Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Be honest.”

“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about. . you know. That night, in the Vendre.”

Winter nodded, sympathetically. “The first time someone tried to kill me, it was a while before I got a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s not even that,” Cyte said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I was scared-I mean, of course I was. But. .”

Winter waited.

“There was a guard I. . stabbed. In the stomach, right through him. I barely even thought about it. He was going to kill you, kill me if he got the chance, and I just. . did it.” She brushed her hand against her leg, as though trying to wipe something away. “It was so easy .”

Winter was silent. She tried to remember the first man she’d killed, but the truth was that she didn’t know. In a battle-even the little skirmishes the Colonials dealt with before the rise of the Redeemers-you rarely knew if a shot had hit or missed. When someone fell it was anyone’s guess if he’d been deliberately killed or clipped by a stray ball. In an awful way, that made it better. She’d felt like throwing up the first time she had to clean up a battlefield and bury a handful of enemy corpses, but there wasn’t anyone she could point to and say, “I ended that man’s life.”

“I know you thought I volunteered for that on a whim,” Cyte said, and raised a hand when Winter started to protest. “It’s all right. You tried to talk me out of it, and I appreciate that. The truth is that I did my thinking before we even got to the Vendre. When we heard what the Concordat was doing, and people in the cafés started talking about marching, I thought. . this is it. I told myself, ‘If you’re going out there, you have to be prepared for it. Are you ready to die, if that’s what it takes? Are you ready to kill?’ And I decided that I was, but it took. . I don’t know. It felt like a big thing to decide.

“And then, when it finally came to it, it was easy . Just a little thrust.” She held out her hand. “Just like I practiced in front of the mirror. I barely even noticed what he looked like until afterward. I was too busy worrying if there was someone else behind him who was going to stick me with a bayonet. It was only afterward that I started to think about it, and I wondered, Is that what it’s supposed to be like?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Or is there something wrong with me?”

There was a long silence. Winter felt as though she were supposed to offer something here, some piece of worldly advice from a sergeant to a young soldier. But this wasn’t Khandar, she wasn’t a sergeant, and Cyte wasn’t a soldier and was only three years younger besides. And anyway, what the hell am I supposed to say to that? She suddenly remembered rescuing Fitz Warus from Davis’ cronies, cracking Will over the head with a rock just to get him out of the way. She’d killed him, it turned out, without thinking about it or even really meaning to.

If there’s something wrong with you, it’s wrong with me, too. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it out loud.

“Excuse me,” someone said. “Are you Winter?”

They looked up to find a bearded young man in the colorful clothes of a dockworker waiting with a polite air. He had an odd, gravelly accent, and something about the way he stood gave him a military bearing. She pushed away from the rail, brushing fragments of crumbling wood from her hands.

“I am,” she said, cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Just a messenger.” He took a folded page from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Read it soon, and make sure you’re alone when you do.”

“Why? Who’s it from?”

The young man’s eyes flicked to Cyte, and he shrugged. “It’s what I was told. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” Winter echoed, baffled, but the messenger was already jogging back toward the stairs, raising little puffs of dust with every step. Winter looked down at the note, then over at Cyte.

“I’ll be with the others,” Cyte said, stepping away from the rail.

Winter unfolded the page. It bore only a few lines, in an elegant, aristocratic hand that made the signature redundant.

Winter-

Concordat action against the Deputies is imminent. I am on my way with help. Stall.

Janus

Her fingers tightened on the page, driven by a sudden, furious anger. He drops me here for weeks, without so much as a word, and now he tells me Orlanko is on the way and I’m to stall? How? Start a goddamned circus to keep them occupied? She glanced down at the hall floor, where Abby was still speaking, and fear replaced rage. Oh, Balls of the Beast. If the black-coats show up here, it’s going to be panic. What the hell does Orlanko think he’s doing?

She hurried back to where Cyte and the girls were waiting. Curious eyes followed her as she grabbed Cyte and dragged her away again, out of earshot of the rest.

“What?” Cyte said. “What’s going on? Was that a message from Jane?”

Winter shook her head. Impulsively, she tore a strip off the bottom of the note, removing the signature, and handed the rest to Cyte.

“Who’s this from?” Cyte said, glancing at the scrap in Winter’s palm. Winter crushed it into a ball.

“Someone I trust,” she said. I think.

“Then you really believe-”

“Yes.”

“But that’s insane. The queen invited the deputies here. It’s treason .”

“Be sure to mention that to the duke when you see him!” Winter snapped.

Cyte was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know . Give me a minute.” She glanced at the pack of girls, all of whom were now watching Winter and Cyte instead of the dull proceedings on the floor. “Let’s see if we can get them out of here, to start with. Once we’re downstairs I’ll try to find Giforte. There’s Armsmen here-maybe we can organize a barricade.” And he owes me a favor.

“Okay.” Cyte blew out a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’re armed?”

Winter shook her head again. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Me, either. Saints and fucking martyrs.” Cyte swallowed hard and straightened up. “Let’s go.”

Corralling the girls and convincing them that they needed to leave-and never mind why, lest someone scream and spark a panic-took longer than Winter would have liked. They got them moving in the end, though, and nothing untoward seemed to be happening as they trooped along the unsteady gallery, past other curious onlookers.

The main stairs to the gallery were at the bend of the horseshoe, near the rear of the main hall. On the far side, at the very end of the right-hand stretch, a small walkway led to a stone door letting on to the cathedral’s warren of second- and third-floor rooms. Winter led her charges toward the stairs, letting Cyte watch the girls while she stayed a couple of strides ahead.

The stairway was a long switchback, and when they got there it was shaking under the tread of many feet. No one was descending from the gallery, though, which meant that a crowd of people was coming up. Either some big group downstairs decided they want a better view, or else-

Four men came around the switchback, standing shoulder to shoulder to block the stairway. They weren’t immediately recognizable as Concordat-no black coats or shiny insignia, just plain homespun and worn tradesmen’s overcoats-but all four wore swords, and something about their purposeful formation shouted trouble to Winter. She backpedaled up the steps, only to collide with Cyte and Molly coming in the other direction. The rest of the girls pressed them forward, still chatting obliviously.

“Back,” Winter said. “Up the stairs. Go-”