Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Sir,” the man said. His face said that he considered this quite enough of a concession. “I apologize that I was unable to meet with you earlier.”

“It’s quite all right,” Marcus said. “We’ve all had a busy night. I’m Marcus d’Ivoire, captain of Armsmen.”

“Yes, sir. Captain James Ross, at your service.”

“May I ask to what unit you belong, Captain Ross?”

“Ministry of Information, Special Branch. Sir.”

“Special Branch. I see.” Marcus had never heard of such a thing, but he’d been away from Vordan a long time. “How many men do you have here?”

“Seventy-eight in total, sir. I need a few to watch the prisoners, but I can spare at least forty for the walls.”

That was as many men as Marcus had in total, which made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the thought of being in the power of this “captain” with his black coat and his shiny boots. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to a fight.”

Ross glanced out into the street, noting the ladders. “Small chance of that, I think. But we shouldn’t have any trouble.” He looked thoughtful. “In fact, I’d wager if I put a dozen sharpshooters up here, we could make the street too hot for them. Rabble never have any stomach for casualties. Shall I send for them?”

“No, Captain.” Marcus frowned. “Let me make myself clear. Our duty is to secure the prison and the prisoners, not to end the riots. I fully expect the Minister of Justice and the rest of the Cabinet will resolve these difficulties soon. Until they do, we will make every effort to avoid bloodshed of any kind.”

Ross’ eyes were hooded. “I understand, sir.”

“How many prisoners do you have at present?” Giforte had put Danton in a room in the tower, but Marcus hadn’t yet had a chance to visit the dungeons. Concordat wagons had been coming and going all night, until the mob outside had blocked the streets. Marcus and his small contingent from the Guardhouse had nearly been too late; they’d slipped in just before Ross barred the gates. Marcus guessed he was now regretting waiting so long. He looked like a man used to being in charge.

“We don’t have an exact count, sir, but I’d say a bit over five hundred. We’ve got the men separated out from the women and children, and everything’s under control.” Ross caught the look on Marcus’ face and misunderstood it. “Don’t worry, sir. We know how to manage our affairs here.”

“Why, exactly, do we have children in the dungeons?”

“Couldn’t say, sir. Not my place to ask. Every group was properly signed for by Ministry authorities.” He ventured a sickly smile. “I just keep them behind bars, sir.”

Marcus glanced down at the ladders. It would be another hour or so at least before they were prepared to make an assault, if that was what they were planning.

“Would you take me to the keep, Captain Ross?” he said. “I think I should make an inspection.”

The keep was an irregular, lopsided structure, several stories high where it faced the water but only a single story aboveground on the landward side. Men in Concordat black lined the parapet above the ironbound doors, armed with muskets and swords. They all straightened up and saluted at Ross’ approach, like a line of scarecrows.

Inside, the first floor was largely open. It had once been laid out with rows of long wooden tables and benches, to provide Orlanko’s scribblers with somewhere to do their paperwork, but at some point in last night’s confusion these had all been pushed to one side or stacked. Scraps of paper and pools of spilled ink were scattered across the stone floor.

“Normally we admit prisoners through a postern gate, or through the water gate,” Ross explained, as he led the way to the staircases at the rear. “With the volume we received last night, we had to start bringing them right down the main staircase. I apologize for the mess.” His eyes flicked upward as they passed the ascending steps. “That leads to the tower rooms, where your man Giforte is holding Danton. Down this way is the dungeon.”

Marcus stopped and bent to examine something caught in a crack between two flagstones. It was a tiny book, a child’s version of the Wisdoms with large print and engravings. It had gotten soaked, and the back cover and half the pages were gone. Marcus pried the sad little thing up and looked at it thoughtfully.

“Sir?” Ross said, looking over his shoulder.

“It’s nothing.” Marcus pocketed the book. “Lead on.”

More black uniforms stopped and saluted on the steps. The air smelled of leather and shoe polish, and, as they descended, increasingly of damp stone and mud. The stairs came to a wide landing, and Ross waved a hand.

“Is there anything in particular you want to see, sir? There are three levels of cells here. The first are the old dungeons, where we keep the usual prisoners, and-”

“Where have you put the people who came in last night?”

“On the lowest level,” Ross said, and started down again. “We don’t normally use it, because of the damp, but there’s a lot of space. It was originally meant to be a powder magazine, but it’s below the level of the river, so no one has ever been able to figure out a way to keep it completely dry.”

Marcus felt a bit like a hero in a fairy tale, descending into some hell to battle the minions of darkness. The stairs wound down and down, lit at regular intervals by oil lamps. Ross’ promised damp soon appeared, in puddles on the steps and a slimy film on the walls. Here and there, tiny clusters of mushrooms had emerged.

When they reached the bottom landing, a three-man detail was waiting for them. Their leader ignored Marcus, saluted Ross, and said, “I’m glad you’re here, sir. There’s been a bit of an altercation. The prisoners found out that one of the men was a Sworn Church deacon, and some of them tried to beat him.”

Ross frowned. “I should see to this, sir. Do you want to join me?”

“I’d like to see the women’s quarters, if you don’t mind.”

There was a look on Ross’ face that Marcus didn’t like. “Of course, sir. Lieutenant Valt, would you show the captain the way?”

Valt was taller and stockier than Ross, but uniformed with the same attention to detail. He, at least, saluted smartly, and led Marcus at a quick pace through the murky corridor. Watching him splash through the puddles, Marcus wondered how much effort it took every morning to keep those boots shiny. Where does the duke find all these eager young inquisitors?

“They’re in here, sir.” They turned a corner onto another corridor, with three doors on either side. Each door was flanked by a pair of guards, and there was a shuffling and a flapping of coats as they all turned to salute. “Each of these rooms has a couple of dozen.”

“You don’t have individual cells for them?”

He shrugged. “All the cells are occupied. This is the overflow. Once things quiet down, I imagine they’ll be moved elsewhere.”

Marcus nodded, trying to look thoughtful, and walked down the corridor. As he passed the second door, he heard a thin sound that might have been a scream, heavily muffled by wood and stone.

“This one,” Marcus said. “Open it.”

The guards looked at Valt, who nodded. When the door was unlocked, it revealed a small room whose floor was a single enormous puddle. Steady drips from the ceiling joined trickles on the walls to form a murky brown liquid. There were no windows and only one lamp, casting long shadows against the wall.

Most of the inmates huddled on the small stretch of dry stone by the door. Just in front of the doorway, a young woman was on her knees, hunched over, while a man in a black uniform stood astride her and was in the process of delivering a vicious blow to the side of her head. He’d stopped in midswing at the sound of the door, and turned awkwardly to see Marcus and the lieutenant framed against the light from the corridor.