“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.
The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns Page 31