men seated at tables or behind portable desks, with flags fluttering behind them on little poles like the pennantry of medieval jousters. Other men milled around them, running from one station to another, shouting incomprehensibly and receiving shouts or hand signals in return. Cora had explained it to Raesinia, once: each station was a gathering of those interested in buying or selling a particular thing or class of thing, with the seated men representing the large, established firms and the ones who shuttled back and forth their prospective customers. Hundreds of millions of eagles changed hands here daily, in some ethereal way that involved nothing so concrete as a handshake. A shout, a thumbs-up, or a nod of the head was enough to start a chain reaction that, hundreds of miles away, might cause a ship to be loaded with goods and sent off around the world.
And Vordan was only a distant third among the great commercial cities, Cora said. The Bourse in Hamvelt was bigger, and the mighty Common Market of Viadre was large enough to swallow them both together with room to spare. Cora talked about the Common Market of Viadre in the same dreamy way that a priest might discuss the kingdom of heaven.
Today, though, all that had been roughly overturned, the tables knocked aside, the traders driven away by the mob. The banks ringed the periphery of the Exchange, their templelike construction seeking to impress a sense of their permanence and majesty by sheer force of architecture. The Second Pennysworth was one of the newest among these, a Borelgai transplant, and its building was the grandest of all. A queue—if something so disorderly could be dignified with the name—stretched from its doors and wound out into the Exchange, until it lost its identity and dissolved into a sea of pushing, shouting men.
Carriages were normally banned from the Exchange, but today none of the rules seemed to apply. They had begun to arrive not long after Danton’s speech, and as the hours passed the trickle had become a flood. Moreover, the vehicles that turned up had been getting grander and grander, sporting coats of arms and liveried footmen, until it seemed that half the nobility of Vordan was crammed into the market.
Somewhat at the head of the line were the vagrants Cora and Raesinia had handed out bills to the night before. They had served as the pebbles that, tossed onto a snowy slope, dislodge a growing, rolling avalanche of ice and dirt that flattens villages in the valley below. Raesinia watched with an odd mix of awe and terror as the thing she’d created roared onward, devouring everything in its path.
It was all about fear, Cora had explained. Banks were built on trust, and the antithesis of trust was fear. Even with the profits she’d made, they didn’t have enough capital to hurt a behemoth like the Second Pennysworth. But a little priming of the pump, combined with the magic of Danton’s voice, meant they didn’t have to.
Inside the bank, some poor manager was watching his worst nightmares come true. In theory, anyone who held one of those bills was entitled to turn up at the door, whenever they liked, and demand actual clinking metallic stuff in exchange. The bank’s very existence was predicated on its ability to meet these promises. In practice, of course, only a few people would do this, but every banker lived in fear of the day that the people who had entrusted him with their money turned up en masse to demand it back. For the Second Pennysworth, that day was today. Every man in the queue had a bill he wanted paid now, for fear the bank would not be around tomorrow to pay it. Every bill had to be met with coin from the cashiers, with strained, frozen smiles. But there was not enough coin in the vaults for everyone, and the crowd knew it.
Shortly after opening, a Second Pennysworth official had come out to proclaim, nervously, that the bank was completely sound and no one had anything to worry about. He’d even tried a little joke, to the effect that if people wanted to set fire to bills of his bank, that was completely all right with him, since it would after all only make it sounder.
It hadn’t helped. Everyone knew that bank managers only said things like that when they were worried; when the banks actually were sound, they sat in their offices and met complaints with an angry, scornful silence. Everyone in the Triumph had heard Danton’s speech, then watched a squadron of determined-looking people march across to the Exchange and head straight for the Second Pennysworth to turn in their bills. That was enough for many, and the sight of the queue stretching out past the doors tipped the balance. The bank had become a sinking ship, and no one wanted to be the one left without a lifeboat.
“There’s a line at the Crown, look,” Cora said. “And another at Spence & Jackson. It’s spreading.”
“Of course,” Raesinia said. “If a respectable institution like the Second Pennysworth can go down just because someone gives a speech, then what other bank could be safe? Much better to cram your coin in a sock and hide it under your mattress.”
“I should have invested in socks,” Cora said. “Or mattresses.”
Raesinia patted her on the shoulder. “Sorry. This must be hard for you to watch.”
“Not . . . exactly.” Cora looked momentarily shifty. “It has its advantages.”
Raesinia quirked an interrogative eyebrow. Cora sighed.
“I was going to tell you,” she said. “But there wasn’t time.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing much. You know how I had to buy all those bills so we could give them away?”
Raesinia nodded.
“Well, I had to have some kind of a cover for why I wanted so much Second Pennysworth debt, or else people would have figured out something was up. So I arranged to sell Pennysworth bills at the same time, to make it look like we were just moving some investment around.”
“But if you sold the bills—”
“I arranged to sell them in the Viadre
market. They’re not due for another three days. It takes time to ship the things to Borel, after all.”
“But you haven’t got the bills anymore. We gave them away.”
“Right.” Cora smiled. “Actually, when I saw the prices, I ended up selling a lot more than I ever bought.”
“So what you’re telling me,” Raesinia said, struggling to follow, “is that someone is going to be very angry with you when it turns out you’ve sold merchandise you can’t deliver?”
“Oh no!” Cora looked genuinely surprised at the idea. “No, you don’t understand. Once the bank collapses, the bills will be practically worthless. I’ll just buy the purchasers out of their contracts at a couple of pennies on the eagle. They might still be angry, but I think most of Viadre will be in a panic once the news of this gets there.”
“So . . . ,” Raesinia prompted.
“We get to keep the money from the sales,” Cora said, in a speaking-to-children voice. “But we don’t actually have to deliver anything.”
“So you’ve made money.”
Cora nodded.
“A lot of money?”
She nodded again, a little hesitantly. “I didn’t think I should do it without asking you first, but we didn’t have very long, and if I’d taken the time to track you down, the market would have closed . . .”
“Cora,” Raesinia said, taking her hand. “Come with me.”
Cora’s face was a mask of panic as Raesinia dragged her through the balcony doors and into the suite. Sarton was still watching the crowd, but Ben was there, and Faro had brought up a canvas sack full of bottles. When he saw Raesinia, he picked up a glass flute full of sparkling white and waved it in her direction.
“Raes!” he said. “Come on! We’re celebrating!”
Raesinia took the flute from Faro and presented it to Cora.
“You deserve it,” Raesinia said. “After we win, I’m going to ask the deputies to make you Minister of Finance.”
I really will, Raesinia thought, as the teenager sipped the bubbly wine. God knows she couldn’t be worse than the last few men who’ve gotten the job. Her father had many fine attributes, but paying attention to eagles and pennies was not one of them, and his Treasury heads tended to be chosen for their political connections rather than their competence. Then there was Grieg, one of Orlanko’s minions, who’d spent the last five years building the tax farm into his private empire. A little girl would make for a nice change of pace.
“By the way,” Faro said, “I had to stash Danton in the front bedroom. We’ll have to figure out some way to get him out without anyone noticing.”
Raesinia rounded on him. “You brought him here?”
Faro shrugged. “His room at the Royal was mobbed after the speech. I couldn’t think where else to put him.” He caught Raesinia’s expression. “Relax. Nobody saw us come in.”
And how the hell would you know? Faro had a high opinion of his own skill and daring, but Raesinia had her doubts. He’s certainly no Sothe.
Ben patted her on the shoulder. “Relax, Raes. It’s just until the storm passes. Have a drink, would you?”
Raesinia sighed, but accepted a flute and sipped at the wine for form’s sake.
They still don’t take it seriously. Cora had the excuse of youth, but the rest of them . . . Why am I the only one who seems worried?
—
Some time later, they’d emptied half the bottles, and the crowd on the Exchange was finally dispersing under the stern eyes of dozens of Armsmen.
The Second Pennysworth had suspended payments just before noon, admitting to the world that it couldn’t make good on its promises. That was the turning point Raesinia had fretted over, the instant where the crowd might turn into a mob and exact violent retribution. Fortunately for all concerned, the gradual gentrification of the panic over the course of the morning meant that by the time the bank actually failed, a good proportion of those waiting in the queue were of the well-bred classes. There were shouting matches, a little shoving, and the occasional swooning or fit of hysterics, but it was no longer the type of crowd to start hurling bricks through windows. By then, too, the Armsmen were out in force, responding with unusual rapidity to the developing crisis. Raesinia had watched the lines of green form and thicken throughout the morning, and sent up a silent thanks to whoever had organized the usually lackadaisical defenders of the peace.
Sarton and Maurisk had left shortly thereafter, the former to whatever he did in his free time—nobody seemed to know—and the latter to bash out a broadsheet about how the bankruptcy of the Second Pennysworth proved the essential bankruptcy of Borelgai-style finance. Back in the suite, Ben and Faro were playing some kind of game that involved dice and many, many glasses of wine. Cora was dozing on the sofa, curled up like a cat. Raesinia found herself wandering out of the living room and into the little anteroom, where doors led to the pair of bedrooms and the tiny private kitchen.
One of the bedroom doors was open a few inches, and a wan light shone from within. Raesinia went over and found Danton sitting on a neatly made bed, still wearing his hat and boots. He looked up, his face splitting into a broad, childlike grin.
“Hello, Princess!”
Raesinia slipped into the room and eased the door closed. “Hello, Danton. What are you doing in here?”
“Thinking,” Danton said.
“Thinking about what?”
He blinked at her, as though that question made no sense. After a moment, he nodded at a half-full glass flute on the nightstand. “Faro gave me some stuff to drink, but I didn’t like it.”
“No?”
“Too many bubbles. They went up my nose.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Is there any beer?”
God Almighty. A surge of guilt broke across Raesinia like a tidal wave. Look at him. He doesn’t understand any of this. He didn’t choose this. We’re just using him, and we’re going to end up getting him killed before it’s all over.
You’re just using all of them, her conscience taunted her. Danton is no different from Ben, or Faro, or Cora. They’re just tools to get what you want. If one or two of them get broken along the way, what’s the difference?
They all chose this, though. Maurisk, Sarton, Ben, even Faro. They have their own reasons for being here.
And Cora? She doesn’t have any idea what she’s getting into.
Raesinia swallowed hard. Danton was still smiling at her. It was hard to reconcile this childlike expression with the man he’d been—or appeared to be—standing on the column in Farus’ Triumph. Does he know what he’s doing?
“Danton,” she said, “that was a good . . . story you told this afternoon.”
“Did you like it, Princess?” His joyful tone made her heart lurch sickeningly. “There were a lot of people listening.”
“There certainly were.” She hesitated. “Did you understand it? The story, I mean. Do you know what it means?”
Again the look of incomprehension, as though what she’d said was a contradiction in terms. “It’s a story, Princess.”
“But . . . the people listening. What did they think it meant?”
“People like stories. They like to shout, but it’s good shouting.”
Raesinia’s binding, the demon in the pit of her soul, gave an odd little twist, as though it were turning over in its sleep. Probably getting rid of the last of the alcohol, she thought regretfully. It would have been nice to let her consciousness dissolve in bubbly white wine for a while, like the rest of the cabal. Or even to be able to put my head down and take a nap.
“I’ll see if Faro brought any beer,” she said.
“Thank you, Princess!”
She’d only opened the door a fraction when she heard the knocking. Someone was rapping at the outer door of the suite, only a few feet away. But nobody is supposed to know we’re here.<
br />
Probably just the hotel staff. She fought off incipient panic and smiled at Danton. “I’ll be right back. You just stay here and . . . think, all right?”
“All right!”
He settled himself on the bed, and Raesinia went back into the hall and shut the door behind her. Loud voices were coming from the sitting room, where Ben and Faro were still at their gaming. She didn’t think anyone else had heard the knocking.
The outer door had no convenient peephole, as a lower-class hotel might have. Raesinia frowned, then settled her weight against the door, bracing her legs against any attempt to force it open.
“Yes?” she said, barely loud enough to be audible. “Who is it?”
“Raesinia? Is that you?”
“Sothe?” Her maidservant/bodyguard had been adamant about keeping herself hidden from the other members of the cabal. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you alone?”
“For the moment. Everyone’s out by the balcony.”
“Good. Open the door.”
Raesinia took her weight off the door and thumbed the latch, letting it open a few inches. She kept her boot wedged against the base so that a sudden push from the outside wouldn’t throw it wide open. Sothe was visible through the resulting crack, and Raesinia relaxed and opened the door the rest of the way.
“Good,” Sothe said. “Voices are easy to fake. Now help me with her.”
The open door revealed that Sothe was standing beside a young woman in the smart gray-and-black livery of the hotel. The woman’s head was resting on Sothe’s shoulder, and it was obvious that Sothe’s arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her up. At first Raesinia thought she was stumbling drunk, but as Sothe shuffled into the suite her limp, dangling limbs made it clear she was completely unconscious.
Raesinia stood aside and pressed the door closed behind them.
Sothe, surveying the suite, nodded toward the bedrooms. “Are those empty?”
“Danton’s in one of them.”
Sothe’s expression tightened into a frown.
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 19