“We’re so close,” Raesinia muttered. “They know they have to do something.”
“They’re worried about being played for fools,” Faro said. “It’s a lot to risk, after all, if you don’t know what you’re going to be getting.”
Raesinia’s eyes found Maurisk. He shrugged uncomfortably, as if to say, What do you expect me to do?
On the other side of the room, Dumorre had gotten out of his seat and advanced on Peddoc, while several of the Monarchists had their hands on their swords. The actual content of the argument was all but inaudible under the babble of voices. But Cyte was looking directly at Raesinia, wearing a thoughtful expression.
“I have an idea,” Raesinia said. “Faro, is there a room upstairs we could use?”
“Probably. But—”
“Grab a pen and paper and meet me up there. Tell that Cyte girl that I want her opinion on something, and see if she’ll come up, too.”
Faro looked doubtful. “Are you going to try to draft something yourself?”
“In a way. I think I know something they can all agree on.”
“If you say so.” Faro looked around at the scene of barely restrained violence and shook his head. “I think it’ll take a miracle.”
—
The news took some time to filter out of the Gold Sovereign. There were more arguments as various parties explained the Declaration to one another, got things wrong, compared rumors and counterrumors, and generally milled about. Some bright soul managed to hurry to a printer’s shop and get to work setting the brief document into type, and once the presses were rolling, more accurate arguments spread up and down the length of the Old Road. Maurisk, Peddoc, Cyte, and Dumorre all spread the word to their followers, and small groups formed up, then became large groups as more and more people drifted in.
By the time the sun had reached the meridian, the mob was in motion. A vast procession, stretching down the Old Road to Bridge Street, and running from there to the Saint Vallax Bridge and across to the Island. Raesinia, walking amid the boisterous crowd at its head, could look out over the river to the Island’s western tip, where the black walls of the Vendre were waiting.
Faro and Maurisk walked beside her. They had filled Maurisk in on Ben’s murder and Cora’s abduction.
“You should have told me sooner,” Maurisk said. “You know I want to help her, Raes. It’s just the others—”
“I know.” None of the faction leaders had particularly firm control over their flock. “We’ve got them moving. That’s the important thing.”
Faro shook his head. He was holding a copy of the Declaration, whose ink was still wet. “Only by storing up a lot of trouble for the future.”
“We can deal with the future when it gets here. Right now . . .” She shrugged.
“How did you know they would agree to this?” Faro said, flapping the paper.
Raesinia took it from him and looked it over, smiling to herself. It was only a few paragraphs long, and said nothing about principles, vetoes, taxation, or even the rights of man. Instead it laid out two simple demands: that Danton and the other prisoners taken to the Vendre be released, and that the king allow the assembly of a preliminary Deputies-General, consisting of the signatories and other eminent citizens, to debate all the questions to be addressed.
“Well,” she said, “first of all, I showed it to them one at a time. So for all they knew, the others would sign, and if they got left out they’d end up without a seat at the table.”
“That was clever,” Faro allowed. “But still!”
“Think of it this way,” Raesinia said. “You’ve got a gang of students who spend all their time arguing with each other in coffeehouses and wine shops. What’s the one thing they can all agree on?”
“I wouldn’t have thought there was anything,” Faro said.
“That they like to argue,” Maurisk said.
Raesinia smiled. “Exactly. So if you want to get them to agree to something, promise them the chance to argue on a really grand stage.”
Faro chuckled dryly. He dropped back to walk beside Raesinia, letting Maurisk get a little ahead of them, and bent to speak into her ear.
“I know you’re angry about what happened to Ben,” he said, “and I know you want to help Cora. But you’re not going to be able to stop this now. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I know,” Raesinia said, quietly. “We’re in it until the end.”
“I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
Raesinia’s smile faded. “So do I.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARCUS
The gray light of dawn filtered into Saint Hastoph Street, dispelling the shadows. With them went Marcus’ hope that the fires that had glowed all night outside the walls might be some kind of bluff. The mob, glimpsed as specters amid a sea of torches, gained an alarming solidity, a mass of people spreading from shore to shore of the narrow island and stretching back through the side streets toward Farus’ Triumph. Marcus estimated there were several thousand he could see, and who knew how many more hadn’t been able to push to within sight of the walls.
It was Fort Valor all over again, except instead of a few battalions of Royal Army musketeers and a half battery of artillery, Marcus had forty-odd badly frightened Armsmen and a contingent of guards from the Ministry of Information of highly dubious reliability. And the mob below showed none of the Khandarai reluctance to attack—Marcus could see a half dozen ladders already under construction, and the men on the parapets had to duck bricks and other missiles.
The outer wall of the Vendre was a good thirty feet high, so it took a strong arm to loft a brick over the top of it. There were plenty of strong arms down there, though, and one of the Concordat men had already suffered a broken arm, while one of Marcus’ had nearly been knocked from his perch by a ballistic cabbage. At least here, unlike at Fort Valor, there was a proper fire step, so the men could crouch behind the parapet and be shielded from below.
For all its sinister reputation, the Vendre was as obsolete a fortress as Fort Valor had been. Originally built to supplement the water batteries that were Vordan’s primary defense against a river-borne attack from the south, its seaward walls were thick and honeycombed with embrasures. The landward fortifications were something of an afterthought, a simple stone wall to enclose an inner court and provide an outer line of defense. When the dawn of modern artillery had spelled the doom of stone-walled forts all across the continent, the Crown had turned it over to the civil authorities, who had put it to work as a prison.
Marcus’ current troubles hinged on a technicality. As a prison, the Vendre was under the command of the Minister of Justice and the Armsmen, and as captain of Armsmen Marcus ranked anyone in that organization except for Janus himself. However, the Armsmen had long ago seconded use of the structure to the Minister of Information, and so the everyday command and garrison of the place was drawn from the ranks of the Concordat.
The man who now presented himself to Marcus was, therefore, nominally under his command. He wore a captain’s bars at his collar himself, however, and his look and bearing said that he considered Marcus, at best, an equal. He wore a curious outfit, something like a Royal Army officer’s uniform but in black instead of blue, with silver buttons and trim, and covered by one of the black leather greatcoats of which the Concordat was so fond. He offered no salute, and Marcus gave him none in return.
“Sir,” the man said. His face said that he considered this quite enough of a concession. “I apologize that I was unable to meet with you earlier.”
“It’s quite all right,” Marcus said. “We’ve all had a busy night. I’m Marcus d’Ivoire, captain of Armsmen.”
“Yes, sir. Captain James Ross, at your service.”
“May I ask to what unit you belong, Captain Ross?”
“Ministry of Information, Special
Branch. Sir.”
“Special Branch. I see.” Marcus had never heard of such a thing, but he’d been away from Vordan a long time. “How many men do you have here?”
“Seventy-eight in total, sir. I need a few to watch the prisoners, but I can spare at least forty for the walls.”
That was as many men as Marcus had in total, which made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the thought of being in the power of this “captain” with his black coat and his shiny boots. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to a fight.”
Ross glanced out into the street, noting the ladders. “Small chance of that, I think. But we shouldn’t have any trouble.” He looked thoughtful. “In fact, I’d wager if I put a dozen sharpshooters up here, we could make the street too hot for them. Rabble never have any stomach for casualties. Shall I send for them?”
“No, Captain.” Marcus frowned. “Let me make myself clear. Our duty is to secure the prison and the prisoners, not to end the riots. I fully expect the Minister of Justice and the rest of the Cabinet will resolve these difficulties soon. Until they do, we will make every effort to avoid bloodshed of any kind.”
Ross’ eyes were hooded. “I understand, sir.”
“How many prisoners do you have at present?” Giforte had put Danton in a room in the tower, but Marcus hadn’t yet had a chance to visit the dungeons. Concordat wagons had been coming and going all night, until the mob outside had blocked the streets. Marcus and his small contingent from the Guardhouse had nearly been too late; they’d slipped in just before Ross barred the gates. Marcus guessed he was now regretting waiting so long. He looked like a man used to being in charge.
“We don’t have an exact count, sir, but I’d say a bit over five hundred. We’ve got the men separated out from the women and children, and everything’s under control.” Ross caught the look on Marcus’ face and misunderstood it. “Don’t worry, sir. We know how to manage our affairs here.”
“Why, exactly, do we have children in the dungeons?”
“Couldn’t say, sir. Not my place to ask. Every group was properly signed for by Ministry authorities.” He ventured a sickly smile. “I just keep them behind bars, sir.”
Marcus glanced down at the ladders. It would be another hour or so at least before they were prepared to make an assault, if that was what they were planning.
“Would you take me to the keep, Captain Ross?” he said. “I think I should make an inspection.”
—
The keep was an irregular, lopsided structure, several stories high where it faced the water but only a single story aboveground on the landward side. Men in Concordat black lined the parapet above the ironbound doors, armed with muskets and swords. They all straightened up and saluted at Ross’ approach, like a line of scarecrows.
Inside, the first floor was largely open. It had once been laid out with rows of long wooden tables and benches, to provide Orlanko’s scribblers with somewhere to do their paperwork, but at some point in last night’s confusion these had all been pushed to one side or stacked. Scraps of paper and pools of spilled ink were scattered across the stone floor.
“Normally we admit prisoners through a postern gate, or through the water gate,” Ross explained, as he led the way to the staircases at the rear. “With the volume we received last night, we had to start bringing them right down the main staircase. I apologize for the mess.” His eyes flicked upward as they passed the ascending steps. “That leads to the tower rooms, where your man Giforte is holding Danton. Down this way is the dungeon.”
Marcus stopped and bent to examine something caught in a crack between two flagstones. It was a tiny book, a child’s version of the Wisdoms with large print and engravings. It had gotten soaked, and the back cover and half the pages were gone. Marcus pried the sad little thing up and looked at it thoughtfully.
“Sir?” Ross said, looking over his shoulder.
“It’s nothing.” Marcus pocketed the book. “Lead on.”
More black uniforms stopped and saluted on the steps. The air smelled of leather and shoe polish, and, as they descended, increasingly of damp stone and mud. The stairs came to a wide landing, and Ross waved a hand.
“Is there anything in particular you want to see, sir? There are three levels of cells here. The first are the old dungeons, where we keep the usual prisoners, and—”
“Where have you put the people who came in last night?”
“On the lowest level,” Ross said, and started down again. “We don’t normally use it, because of the damp, but there’s a lot of space. It was originally meant to be a powder magazine, but it’s below the level of the river, so no one has ever been able to figure out a way to keep it completely dry.”
Marcus felt a bit like a hero in a fairy tale, descending into some hell to battle the minions of darkness. The stairs wound down and down, lit at regular intervals by oil lamps. Ross’ promised damp soon appeared, in puddles on the steps and a slimy film on the walls. Here and there, tiny clusters of mushrooms had emerged.
When they reached the bottom landing, a three-man detail was waiting for them. Their leader ignored Marcus, saluted Ross, and said, “I’m glad you’re here, sir. There’s been a bit of an altercation. The prisoners found out that one of the men was a Sworn Church deacon, and some of them tried to beat him.”
Ross frowned. “I should see to this, sir. Do you want to join me?”
“I’d like to see the women’s quarters, if you don’t mind.”
There was a look on Ross’ face that Marcus didn’t like. “Of course, sir. Lieutenant Valt, would you show the captain the way?”
Valt was taller and stockier than Ross, but uniformed with the same attention to detail. He, at least, saluted smartly, and led Marcus at a quick pace through the murky corridor. Watching him splash through the puddles, Marcus wondered how much effort it took every morning to keep those boots shiny. Where does the duke find all these eager young inquisitors?
“They’re in here, sir.” They turned a corner onto another corridor, with three doors on either side. Each door was flanked by a pair of guards, and there was a shuffling and a flapping of coats as they all turned to salute. “Each of these rooms has a couple of dozen.”
“You don’t have individual cells for them?”
He shrugged. “All the cells are occupied. This is the overflow. Once things quiet down, I imagine they’ll be moved elsewhere.”
Marcus nodded, trying to look thoughtful, and walked down the corridor. As he passed the second door, he heard a thin sound that might have been a scream, heavily muffled by wood and stone.
“This one,” Marcus said. “Open it.”
The guards looked at Valt, who nodded. When the door was unlocked, it revealed a small room whose floor was a single enormous puddle. Steady drips from the ceiling joined trickles on the walls to form a murky brown liquid. There were no windows and only one lamp, casting long shadows against the wall.
Most of the inmates huddled on the small stretch of dry stone by the door. Just in front of the doorway, a young woman was on her knees, hunched over, while a man in a black uniform stood astride her and was in the process of delivering a vicious blow to the side of her head. He’d stopped in midswing at the sound of the door, and turned awkwardly to see Marcus and the lieutenant framed against the light from the corridor.
“Ranker?” Valt didn’t sound upset, only curious. “What’s going on?”
“Feeding the prisoners, sir!” the Concordat man said. He indicated a large bowl of boiled beans. “Then this one attacked me, sir!”
“She didn’t—” said a young voice from the crowd, before someone clamped a hand over the speaker’s mouth.
“Try not to be unnecessarily rough with them, Ranker,” Valt said mildly. “Remember that an injured prisoner is an additional burden.”
The ranker clambered off the woman, straightened up, and salu
ted. “Yes, sir! Thank you for the reminder, sir!”
Valt turned to Marcus. “Did you want to interrogate the prisoners, sir?”
Marcus’ eyes were on the young woman. She got to her feet, slowly. Her blouse had been torn to shreds, and he got a glimpse of small, pale breasts, mottled with bruises, before she pulled the scraps about herself and shuffled back to the corner.
“No,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice level. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
—
“Good to see you, sir,” Giforte said, as Marcus took the stairs to the tower two at a time. He almost looked like he meant it. Whatever his worries about Marcus, the crisis had clearly shaken his equilibrium. “Are they at the wall—”
“Not just yet,” Marcus said. “Get together some men you think you can trust and get them down to the dungeons. Tell Ross we’re taking over security on the lower levels. Tell him . . .” He thought for a moment. “Tell him I think his men will be better than ours if it comes to a fight, and I want them on the walls instead of guarding doors. That should make him happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find something to help keep the prisoners out of the water, or half of them are going to be down with a chill before tomorrow evening. Those tables on the main floor, maybe. Break them apart. You can use the scraps for firewood. I want a fire in each room, you understand?”
“Yes, sir. What about—”
“Now, Giforte!” Marcus found a chair and sat down heavily, resting his forehead in his hands. “The rest can wait.”
Giforte saluted and slipped out. Marcus tried to slow his breathing and calm the pounding in his skull.
What the hell was Janus thinking? The same question might apply to the Last Duke, of course, who had to know what the conditions would be like in the Vendre once he’d tripled the number of prisoners. But for all Marcus knew, Orlanko wanted the prisoners to suffer for some malignant reason of his own, whereas he was certain—fairly certain—that Janus wouldn’t countenance such a thing. Janus didn’t know Orlanko was going to order so many arrests. But he had known what would happen if Danton was taken.
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 28