Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Ranker?” Valt didn’t sound upset, only curious. “What’s going on?”

“Feeding the prisoners, sir!” the Concordat man said. He indicated a large bowl of boiled beans. “Then this one attacked me, sir!”

“She didn’t-” said a young voice from the crowd, before someone clamped a hand over the speaker’s mouth.

“Try not to be unnecessarily rough with them, Ranker,” Valt said mildly. “Remember that an injured prisoner is an additional burden.”

The ranker clambered off the woman, straightened up, and saluted. “Yes, sir! Thank you for the reminder, sir!”

Valt turned to Marcus. “Did you want to interrogate the prisoners, sir?”

Marcus’ eyes were on the young woman. She got to her feet, slowly. Her blouse had been torn to shreds, and he got a glimpse of small, pale breasts, mottled with bruises, before she pulled the scraps about herself and shuffled back to the corner.

“No,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice level. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

“Good to see you, sir,” Giforte said, as Marcus took the stairs to the tower two at a time. He almost looked like he meant it. Whatever his worries about Marcus, the crisis had clearly shaken his equilibrium. “Are they at the wall-”

“Not just yet,” Marcus said. “Get together some men you think you can trust and get them down to the dungeons. Tell Ross we’re taking over security on the lower levels. Tell him. .” He thought for a moment. “Tell him I think his men will be better than ours if it comes to a fight, and I want them on the walls instead of guarding doors. That should make him happy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find something to help keep the prisoners out of the water, or half of them are going to be down with a chill before tomorrow evening. Those tables on the main floor, maybe. Break them apart. You can use the scraps for firewood. I want a fire in each room, you understand?”

“Yes, sir. What about-”

“ Now , Giforte!” Marcus found a chair and sat down heavily, resting his forehead in his hands. “The rest can wait.”

Giforte saluted and slipped out. Marcus tried to slow his breathing and calm the pounding in his skull.

What the hell was Janus thinking? The same question might apply to the Last Duke, of course, who had to know what the conditions would be like in the Vendre once he’d tripled the number of prisoners. But for all Marcus knew, Orlanko wanted the prisoners to suffer for some malignant reason of his own, whereas he was certain-fairly certain-that Janus wouldn’t countenance such a thing. Janus didn’t know Orlanko was going to order so many arrests. But he had known what would happen if Danton was taken.

Faith, he says. Marcus had kept faith once before, waiting in a Khandarai church while cannonballs rang off the walls like bells. That time, Janus’ arrival had turned his desperate last stand into a glorious victory, though the cost had been higher than Marcus cared to think about.

Is he going to come and rescue me this time as well?

Giforte slipped back into the room. They were in one of the tower chambers, a much lighter and airier space than the dungeon, with high ceilings and gun slits that threw lines of sunlight along the floor. It was unfurnished except for a couple of chairs and a table made from a plank and a pair of barrels. Dust motes danced and spun in the lances of light.

“I’ve sent the messages, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus rubbed his forehead with two fingers, but the pounding only got worse. He sighed. “Have you gotten anything out of Danton?”

“No. He’s got some sort of idiot act going. All he does is ask me to find the princess and if I can bring him beer.”

“Saints and martyrs. You’d think he’d know what’s going to happen if that lot outside tries to storm the walls.”

“I’ve tried to tell him.”

“Well, make sure we keep a few men up here, too. If Ross gets his hands on Danton while he’s still playing games, it’ll be red-hot pokers and thumbscrews.”

“He’s that bad?”

Marcus paused. He was spared the necessity of answering this by the arrival of Staff Eisen, breathless from a sprint up the stairs.

“Sir!”

There was only one thing it could be. “I’m on my way.”

The ladders were ready, but the mob was not storming the parapets. Not yet.

“Whoever’s in charge up there,” a voice boomed from below, “come out! We want to talk to you!” A background roar from the crowd added punctuation.

Ross caught up to Marcus and Giforte at the base of the wall.

“We don’t need to negotiate with them,” the Concordat officer said. “It may be a trap. If they’ve got a decent shot with a rifle somewhere-”

“I’ll take the chance,” Marcus said. “Feel free to stay here.”

“But-”

“They outnumber us five hundred to one, Captain. I think it’s worth making the effort to talk, don’t you?”

Marcus hurried up the narrow stone staircase to the fire step, Giforte and Ross close behind him. The orders he’d given Giforte had already been carried out, and half the Armsmen on the wall had been replaced by black-coated Concordat troops. All were armed, and Marcus suddenly wondered if his impulsive act of chivalry had been such a good idea. One shot would be one too many.

“Ross,” he said, when they reached the top. “Make sure your men know they’re to fire on my command, and not before. Anyone who takes an early shot will have the Minister of Justice to answer to.”

“Yes, sir.” Ross went to talk to his lieutenants, and Marcus stepped up to the parapet and looked down at the crowd.

Ominously, it was considerably better organized than it had been this morning. Six enormous ladders had been completed, and each lay near the base of the wall in the midst of a knot of people. The crowd was a mixed bag of fishermen, laborers, menials, and even women, but the ladders were conspicuously flanked by a crew of burly dockworkers, who looked more than capable of lifting them into position. Everyone in the teams by the ladders had acquired some kind of weapon, too, though this amounted to little more than wooden clubs or improvised spears. Here and there a sword gleamed, looted from who knew where.

In the center of this impromptu siege party stood an enormous man in a fisherman’s leather apron, flanked by a pair of young women. He was the one who’d spoken, his deep voice easily cutting through the excited babble of the crowd.

Marcus took a deep breath and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“I’m in command,” he said. “This is an illegal armed gathering. I’m going to have to ask you to disperse!”

Ripples of laughter ran through the crowd. The big man spoke briefly to the women, then said, “I’m afraid we still have business here!”

“What do you want?”

“Open the gates and release your prisoners! If you offer no resistance, you and your men can go in peace.”

“My orders don’t allow that,” Marcus said. He saw Ross returning out of the corner of his eye. “However, if you would like to nominate a delegation to come in and negotiate, perhaps we can reach an accommodation?”

This seemed to cause some confusion. The two women fell into a heated conversation, with the giant listening intently. Marcus watched nervously. If I can get them talking, I can buy time. And time was all he could hope for-time for the government to do something , either decide to give in to the mob’s demands or summon the nearest Royal Army unit to crush them. Either way, it won’t be on my shoulders.

“No point to negotiating,” the big man said, coming out of the huddle. “Either open the gates or we’ll open them for you.” He put his head to one side. “You’re an Armsman, aren’t you? We have no quarrel with you. Do you really want to die for Orlanko’s dogs?”