The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  There was a long pause. Winter had faced down many things—Feor’s enormous fin-katar, a horde of screaming Redeemer cavalry, the leering face of Sergeant Davis that still featured in her nightmares—and by those standards this skinny teenager, hands balled into fists, eyes red and gleaming, was not much of a threat. But . . .

  She’s right. Winter closed her eyes. I wasn’t here. I didn’t come back for her. Jane did what she had to do, not just for herself but for all these people, while I ran away and hid in a hole until someone came and dragged me out. She let out a long, shaky breath.

  “I’m sorry.” Winter opened her eyes to find Abby wiping her face on her sleeve, still trembling. “Abby. I’m really sorry. I . . . wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s all right.” Abby blinked away a few stray tears and managed a smile. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you. I haven’t been myself lately.”

  —

  To Winter’s surprise, the scene in Jane’s room looked like a conference she might have found in Janus’ tent outside Ashe-Katarion, albeit only if all the officers had been in drag. Jane sat at her big table, which was half-covered by a hand-drawn map of the Docks, each crooked alley surrounded by carefully penciled notes and annotations. Becca and Winn sat on one side of the table, Min and Chris on the other. There were two conspicuously empty seats, one to either side of Jane.

  “Took you long enough,” Jane grumbled.

  “Sorry,” Abby said. No trace of her rancor remained, except for a slight reddening of the eyes. “We had to finish up at breakfast.”

  She took a seat at Jane’s left hand, and Winter slid into the chair that was obviously meant for her, feeling uncomfortable all over again. Apart from Abby, she’d barely exchanged a word with any of Jane’s lieutenants. For the most part they kept their eyes on Jane, but Winter found herself the subject of the occasional sideways glance. Not hostile so much as curious, she decided. I can hardly blame them. I don’t have any right to be here, really.

  “We have problems,” Jane announced, once everyone was seated. “More accurately, one problem, and his name is the Most Honorable Sir Cecil fucking Volstrod.”

  “Bloody Cecil,” said Winn. She was a tall, skinny woman, her well-muscled arms crosshatched with thin white scars.

  “A tax farmer,” Abby said to Winter. “One of the worst.”

  “I take it you filled her in?” Jane said.

  “More or less.” Abby and Winter exchanged a look.

  “Bloody Cecil kept our peace for a while,” Jane said, “but he was never happy about it. We all remember what happened last time he tried to throw his weight around.”

  Winter was about to say that she didn’t, but from the way everyone around the table looked down, she thought she probably didn’t want to know.

  “Unfortunately,” Jane said, “Bloody fucking Cecil has apparently been playing the markets with company money, in the hopes of raking off a bit more for himself.” She tapped a folded note in front of her. “Or so we are led to believe, anyway. Thanks to Danton and his pack of idiots, Cecil is in something of a bad spot right now, and he doesn’t have long to get out of it. That means he’s coming to the Docks, tonight, for a bit of impromptu smash-and-grab, and he’s bringing every hired leg-breaker he can get his hands on.”

  “You’re not kidding there,” said Min, reading another note. Her role seemed to be managing papers and organization. Winter found it hard to imagine her fighting. “Jenny in the Flesh Market says he’s got nearly a hundred men already.”

  There was a low murmur around the table. Jane frowned.

  “I don’t care if he has two hundred,” she said. “If we sit this one out, it means we can’t protect the people here when push really comes to shove. Fuckers like Cecil will be all over us. We have to stop him.”

  “If we call in every favor we can manage, I doubt we could come up with more than sixty men willing to stand up to Cecil,” Abby said. “That’s not going to be enough.”

  “We’ve got a few muskets,” Chris said, hesitantly. “If we set some of the girls up on the rooftops, we could—”

  “No muskets,” Jane said. “A little brawling is one thing. If word gets out that tax farmers and dockmen are fucking shooting at each other, the Armsmen will be all over us.”

  There was a long, depressed silence. Winter cleared her throat. “Do you know the route they’ll be taking?”

  Jane cocked her head. “More or less. They’ll have wagons, so they won’t be able to get through the alleys.”

  “And do you think Cecil himself will be coming with them?”

  “Definitely. If he can’t come up with some quick coin, he’s fucked. He’ll be here.”

  Winter wondered whether this was what Janus had had in mind when he’d sent her here. Somehow she suspected not. Though, with Janus, who knows?

  “Then,” Winter said, “I have a suggestion . . .”

  —

  The street was alive with flickering shadows, swinging to and fro with the motions of the torch-wielding men and the rocking of the lanterns on the wagons. It looked as though an army of dark spirits were walking to either side of the tax farmers’ thugs, projected against the fronts of the buildings, slipping in and out of view but always keeping in step.

  Aside from Bloody Cecil’s men, the street was deserted. Jane had made sure that news of the incursion got around. Winter only hoped that their own preparations had not also become common knowledge. The convoy was three empty wagons drawn by four-horse teams, to carry the booty, followed by a single two-horse coach with dark-uniformed footmen on the running boards. Around the vehicles, the mercenaries maintained a loose guard, walking in small groups clustered around the torchbearers. Snatches of conversation drifted past her, and occasional coarse laughter.

  She was forcibly reminded of a little fishing village beside the Tsel, and a column of brown-uniformed Khandarai marching in good order into a hellish cross fire. These hirelings had nothing like the discipline of the Auxiliaries, though, and were armed with truncheons and staves instead of Royal Army–issue muskets. On the other hand, Winter’s own allies were similarly poorly equipped. At the Tsel we didn’t have any girls in the company, though. Aside from me, of course. And Bobby, come to think of it.

  Not all of the Dockside fighters were escapees from Mrs. Wilmore’s Prison, though. A crowd of rough-looking men in long, front-and-back leather aprons had turned up in response to Jane’s call. Walnut was among them, and to Winter’s surprise so was Crooked Sal, equipped with a pair of thick oak truncheons and apparently looking forward to having his nose broken one more time. Jane’s contingent included twenty or so of the girls from her building, among them Chris, Becca, and Winn. They looked tougher and more professional than Winter had expected.

  “I don’t like it,” Jane muttered.

  “Don’t like the plan?” Winter said. “It’s a little late to say so now.”

  “Not the plan. Abby. She should have been back by now.”

  Abby had gone off with Molly, Nel, Becks, Andy, and a small cohort of younger girls to see Danton’s speech in Farus’ Triumph. Jane had agreed to the expedition, with misgivings and a firm injunction that they be back before nightfall. The sun was now well down, and there had been no word from them.

  “We’ll be fine,” Winter said. “All the barricade crew has to do is make a lot of noise, then keep their heads down.”

  “That’s all right for us, but what about her?” Jane cursed and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have let them go.”

  Winter put a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be fine, too. Let’s stick to what’s in front of us, shall we?”

  Jane forced a smile. “Right.” Her face softened with some genuine humor. “You and me, waiting to put one over on some officious prat. Just like the old days, eh?”

  “Given how most of those adventures ended, I hope not.”r />
  “We didn’t always get caught.”

  “It just hurt like blazes when we did,” Winter said. “I think I still have marks on my arse.”

  “I’ll have to check some time,” Jane said. Before Winter could do more than sputter, she peered around the corner. “Nearly there. Should be seeing us any minute now . . .”

  “Brass Balls of the Beast! What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” The swearing came from the front of the convoy. The light of lanterns had revealed that the street was blocked by a shoulder-high barricade of wooden junk—torn-up carts, tipped-over tables, planks from fishermen’s stalls, even an upside-down boat that for Winter brought back further memories of Khandar. Behind this barrier, a few dozen men waved their makeshift weapons at the tax farmers.

  Winter and Jane were in an alley down the street from the roadblock, which put them behind the carriage that brought up the rear of the convoy. From that vantage, they could get only glimpses of what was happening through the press of shouting, angry mercenaries, but the sounds made it clear enough. A torch rose briefly, then fell in a descending arc, accompanied by a hoarse shout of pain. Winter guessed someone had tried to mount the barricade and gotten a bash on the head for his troubles. The general racket increased as both sides began shouting at each other.

  One of the thugs ran to the carriage and rapped at the door. The footman opened it, just a crack, letting the orange light of another lamp fall on the man’s face.

  “Boss, there’s some locals in the street. They don’t want to let us through.”

  The voice from inside cracked like a whip with the weight of hereditary privilege, beneath a heavy, rasping Borelgai accent. “Of course they don’t want to let us through! Why do you think I brought so many of you lads along, for the company?”

  “Yeah,” the mercenary said, dubiously. “But they don’t look like they’re going to move.”

  “Then fucking move them! I want these wagons rolling again in ten minutes.”

  “Right.”

  The door closed. The mercenary drew his truncheon from his belt and slapped it against his palm a couple of times, testing the weight. Winter didn’t blame him for hesitating. Hundred men or no hundred men, climbing over a barricade against an enemy who knew you were coming was not going to be a pleasant experience, especially for whoever was first in line.

  “Right!” he said, louder. “Boss wants this shit out of the way double quick! Form up. We’ll go over all at once!”

  Very good, Winter thought. Stick to nice, obvious tactics. Just charge on ahead. Nothing up my sleeves . . .

  She felt, oddly, at home. Almost at peace. This was a battlefield, of sorts, and there was going to be a battle. Admittedly, a battle between a couple of hundred sweaty, shoving men armed with clubs, but still a battle, even if it went as she hoped and produced no serious casualties. She’d never thought she could miss such a thing, but being here now felt right, in a way that nothing had since she’d taken ship in Khandar.

  I wish I had the Seventh here with me, though. She imagined Bobby, Graff, and Folsom shouting orders, and a hundred musket barrels swinging into line to bear on this rabble of leg-breakers for hire, bayonets gleaming in the lantern light. They’d piss their britches.

  “Time?” said Jane.

  When did I get to be in charge? She’d proposed the plan, but it was still Jane’s army. Winter peered at the milling thugs. “Almost. Wait until they make their first rush.”

  A few seconds later, a wave of shouts indicated that the attack had begun. Splintery crashes, curses, and screams of pain quickly followed.

  “Now,” Winter said.

  Jane put two fingers in her mouth and produced a sharp, piercing whistle, which was answered by shouts from the deeply shadowed alleys all around them. Packs of men and girls burst out, weapons raised, all heading for the carriage at the rear of the column. No sooner had the sound died away than Jane joined the rush, and Winter scrambled after her. She glanced dubiously at the club they’d given her, which looked suspiciously like a table leg, and wished she’d brought her sword.

  Most of the mercenaries were up at the front of the column, struggling to clear and dismantle the barricade. Only a half dozen men remained around the carriage, while a good twoscore of Jane’s people were closing in on them. Their calls for help were drowned under the shouting from the fight up the street.

  On the side of the carriage Winter and Jane were approaching, there were three thugs, plus the liveried coachman on the running board. One of the mercenaries took to his heels as soon as they emerged from cover, and the other two instinctively put their backs against the carriage and raised their cudgels. Winn was the first to reach them, armed with a long staff. It was obvious she’d done this sort of thing before; she came in with a yell, poking at the thug’s face, but when he came forward to meet her with a clumsy overhand blow she faded sideways and whipped the reverse end of the staff around into his ankles. He toppled with a screech, his weapon bouncing into the dirt.

  Jane was not far behind her, ignoring both mercenaries and going straight for the carriage door. The second thug started to aim a swing at her back, but before it connected Walnut was on top of him. The big man grabbed the cudgel at the top of its arc and yanked it out of the thug’s hands, then hammered the mercenary against the carriage with one weighty fist.

  By the time Winter had made it to the carriage, Jane had the door open. Steel gleamed in her hand as she did the trick with the knife again and dove inside, and an outraged shout swiftly turned into a scream. Winter spared a moment to look at the footman, who was clinging to the rail with his eyes closed and didn’t seem inclined to start trouble. One of the Leatherbacks had dragged the driver down from his box and taken the reins, trying to calm the skittish horses. Up the street, the sounds of the melee continued, although there was more wooden crashing now than shouting. The barricade squad was supposed to have run for it once they heard Jane’s whistle.

  A man appeared in the carriage door. He was tall and thin, in an elaborate black suit with tails and silver threading, covered over by a voluminous fur jacket. His hair was wild where his hat had been knocked away, and the silver line of a knife gleamed at his throat. Jane’s face came into view beside him, grinning savagely.

  “After you, most honorable sir,” she said. “But slowly, if you please.”

  A round of cheers went up from the Leatherbacks. Winter noticed some of the mercenaries from the front of the column drifting back to see what was going on. She ran back to Jane, who was prodding Bloody Cecil down to the street.

  “Come on,” Winter said. “If we don’t get them to call this off soon, people are going to get killed.”

  “You’ll all hang for this!” said Cecil, who was not entirely current on events. “I am a duly credentialed enforcer of the king’s taxes! This is rebellion against the crown!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Jane said, jabbing him hard in the ribs with her free hand. Cecil wilted. “You have no idea how much I would like to slit your throat right here. Now come on and say only what I tell you to say, you understand?”

  Winter followed Jane toward the front of the convoy. The Leatherbacks had formed up between two of the carts, and the mercenaries were drifting into a rough line opposite them. A good deal of shouting was being exchanged, but thus far no actual blows. The thugs had the numbers, but they weren’t being paid to fight pitched battles. It didn’t help that Walnut was in the front line, hefting a stick the size of a fence post.

  Jane pushed Cecil through the line, flanked by Winn and Walnut, with Winter bringing up the rear. A murmur ran through the mercenaries when they saw their employer in such a state. Jane’s grin widened.

  “Listen up!” she said. “I want you all off the street in the next fifteen minutes. This expedition is over. Cecil, tell them.”

  “Don’t listen to her!” Cecil shouted. “I a
m a knight of Borel! These scum would never dare harm me. Take them!”

  Jane glanced at Winter and rolled her eyes.

  “Do you know who I am?” she said. There were a few answering shouts from the mercenaries, but mostly silence. “These are the Leatherbacks, and I’m Mad Jane. Do you really want to tell me what I wouldn’t dare to do?”

  More muttering, on all sides, and a long silence from Cecil. Walnut passed the time by bending his enormous cudgel between his fists, so the wood creaked ominously.

  “I think,” Cecil said, “we had better do as she says. After all, she is a known and dangerous criminal. I think—urk!”

  “That’s about enough,” Jane said. “Quiet.”

  The thugs were already taking Cecil’s advice. Beating up helpless families, or even brawling in the open with drunken dockworkers, that was one thing, but bringing a fight to an armed gang that meant business was quite another. And, as Winter heard one of them point out, they wouldn’t get paid anyway if their employer had his throat slit. Better to make the best of a bad business and get out without anything broken. In a few minutes, the street was empty, except for a few groaning casualties.

  For a moment, the Leatherbacks looked at one another in stunned silence, not quite able to believe the ease of their triumph. Then someone raised a weak cheer. It was followed by a more energetic shout, then another, until the whole street was roaring with victory. Winter found herself surrounded by a crowd of smiling, yelling men, trying to shake her hand or clap her on the shoulder.

  “Someone needs to help the injured,” she said. “And we should probably make sure all those thugs have really gone.”

  Her voice was drowned under the tumult. Winter shrank back from the adulation, but behind her were only more excited Leatherbacks, who gripped her arms and screamed excitedly in her ear. Winter bit her lip, so hard that she drew blood, and twisted the hem of her shirt between clenched fingers.