The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  They’re brave, Winter thought. Stupid, but brave. Brack barked an order, and his thugs closed in around the offenders. Whatever reluctance they might have had to use their pistols did not apply to their fists, and the opposition was soon silenced.

  By then Winter had reached the doorway at the end of the walk, stepping off the creaky wood onto the solid stone floor of the cathedral’s upper stories. A corridor ran in both directions, with several doorways leading through it into dimly lit spaces, and Winter wasn’t sure which way to go.

  “Out, out, out,” she muttered. “Which way is out?”

  “Toward the back,” Cyte said. “I know there’s a door by the old kitchens, but they’ll be watching it.”

  “Maybe we can get the drop on them.” Winter gestured the girls to clear the doorway, and looked back down the walk. The four Special Branch men were following, but cautiously.

  Someone tugged at her sleeve. It was Becks, red-faced but looking determined.

  “I’m sorry I screamed,” she said. “I was just surprised.”

  “It’s fine—”

  “But we can’t leave! Not yet.” Becks looked at her companions and got a round of nods. “We have to help Danton first.”

  “Help Danton?” Winter blinked. “Why?”

  “He’s up this way.” Molly, standing behind Becks, pointed down the corridor. “We have to get him out of here.”

  “Orlanko let him get away once,” Becks said, with a fifteen-year-old’s certainty. “If they catch him this time, they’ll kill him.”

  “Danton can take care of himself,” Winter said. “I—”

  “She’s right,” Cyte said. She met Winter’s eye.

  “You said yourself he’s just a symbol,” Winter said, quietly.

  “Symbols can be important,” Cyte said. “If we can get him out of the cathedral, Orlanko hasn’t won yet.”

  The Special Branch men were getting closer. Winter hesitated a moment, then sighed. “All right. Stay close. They may have sent someone up from the back.”

  —

  “I can see two of them,” Cyte whispered.

  “It sounds like there’s at least one more inside,” Winter said. “Maybe two.”

  “Three or four, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cyte swallowed. “We dealt with four at once in the Vendre.”

  “We were lucky.” Winter looked down at the pistol in her hand. One shot. No way to reload, even if I had time. “And we were armed.”

  They stood in a narrow stone corridor, outside the entrance to a suite of rooms that had once served as some priest’s living quarters. A couple of mismatched chairs and a folding table stood in the outer room, and a single lantern hung from a wall bracket. Another doorway led deeper into the suite, flanked by two men—not the Special Branch thugs, but real Concordat black-coats. As Becks had guessed, Orlanko was taking no chances with Danton. Beyond that doorway, some kind of altercation was taking place, and Winter could hear a muffled female voice shouting.

  “We might be able to take one of them,” Molly said. She and Becks had followed Winter and Cyte to peek into the suite, while the rest of the girls waited at the end of the corridor to watch for the Special Branch. “We could work together.”

  She sounded uncertain, and Winter didn’t blame her. She doubted Molly and Becks put together outweighed one of the guards. Some of Jane’s Leatherbacks were fighters, but those were mostly older girls, and these two were not among them.

  Winter shook her head. “Stay here. If it goes wrong, run for it.”

  “But—” Molly began. Becks grabbed her arm and she fell silent.

  “I’ll take the one on the left,” Winter said to Cyte. “You’ve got to keep the other one busy until I can get ahold of a sword.”

  “Okay.” Cyte ran her fingers through her hair and blew out a long breath. “Let’s go.”

  Winter drew back the hammer on her pistol, reflexively checked the powder in the pan, and stepped around the corner. The two Concordat guards took a moment to register her presence, absorbed in what was happening in the next room, and in the time this provided her Winter took a long step forward and shot the one on the left.

  At least, she pointed the pistol in his direction and pulled the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed, but instead of a bang and a gout of smoke, the barrel emitted a noise more like phut and coughed a thin trickle of blue-gray vapor. Too late, Winter recalled the old pistoleer’s maxim: The more critical the shot, the more likely it was to misfire.

  Cyte was already coming around the corner, running at the man on the right. He started to shout something as she cannoned into him, wrapping her arms around him to trap his hands at his sides. Her momentum slammed him back against the wall with an oof, knocking the breath out of him.

  Winter’s own target clawed for his sword. She reversed the pistol and held it by the barrel like a club, hoping to get a blow in before he was ready, but he managed to get his blade out and drove her backward with a horizontal slash. She circled left, grabbed one of the wooden chairs, and sent it tumbling toward him, but he kicked it out of the way and pressed forward, forcing her to backpedal until she felt the wall against her shoulder blades. She tried for his head with the pistol, but he caught her wrist with his off hand, pinning her in place for a thrust.

  Behind him, she could see Cyte’s victim trying to break free, trapped arms straining. He lurched forward and managed to get his knee up into her stomach. She doubled over, and he slipped one hand free of her grip and tangled it in her black hair. Cyte screamed.

  Molly’s charge hit Winter’s opponent in the small of the back, pushing his thrust wide to strike sparks off the stone wall to Winter’s left. He let go of Winter and whirled around, sword humming dangerously through the air. Molly dropped flat, whimpering. Becks, coming up behind her, made a grab for the soldier’s sword arm and missed, and his backhand cut opened a long gash on her arm and flicked a spray of blood onto the wall.

  The two girls had distracted him long enough, though. Winter gripped the pistol in both hands and brought the iron-heeled butt down on his head as hard as she could. Something crunched, and he dropped bonelessly, sword slipping out of his grip to clatter on the floor. Winter scrambled to scoop it up, nearly cutting herself in the process, and came up just in time to see Cyte’s opponent shake her off and send her crashing into a table. He turned round, saw Winter, and reached for his sword, but her lunge caught him in the stomach and he folded up with a groan.

  “Saints and fucking martyrs,” someone said, from the doorway. Winter spun to see two more Concordat soldiers. Behind them was a solid-looking door that they had apparently been trying to break down. Both went for their swords. Winter caught the one in the lead with a low cut as his blade came out of its scabbard, opening a bloody gash on his leg and sending him stumbling to the floor. The other one got his weapon out but backed away cautiously, toward the door he’d been pounding on. His fallen comrade had dropped his blade to clutch the wound on his leg, and Winter edged past him, coming almost into range of the fourth man. They stood, sword tip to sword tip, for a long moment.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man snarled.

  Winter thought about trying to explain but didn’t see much point. She shrugged. The man was getting ready to say something else when the door behind him opened, quietly, and someone hit him over the head with a chair. That sent him sprawling forward, off balance, and Winter spitted him simply by remaining still with her weapon raised. He made a bubbling noise and slid off the blade to lie still on the floor.

  Left eye to eye with Winter, holding the remains of the chair in her hand, was a girl about Molly’s age, with blond hair and heavy freckles. She was breathing hard. Winter nodded to her, cautiously, and backpedaled into the outer room.

  “Molly? Becks?” she said.

  “I
’m okay,” Becks said, through clenched teeth. She sat on the floor, her wounded arm held out straight, while Molly busied herself tearing strips from a soldier’s shirt to make a bandage. “It’s . . . uh . . . not deep.”

  “Cyte?”

  Cyte waved from the wreckage of the table and started pulling herself to her feet. A bruise was blooming on her cheek, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. “Sorry. He got away from me.”

  Winter nodded at them, a small knot in her chest untying itself. She turned back to the inner room, where the girl had emerged to kick the dropped weapons well out of range of the wounded soldier, who wisely remained curled in a silent ball on the floor. In the doorway behind her, Winter saw Danton, staring at the bloodied men with slack-jawed disinterest.

  “Who are you?” the girl said. She was trying to keep her tone calm, but her breathing was fast and she seemed close to panic. Winter, realizing she still held a bloody sword, set it down for the moment and tried to sound reassuring.

  “I’m Winter,” she said. “I’m with Mad Jane. Are you one of Danton’s people?”

  “Something like that,” the girl said. “My name is Cora. I came up here . . . when . . .”

  Her eyes fell on the dead man, watching in horrified fascination as a pool of blood spread from where he lay facedown, and she trailed off.

  “Cora,” Winter said. The girl’s head jerked up, her eyes full of tears. Winter held out her hand, and Cora took it tentatively. Winter drew her carefully past the bodies and into the outer room.

  “Thank you.” Cora knuckled her eyes. “I was watching from the gallery when the Concordat came in. I ran back up here to see if I could get Danton to move, but the black-coats blocked us in.”

  “We were on the Widow’s Gallery. Special Branch men are all over the place.” Winter glanced back down the corridor, to make sure the rest of the girls were still keeping an eye out. “We were hoping we could get out through the back.”

  Cora shook her head. “I poked my head down the stairs that way. They’ve got it blocked. But we don’t need to get Danton out. We need to get him down to the floor.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He has to speak,” Cora said.

  Cyte, on her feet now, came over. “What makes you think they’ll let him?”

  “I don’t think they’ll have a choice,” Cora said. “He can be very persuasive.”

  Winter shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Orlanko has to have a hundred armed men out there. Danton wants to make a speech to them?”

  “Have you seen him speak?” Cora said.

  Winter paused. She had, back at the Vendre, and it was undeniable that the effect on his listeners had been nothing short of sensational. The mob of prisoners had taken the Concordat troops apart. But we took them from behind, by surprise. Even if he got a similar response out of the deputies, the Special Branch thugs were ready and waiting. The crowd might overwhelm them, but it would be a bloodbath.

  Stall. That was what Janus had asked her. It might work. If I can get him to play for time . . .

  “Let me talk to him,” Winter said.

  Cora shook her head. “He . . . doesn’t like to talk to most people, up close.”

  “Just for a minute.” Winter bit her lip. “If we’re going to do this, I need to know he understands what he’s getting into.”

  “I don’t . . . ,” Cora began. She paused. “You can try.”

  Winter nodded and went back down the short, bloody corridor. The door at the end was still open, and Danton was sitting in a flimsy chair, staring amiably at nothing. Several empty bottles stood by his feet. Is he drunk? That would explain the vacant look. He was well dressed, at least, in an elegant, understated coat with gold buttons, hair neatly combed and hat pinned in place. When he noticed Winter, he waved.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” Winter said cautiously. “I’m Winter.”

  “Hello,” Danton repeated, and laughed.

  “Cora told me that you want to give your speech,” Winter said, trying to get a read on his expression. “You know what’s going on down there, don’t you?”

  “They’re waiting for me to tell my story,” Danton said, with a guileless grin. “I’m ready. Cora told it to me, and I’m ready.”

  “Your . . . story? I don’t understand.”

  “I like telling stories.”

  Something is very wrong here. Was it some kind of act? Winter stepped up beside him, and he stared vacuously up at her, blue eyes empty of anything but simple curiosity.

  “You could get killed,” Winter said. “Do you understand that?”

  He blinked, and smiled wider. “People like my stories.”

  “Stories . . .”

  A cold suspicion spread through Winter. She reached out, deliberately, and put her hand on Danton’s shoulder.

  Deep inside her, the Infernivore stirred. It rose from the dark pit of her soul, winding out through her body and into her hand, sniffing the air for prey like a hunting dog. And in Danton, something responded—another presence, a bright, airy, colorful thing, recoiling in frantic terror. Infernivore halted, coiled to pounce, needing only an effort of Winter’s will to spring across the narrow gap between them and devour the alien magic.

  Danton sensed none of this. He looked up at Winter, still smiling. Slowly, she lifted her hand from his shoulder.

  “I don’t think we can get him to the floor,” Winter said, reemerging into the outer room. “They’ll be watching the stairs.”

  Cora nodded. “I think we can get to the gallery. I didn’t run into anyone on my way here. It looks out over the main floor from behind the altar. Everyone should be able to see him.”

  “Wait,” Cyte said. “You’re going along with this?”

  Winter nodded.

  “What if someone takes a shot at him?” Cyte said. “Danton’s important. He’s the heart of . . . of all of this! He shouldn’t risk himself.”

  Winter caught Cora’s eyes, and a quiet understanding passed between them. He’s not the heart of it. He’s just a . . . a tool. Cora and her friends had been using him, or using the magic that coiled inside him. Like the Khandarai used Feor, and Orlanko used Jen. But, at this point, Winter didn’t see any other choice.

  “He wants to do it,” she lied. “And I think . . . people will listen.”

  Becks, pale as a ghost but still excited, jumped to her feet. “Everyone will listen! Even the Concordat. I always said, if people would only listen to Danton, everything would work out!”

  She stumbled, light-headed, and Molly caught her by the elbow and held her up.

  Winter sighed. “All right. Cora, you lead the way to the gallery. Cyte and I will be right behind you. You girls stick close to Danton and give a shout if anyone comes up behind us.”

  —

  The gallery was a small stone balcony that opened unobtrusively onto the great hall some thirty feet above the altar. The Widow’s Gallery was open for the public to watch the proceedings, but the gallery provided a more private space for visiting priests and other dignitaries to observe the service. Since they were in the old priests’ quarters, it wasn’t far, and no Special Branch soldiers barred their progress.

  A low stone railing lined the gallery, and Winter stopped Danton and the others at the doorway. She crouched and crept to the edge of the balcony, trying to get a sense of what was going on below.

  The Concordat captain, Brack, seemed to have things well organized. The deputies sat on the floor in circular groups, surrounded by rings of Special Branch men with drawn pistols. A few black-coats prowled the gaps between them. Brack himself stood near the altar, and more soldiers waited by the exits and against the walls. She could see dark figures moving on the Widow’s Gallery, across the way.

  Just below Brack, a couple of black-coats with a big ledger were processing th
e arrestees. Small bunches were driven up to them by grinning Special Branch thugs, and the prisoners gave their names and were directed back to one group or another in accordance with instructions that Concordat men read from their book. Another man took down everything that was said. Brack wasn’t paying much attention to the proceedings, though, and had eyes mostly for the big double doors at the back of the hall.

  He’s waiting for reinforcements, Winter realized. This operation was obviously an emergency measure, hence the hastily recruited Special Branch mercenaries. Sooner or later more of the Last Duke’s men would be along to take the prisoners in hand. Or maybe not. Janus said help was coming. And if Jane has heard about what’s happened . . .

  Winter glanced back at Danton and shook her head. We have to do the best we can with the cards we’ve got. She crept back to the doorway. Cora was whispering urgently in Danton’s ear, and he nodded occasionally to show that he was listening. Cyte, standing behind them, still looked disapproving. The girls were waiting in the corridor, clustered around Becks, who had apparently earned some kind of legendary status by nearly losing her head to a Concordat swordsman.

  “Something wrong?” Winter said to Cora.

  “Some last-minute advice,” the girl said. “To suit the text to the circumstances.”

  “Is he ready, then?”

  Danton bobbed his head happily. “I’ve got it.”

  “Go ahead, then. They’re waiting.” He shuffled past, and Winter caught Cyte’s eye. “If they start shooting, help me drag him back into the corridor.”

  Cyte nodded, grimly. Winter, the Infernivore’s hunger tingling in her fingertips, watched Danton walk onto the gallery. A change came over him as the crowd came into view—he stood up straighter, his gait became more confident, and he strode over to the rail and took hold of it with casual confidence. Before anyone below noticed he was there, he started to speak.

  Winter had been afraid he’d begin his address with a bellow that would draw pistol fire from the soldiers, but Danton surprised her. His voice started nearer to a whisper, but a whisper that somehow echoed from the vaulted ceiling and cut through the low murmur of the Concordat scribes going about their work. Winter saw people look around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, and by the time they saw Danton he had already hit his stride.