Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“Your men were talking about surrender,” Abby said. “They’re worried about what the mob will do to them if they lay down their weapons. If you’ll just let me talk to Jane, I’m sure she’ll agree to let you leave safely.”

“Captain?” Giforte’s voice came from the hall outside. Marcus turned and beckoned to the sergeant, who fell in behind him, pulling the door shut.

“Wait!” Abby said. “You have to let me see-”

The clang of the closing door cut off her words. Giforte hurried over, looking a little flushed, as though he’d run all the way. A couple of anxious rankers trailed him.

“You asked for me, sir?”

Marcus nodded, thinking hard. “You gave orders to prepare the boats?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus turned to glare at the sergeant, who was sweating even harder. “What’s this she was saying about surrender?”

“I. . Sir, I mean. . That is. .” The man squirmed, took a deep breath, and straightened up. “It was just talk.”

“What kind of talk?” Marcus paused, then added, “Tell me, Sergeant. I promise no one will be punished.”

“Well. .” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Some of the boys-not me, you understand-were saying that it didn’t make much sense to fight once the doors get broken in. There’s only a hundred of us, even counting the duke’s bootlickers, and thousands of dockmen. Seems like a pretty foregone conclusion. And it seemed to us-to them -that anybody who fought back was likely to get his head bashed in. Some of the boys weren’t too keen on shooting at them anyway. I mean, they’re our own people, when all’s said and done. So if we’re going to lose anyway , it seemed like it might be best if we just gave up at the beginning. Less pain all around, you might say.” He gulped for air, and added, “Not that I agreed with them for a minute, sir.”

Marcus glanced at Giforte, who gave a small shrug.

An Armsman, Marcus always had to remind himself, was not a soldier. And even a Royal Army garrison would be considering surrender at this point, outnumbered hundreds to one with no relief in sight. It was the only sensible thing to do.

“There’s a girl in there,” Marcus said slowly, “who says she’s a personal friend of one of the leaders of the mob. She thinks she can set up negotiations.”

Giforte scratched his chin through his beard. “Not a bad idea, if it’s true. And if she’s not just trying to buy her own way out of here.”

“She wanted to talk to you, specifically. Any idea why?”

“No, sir.”

“Well. We can at least see what she wants from you.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Open the door.”

This time Giforte led the way into the cell, the torchlight laying long shadows across his face. Marcus followed behind. Abby was still waiting near the doorway, but at the sight of Giforte, she shuffled backward a step and looked at the floor.

“I’m Vice Captain Giforte,” Giforte said. “What’s your business with me?”

“Ah.” Abby shuffled uncertainly, right hand gripping her left elbow behind her back. When she raised her face, Marcus heard Giforte’s breath hiss. “Um. Hello, Father.”

The doors in the Vendre were thick and heavy, as befitted a fortress, but not enough so to block out the shouting from the next room. Marcus sat on a stool in the corridor, feeling like a boy sent out of class for raising a fuss, and tried his hardest not to overhear. After a while, the yelling fell to murmurs and what sounded like occasional sobbing. He wasn’t sure which state was worse.

I’m so tired. Marcus leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“Captain.”

Marcus sat up hurriedly, blinking. The door was slightly open, and Giforte stood diffidently behind it, not wanting to catch his captain napping.

“Sorry.” Marcus stifled a yawn. “Is everything. . all right?”

“For the moment.” He pulled the door open wider. “You can come in.”

Marcus climbed painfully to his feet, shoulders aching where they’d been jammed against the hard stone. Inside, Abby sat behind the table Marcus had been using as a desk, looking pale except for spots of color in her freckled cheeks. Her eyes were slightly red, but her expression was determined.

“My daughter tells me that she’s been working with this ‘Mad Jane’ for some time now,” Giforte said. “She’s convinced that this woman is the one responsible for the mob.”

Abby opened her mouth to speak but stopped at a glance from her father. Her cheeks colored further.

Marcus shifted awkwardly. “And what do you think?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve her. But sending someone outside to negotiate is extremely risky. There’s no guarantee Mad Jane would remain friendly, or that she’s even in control. Our men in the towers have reported a great many new arrivals in the last few hours.”

“If I can talk to Jane,” Abby said, “I’m telling you-”

“Abigail,” Giforte snapped.

“Don’t you ‘Abigail’ me,” she said. “You can’t treat me like a child.”

Marcus cleared his throat to cut off the impending argument. “Young lady, would you mind if I spoke to your father in private for a moment?”

Abby sniffed and crossed her arms. Marcus touched Giforte on the shoulder and led him to a corner of the room, facing away from the girl.

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” Marcus said, in a low voice. “What do you want to do?”

Giforte looked pained for a moment. Marcus wondered if he’d been hoping the decision would be taken out of his hands. Eventually he let out a sigh.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “But I think it’s our best chance of avoiding a bloodbath. I. .” He hesitated. “I’d like to suggest that I accompany her. If she can bring Mad Jane to a conference, better to have someone on the spot ready to talk to her.”

For a moment, Marcus wondered if Giforte planned to use the opportunity to take his daughter and escape. But no, not him. Whatever his hidden connections, reading all those records had drawn a clear picture of the man, and he would no more abandon men under his command than Marcus himself would. He gave a quick nod. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Giforte said. “Thank you, sir.”

Because there were no openings in the Vendre’s landward face, Marcus had to ascend to the tower at the opposite end of the fortress to get a view of the proceedings. Even here all the gun slits and embrasures faced the wrong way, toward the rivers, so he had to take the stairs all the way up and pry open an old trapdoor to make his way up to the roof. It was a narrow stretch of flagstones, swept by a continuous wind from the river and long abandoned even by the sentries. The waist-high parapet was crumbling, and big chunks of the mortar had come loose and fallen four stories to slide down the sloping roof of the lower fortress.

Marcus leaned against one of the solider-looking blocks, trying to ignore the tingling in the soles of his feet every time the wind caught in his coat. He badly wanted a spyglass. There was a particularly fine one in his office at the Ministry of Justice, in fact, but he hadn’t thought to bring it.

Far below, across the bulk of the fortress, Marcus could see the inner courtyard packed with rioters. Giforte had warned that it was no longer only dockmen in the mob, and even from this distance Marcus could see it was true. The crowd grouped up in tight bunches, as separate as oil and water, and while some of these wore the leather and gaudy colors of the South Bank workers, others had the darker, sober look of prosperity. Students, was Marcus’ guess. Danton’s speeches had always played well at the University.