Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

Marcus could imagine it all too easily. Lumbering barges full of struggling prisoners, with every rowboat and fishing skiff on the river closing in around them. Not good. “And the ram?”

“I think they’ll be ready by nightfall, or a little before.”

The sun was already well past the meridian. That left four or five hours for Janus or the Royal Army or someone to come riding to the rescue. Once they started battering down the door, Marcus would have to choose one way or the other.

“Balls of the Beast.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes. How long since I slept? Twenty hours? More? “All right. We need to start planning for contingencies. I want you to get fifteen men together, and-what the hell was that?”

The noise that had interrupted them had been a combination of a splintery wooden crash and an enormous metallic ringing, like the striking of the world’s largest gong. It was followed by a great deal of swearing.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the vice captain said. “It came from the main stairwell.”

“I’m going to go find out.”

He quickly dictated the rest of his instructions to Giforte, who saluted and hurried off. Marcus levered himself out of his chair with an effort, calves aching from too many hours of nervous pacing. He shrugged into his green uniform jacket-now rumpled and stained with sweat-and took to the stairs, navigating as carefully as an old man. The stone-floored fortress was unforgiving of slips and tumbles.

The noises were coming from below, and Marcus followed the main stairs down until he found them blocked by a knot of sweating, cursing men in Concordat black. They’d stripped off their leather coats and were wrestling some enormous object around the corner of the steps. Someone was trying to improvise a rope harness, while more men grunted and tried to lift from below. Standing at the top, above the fray, was Ross, who looked very pleased with himself.

“Captain?” Marcus said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah!” Ross turned, beaming. “Sorry about the noise, sir. We found something down in one of the half-flooded levels.”

“What is it?” Through the crowd of laboring men, Marcus could only get a partial view of the object they were lifting.

“A cannon. An eight-inch mortar, I think.”

Marcus suddenly felt very cold. “I didn’t think there were any guns left here.”

“Neither did I, but this one must have been too much trouble to move. There aren’t any bombs left, but it shouldn’t be hard to improvise some canister. We’ll set it up opposite the main doors. Then once they break through with their damned ram, they’ll be in for a hell of a surprise!” He chuckled.

The image came to Marcus’ mind’s eye all too easily. Ross, he suspected, had never seen a cannon fired in anger.

“The recoil. .,” Marcus began, weakly.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re setting up a position in the front hall, and we’ll clear a space for this bastard once we get it up the stairs.” Ross smiled. “You know, sir, I admit I was worried when you pulled the men back from the walls. But I’m man enough to admit when I was wrong. This is a much better position. As long as they have to come at us through those doors, we can hold out here until we can build a barricade out of corpses!” He seemed to be looking forward to this prospect.

This new, cheerful Ross was a change, and not a welcome one. Marcus muttered something noncommittal and hurried back upstairs, looking for Giforte. The vice captain had not yet returned, but there was a sergeant in Armsmen green there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He saluted and came to attention as Marcus entered, sweat running into the crevices of his jowly face.

“Beg pardon, sir!”

“Yes?” Marcus snapped the word out more harshly than he’d intended, and the sergeant quailed. “What is it?”

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir. Only there’s been a bit of a disturbance with the prisoners, sir, and you asked to be kept informed-”

“What’s happened?”

“A gang of them is kicking up a fuss. Bunch of young women. Saying they can help us, and that they want to talk to-” He broke off and looked around.

“Right.” Marcus desperately wanted to sit in his chair, pull his cap over his eyes, and rest for a few hours. “You’d better take me to them.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it was Vice Captain Giforte they were asking to see.”

Marcus blinked. “Giforte? Did they say why?”

“No, sir.”

“He ought to be down at the riverside dock,” Marcus said. “Come on. We’ll send someone to find him on the way.”

The dungeon levels were as dank as ever, but the tables borrowed from the main floor gave the prisoners something dry to sit on. Concordat men still guarded the halls, but the cells themselves were watched by Armsmen, and the mood of the prisoners seemed much improved. Most of the cell doors were open, under a guard’s careful eye, and Marcus saw the merry flicker of flames as the prisoners huddled round to warm themselves.

“Over here, sir,” said the sergeant. He gestured to a room at the end of the corridor, where a closed door was flanked by a pair of musket-armed men. They saluted as Marcus approached, and one of them unlocked the cell with a key and stepped aside.

“Finally,” said a young woman’s voice, as he opened the door. “I-” She stopped as Marcus stepped into the doorway. A lone torch was burning in a wall bracket, and in its light Marcus could see a girl of eighteen or so, with frizzy, matted brown hair and freckles. She stood between the door and the rest of the prisoners in the cell, who were huddled in the shadowy corner.

“You’re not my-you’re not Vice Captain Giforte,” she said.

“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “Captain of Armsmen. Whatever you have to say to the vice captain, you can say to me.”

“But. .” The girl trailed off, her lip twisting.

“Why don’t you start with your name?”

“Abigail,” she said. “Everyone calls me Abby.” Then, reaching some kind of decision, she straightened up. “Listen. It’s Jane who’s leading the mob out there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if they have a leader , per se. The one shouting up to me was some sort of giant.” Marcus frowned. “And you’re remarkably well informed for someone who’s been locked in a cell with no windows.”

There was a cough from behind Marcus. “Sorry about that, sir,” the sergeant said. “Some of the boys got to talking. Arguing, more like. It got a little heated. The prisoners must have overheard.”

“The giant is named Walnut,” Abby said. “If he’s here, Jane is, too. Mad Jane, you must have heard of her.”

Marcus shrugged and looked over his shoulder.

The sergeant nodded. “I know the name, sir. She leads a sort of gang in the Docks called the Leatherbacks.”

“Do you have any idea if she’s in charge outside?” Marcus said.

“Not that I’ve heard,” the sergeant said. “Like you said, sir, it didn’t look like they had a real strict chain of command.”

“She’s there,” Abby said stubbornly. “She’s the only one who could get the dockmen so worked up.”

“Even if she is,” Marcus said, “what does that have to do with you?”

“Jane and I are. . friends. Have you tried talking to them?”

Marcus stiffened. “We offered to negotiate, but they didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation.”

Abby nodded eagerly. “That’s why you have to let me see her. I can get her to talk! She’ll listen to me, and then. . we can figure out some way out of this.”

There was a long pause.

“What makes you think I’m looking for a way out?” Marcus said.