Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

She paused, swallowing hard. “No. No excuses. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. .”

Winter put one hand on Jane’s head and tangled her fingers in her hair. The same silky red hair, now short and spiked with sweat, but still so familiar the gesture made her ache. She squeezed Jane tight.

“It’s all right,” she said.

They sat like that for a while, Jane’s back quivering with silent sobs, Winter holding her and wondering if there was something else she should say. Eventually Jane lifted her head. She was a mess-eyes red, a trickle of snot running from her nose-but it made Winter smile.

“Do you think. .,” Jane began, and stopped.

“Yes?” Winter said.

“Would it be all right,” Jane said, “if I kissed you?”

“One moment.” Winter worked one hand free and dragged the end of her sleeve across Jane’s face, wiping away snot and drool. “All right. Go ahead.”

Jane barked a laugh, then brought her hands up behind Winter’s shoulders and pulled her close. Their lips met. Winter put her arms around Jane’s waist, pulling her close.

As they came together, there was a single, awful moment of abject terror. The feeling that had come over her that first day, when Jane had kissed her without warning, surged through her body and told her to fight or to flee. Two years of flinching at every human touch, of listening to the crude jokes of Davis and his cronies and imagining what would happen if they found out , two years of waking up in the middle of the night with only the memory of fading green eyes. All these things came back to her, in that instant, and her body went taut.

Winter gripped Jane’s shoulders so tightly she was sure it hurt. She broke away from the kiss and bit her lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood.

“Are you all right?” Jane said.

“I think. .” Winter ran her tongue across suddenly dry lips and took a deep breath. “I think we should go to your room.”

“My-” Jane blinked. “It’s okay. You don’t have to-”

“Jane. Look at me.” Winter caught her eyes and held them. “I’m all right.”

–

“You realize,” Winter said, “that this doesn’t solve any of your problems.”

They lay in Jane’s big bed, side by side. Winter felt trembly, boneless, as though she could dissolve into a puddle. A draft from the window played across her, pebbling her bare skin.

“We could leave,” Jane said. “You and me. Leave the city, leave all of this. Go to Mielle, or Nordart.” She grinned. “Or back to Khandar. You could show me the sights.”

Winter laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“No.” Jane sighed. “I suppose I don’t.” She looked sidelong at Winter. “You’ll help me?”

“I’ll try,” Winter said. Something had been working its way to the top of her mind, like a bubble rising to the surface of a pond. “And, actually, I think I have an idea.”

Winter slept better that night than she had since the fall of the Vendre, feeling light and almost hollow, as if some barrier deep inside her had been broken to let a buildup of accumulated muck drain away. When she woke up the next morning, Jane still pressed tight against her, her head felt clear.

After wandering down to the great hall to find something to eat, Winter returned to Jane’s room to find Abby fussing with Jane’s formal outfit. Any remaining hint of jealousy at seeing the two together was quashed by the look of almost pathetic gratitude on Abby’s face. Jane looked like her old self, full of energy, pacing back and forth as Abby laid out dark trousers, a gray waistcoat, and a coat that would have done credit to a prosperous merchant. Winter was impressed, and said so.

“You said I ought to dress the part,” Jane said.

“I wasn’t expecting you to have much on hand,” Winter said.

Abby blushed. “I got most of it ready last night. I didn’t think she ought to go to the deputies looking like. .” She glanced up at Jane and coughed. “Like she usually does.”

“I still don’t think they’ll listen to me,” Jane said. “Why should they?”

“Because they’re running out of other choices,” Winter said. “You’ve heard the news, I take it?”

The news had seeped into the city, sometime last night, diffusing through the streets in the curious way that rumor had. It was as though everyone had learned it in a dream, and on waking only confirmed it with everyone else.

The news was that Orlanko’s forces had broken camp. Seven thousand Royal Army regulars were on the march for Vordan. Counting the time it had taken the scouts to return with this information, it could only be another two days, perhaps three, before the Last Duke’s men were at the gates.

Winter had expected panic, but when she and Jane left the building in the company of Walnut and a dozen armed Leatherbacks, the streets remained deserted. If anything, they were emptier than the night before, and Winter did not see another living soul out of doors until they reached the Grand Span. There small groups had gathered, a drifting current of humanity that flowed north, over the bridge and across the river. On the Island side, it met and merged with several smaller streams, bearing Winter, Jane, and their small group like a bubble on a stream. It was like a daylight replay of the march on the Vendre, but with no torches, no weapons, and none of the same sense of purpose. These people were frightened, not angry, and they didn’t know what to do.

The stream entered Farus’ Triumph on the south side, spreading out past the shuttered cafés. A large crowd had already gathered, forming a ring centered on the northwest corner of the square, where something seemed to be happening. Winter could see a single horseman moving about, above the heads of the crowd, and as they got closer she recognized his gaudy uniform. Peddoc .

“The deputies have failed us!” he was saying, his voice sounding thin above the murmur of the crowd. “There are good men in the chamber, but also fools, cowards, and even traitors. And there is no time now to sort the ore from the dross! That’s why I’m calling on all true men of Vordan to do what must be done. Step forward! Be counted!”

By this point, Jane’s escort of Leatherbacks had cleared a way through the crowd, and Jane and Winter could get a good view. Peddoc sat on the back of a stunning gray-and-white stallion, spurs gleaming, saddle every bit as polished and embroidered as his uniform. He rode at a slow walk around the edges of the clear space, holding the reins in one hand and gesturing with the other.

Behind him was a block of armed men, doing their best imitation of soldiers at attention. Some of them-mostly those who wore the green-edged sashes of Patriot Guard loyal to the Monarchists-managed reasonably well, although the spacing between ranks and files was ragged. Others seemed to have been grabbed off the street and issued whatever weapons were on hand. In addition to muskets, Winter saw shotguns and hunting pieces, pikes, ancient halberds, and crude spears.

More weapons rested in a great pile on a tarpaulin beside a couple of well-dressed men wearing black deputy’s sashes. From time to time a man would break free of the edge of the crowd-sometimes pushed by those around him, sometimes breaking free of attempts at restraint-and make his way forward. The men in the ranks sent up a cheer each time this happened, which was echoed, a bit more weakly, by the crowd. The new volunteers reported to the two deputies, who issued them whatever weapon was on top of the pile and sent them to stand with the others.

“What the hell does he think he’s playing at?” Jane said.

“He’s going to march them against Orlanko,” Winter said. It was idiocy, but it was the only thing she could think of. “He’s been threatening to raise a force on his own for days, since the deputies wouldn’t give him one. The news must have forced his hand.”