Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

Those proceedings were not, in Winter’s opinion, worthy of all this attention. They had begun well enough, with the crimson-clad Sworn Bishop offering a nervous-sounding prayer, followed by a plea for fellowship and common sense from a pair of Free Priests. Once the clergy had departed, however, the wrangling over the agenda had begun. In fact, as best Winter could tell, things had not yet progressed to the point of arguing over the agenda; the deputies first needed to decide the order of precedence in which they would be allowed to offer points during the debate over the agenda, and this crucial discussion had thus far engaged the entire attention of all parties.

It was possible that this was taking an overly cynical view of matters. But in Winter’s current mood, she was inclined to see everything cynically. The spectators on the gallery sat near the edge, as far forward as they dared test the rotten boards, while Winter paced in the back, lost in shadows.

Jane and Abby obviously had. . something. Of course they did. When Winter listened to Abby talk about Jane, she could see an echo of the way she herself had felt all those years ago. Only willful ignorance had kept her from figuring it out sooner.

And, she thought, that’s for the best. It’s only to be expected, isn’t it? For all Jane knew, I was dead, or gone away never to return. Hell, I never planned to return. I wouldn’t have asked to her to spend her whole life pining away for me. And since she did find someone, how can I expect her to just drop everything the minute I come back?

All perfectly reasonable. So why is it that whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is the two of them? Jane’s face, and the little sigh she made as Abby’s lips touched her throat. Abby’s hand, sliding up her flank, pushing up her shirt.

She might have told me. Winter bit her lip. Either one of them might have told me. But that wasn’t really fair, either. Jane had made her intentions perfectly clear from the very start, and Winter had turned her down. No wonder she’s gone looking elsewhere.

Wood creaked and popped under her weight. She found herself on the left-hand side of the horseshoe, near the end, where the balcony most closely approached the altar. The steps leading up to the altar had been adopted as speaking floor, with the silver and gold double circle dangling from its long, thin chain directly behind the speaker. Someone plump and well-dressed whom Winter didn’t recognize was down there now, in the middle of what had obviously been a long address.

A small group of young women had occupied the very end of the horseshoe. Winter recognized Cyte, along with Molly and Becks from Jane’s Leatherbacks, chatting amiably and apparently no worse for wear after their brief stay in a Concordat prison. The rest were a mixed group of Jane’s girls and other young women from the South Bank who’d drifted up to have a look at the fun.

Before Winter could turn on her heel and stalk back in the other direction, Cyte noticed her and waved her over. Winter reluctantly picked her way through the chattering throng.

“Watch out for splinters,” Cyte said.

“I’m a bit more concerned with the whole thing giving out underneath us,” Winter said, sitting down carefully. “I don’t think it’s had a workout like this since the Civil War.”

Cyte laughed. Her eyes were dark, Winter noticed. Not with makeup, this time, but the wages of interrupted sleep. Her face was thinner than it had been, and more worn.

“It never fails,” Cyte said darkly. “Here come the scavengers.”

“I’m sorry.”

She indicated the fat orator, who was gesturing in the classical style and sweating profusely. “Look at him. A North Bank merchant, if I’m any judge, or maybe a banker. Never done an honest day’s work. And he wasn’t out in the streets when Orlanko turned his dogs loose. He didn’t storm the walls of the Vendre. But now he’s here, and we’ve got to listen to his self-righteous prattle.”

“The queen called the deputies to represent all of Vordan,” Becks offered. “Like it or not, that includes him and the other North Bankers.”

“At least we’re shot of the damned Borels,” another girl said. “Those are the real bloodsuckers.”

Cyte met Winter’s eye. They got up together and walked a ways down the railing. Inquisitive glances followed them, but no one spoke.

“You know why they call this the Widow’s Gallery?” Cyte said.

Winter shook her head.

“In the old days-the very old days, around the time of Farus the Conqueror-the Pontifex of the White decided that the churches had drifted too far toward being social centers instead of places for contemplation of the sins of mankind. He blamed it on unattached women, who were apparently smashing around society like loose cannons. So Elysium decreed that no women unaccompanied by a husband or male relative would be permitted to attend services.

“Of course, the women still wanted to come, and the local hierarchy was reluctant to lose their contributions. Some bishop came up with the idea that the women would subscribe funds for the construction of a balcony like this, so they could watch the service without being at it. And, since the unattached women who had money to spare were mostly widows, they called it the Widow’s Gallery.”

Winter forced a chuckle. “I’m glad I wasn’t born in the eighth century.”

Cyte tested the railing, found it sturdy enough to support her, and leaned against it with her chin in her hands. “Sometimes I feel like I was,” she said, nodding toward the floor. “Look.”

Abby was just standing up to speak in answer to the sweaty merchant. Aside from a few wives on the back benches, she was the only woman in the room.

“It was Jane who took the Vendre,” Cyte went on. “She turned the mob into an. . an army , practically. She sent us in to open the gates. Without that, the queen never would have given us the deputies! But if you look in the newspapers, you’d think Danton killed every Concordat soldier himself and cracked the doors of the prison with one blow of his mighty fist.”

“People listen to him,” Winter said. “He’s a symbol.”

“All he does is give speeches. Where is he now , when we need someone to shut these idiots up?”

“In his rooms, I think,” Winter said. “He’s supposed to have a big speech before lunch.”

“More platitudes.” Cyte snorted. “It should be Jane down there.”

“The queen invited her,” Winter said. “She sent Abby instead. This sort of thing. .” She shook her head. “Jane isn’t good at it.”

“Did she send you, too?”

Winter colored slightly. “No. I’m here on my own.”

There had been a few tense moments over that, back at the Vendre, which the Leatherbacks were still using as their temporary headquarters. After Jane had told Abby to speak for her at the deputies, Winter had announced that she was going as well. The expression on Jane’s face-half-perplexed, half-hurt, with a tiny hint of guilt thrown in for good measure-was something Winter wished she could forget.

She’d made some excuse about wanting to be present at such a historic moment, which Jane hadn’t bought. But Winter had been adamant. If she’d hung around the fortress, Jane would have cornered her eventually, and then there would be no avoiding the conversation she desperately did not want to have.

So I ran away. Again.

She swallowed and changed the subject. “What about you? You look a bit poorly, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Cyte stared gloomily down at the floor below. “It’s been a busy week.”