Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Come on,” Abby said. “This way.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” Winter said, hurrying a little to keep up.

“Right here.” Abby turned around, in the center of the alley, and gave her sunny smile again. “One of the things I learned pretty quickly was not to follow strangers down narrow alleys, even in the middle of the day.”

A change in the quality of the light told Winter that there was someone behind her, blocking the mouth of the alley by which they’d come in. Another shadow loomed across the exit. She considered her options. The buildings close on each side meant it was unlikely she’d be able to scramble past an attacker, and she wasn’t a good enough climber to get up the pockmarked plaster walls before someone got a hand on her. The damned dress would make running difficult, too. She had a knife, stashed in her waistband beside her coin purse, but the only thing she could think to do with it was take Abby hostage. That didn’t seem like a good option; the girl looked fleet and spry, and in any case Winter wasn’t sure she could cut her throat in cold blood.

Instead she smiled back and kept her hands carefully at her sides. “I hope it wasn’t too painful a lesson.”

There were footsteps in the dirt behind her. Two men, it sounded like. A quick kick to the groin or stomach might get her past one, but that would leave the other, with no room to get around. A nicely planned ambush, I must say.

“I really don’t know who you are,” Abby said, “but you certainly were never a University student. We have close contact with the people there. At the same time, I meant what I said about the Concordat.”

“That you think I’m a spy?”

“That I think you’re not competent enough to be one of Orlanko’s.” Abby shrugged. “This is your chance to come clean. If you’re working for Big Sal or one of the other dock gangs, we’re not going to hold it against you. Though they ought to know not to mess with us by now.”

“I’m not working for Big Sal.”

For a moment, Winter thought about telling the truth, but she held back. She wasn’t certain how Abby would react, and there was always the possibility that this was some kind of hazing ritual. Admit defeat early, and at best she’d have to go back to Janus and tell him she’d failed utterly. At worst-she didn’t want to think about at worst. Better to stick to the story for now.

“Have it your way,” Abby said. “Don’t squirm. You might hurt yourself.”

A hood came down over Winter’s face, smelling of leather and horses. Thick hands gripped her arms, and she felt herself being lifted into the air.

“I’m still not sure,” Abby said, her words muffled by the leather over Winter’s ears. “The Last Duke can’t think we’re that stupid.”

“Could be an assassin,” came another young woman’s voice. “Come to kill the boss.”

“How’s she going to manage that tied up on the floor?” said another.

“You hear stories,” said the first, darkly. “Some of the things that come out of the Cobweb aren’t human.”

Winter thought of Jen Alhundt, and shivered. You have no idea how right you are.

She was lying on what felt like threadbare carpet. After dragging her through the streets for some distance, with a little bit of spinning and doubling back for good measure, the men who’d carried her had delivered her to a doorway. They’d bound her hands, then departed, leaving Winter in Abby’s charge. At that point she might have been able to make a run for it, but tied and blind she wouldn’t have gotten farther than the nearest wall, so she’d allowed Abby to lead her through a building and up at least two flights of stairs. All around her, muffled by the hood, were the sounds of people talking, laughing, joking, swearing, as though they were passing through a barracks or a dormitory. The words were indistinct, but a couple of times someone hollered Abby’s name in a friendly fashion. All of the voices Winter could make out were female.

After delivering her to this carpeted room, Abby had left for a minute and returned with these two other girls, who were apparently to make some kind of decision about her fate. It was, Winter thought, time to speak up.

“Is this how you treat all your guests?” She tried to put some bravado into her voice, but the leather hood somewhat spoiled the effect.

“What?” Abby said.

“I said,” Winter began, but accidentally got a mouthful of leather and gagged at the awful taste. She spent a few moments coughing, the inside of the bag getting slick and hot with her own breath.

“Oh, take that thing off her,” Abby said, exasperated. “She’s not going to bite us, I think.”

Someone loosened the drawstring at Winter’s neck, and the bag came off. She drew in a great breath, thankful for even the dusty, stale air, then looked around curiously. They were in a small, unfurnished room, with only a rug on the floor and a boarded-up window. Candles burned and flickered in the corners. Abby had been joined by two girls of roughly her own age, seventeen or eighteen, dressed for labor in trousers and leather vests over linen blouses, with their hair tied up in colorful kerchiefs. The one on the left looked so pale she seemed about to faint, while the one on the right was enormous, a head taller than Winter, with the thick, muscled arms and ruddy complexion of someone used to serious outdoor work.

They hadn’t searched her, which meant she still had the knife, but her hands were well secured. If they left her alone, she might be able to squirm around to the point where she could do something with it, but for now she settled for glaring at Abby.

“I said,” Winter said, “do you treat all your guests this way?”

“We don’t get many guests,” Abby said. “We keep to ourselves, for the most part. That’s part of what makes this so difficult.”

“I’ll do it,” the smaller girl said eagerly. She took a knife from her belt, a thick cleaverlike kitchen blade with a glittering edge that spoke of many loving hours of honing. “She must be Concordat.”

“If she’s Concordat, we’d better ask Conner first,” the big girl said thoughtfully. “He might not like it if she turned up dead.”

“ I certainly wouldn’t like it,” Winter said. “Especially since I’m not Concordat.”

“Put that away, Becca,” Abby said. “Nobody’s killing anybody until the boss gets back. It shouldn’t be long now.”

Becca put the knife away with a certain reluctance. Abby looked from her to the other girl. “Chris, do you think you can watch her for a while?”

The big girl nodded. Abby and Becca went out and closed the door behind them. Winter didn’t hear the click of a lock, but Chris settled herself deliberately against it and crossed her arms. Her posture dared Winter to try to get past her, but there was something off about her eyes. Winter thought there was fear there, and uncertainty, and something else she couldn’t quite identify.

Winter rolled over until she got her legs underneath her and sat up, maneuvering awkwardly with her arms still bound behind her back. Chris’ eyes followed her every move, as though she expected her to pounce like a mad dog.

“I’m not Concordat, you know,” Winter said.

Chris grunted and shifted uneasily against the door.

“My name is Winter,” Winter said. This got another grunt. “You’re Chris? Is that short for Christina?”

“I shouldn’t talk to you,” Chris said. “If you’re a spy.”

“If I’m a spy,” Winter said, trying to stay reasonable, “then you’ll kill me, and it doesn’t matter what you’ve told me. And if I’m not, then it doesn’t matter anyway. Besides, is your name that important?”