Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“That may have been understatement on his part,” Marcus said.

As it turned out, no intervention was necessary. Abby stalked past them, lantern in hand, sending wildly swinging shadows up the walls of the corridor. She rounded the corner and, to judge by the light, stayed there. Winter and Marcus glanced at each other and continued on to the dock, where Giforte was already sitting in the little two-man rowboat.

“Let’s get out of here,” the vice captain muttered. He caught Winter’s eye as Marcus carefully stepped from the dock, making the little craft sway alarmingly. “Please try to take care of her?”

“I’ll do my best,” Winter said. “Don’t worry. Jane takes good care of all her people.”

Giforte nodded, reluctantly, and took hold of the oars. Once Marcus had settled himself, Winter undid the line, and the little boat splashed and bumped its way out into the tunnel, bound for the friendlier docks on the North Shore.

Abby was waiting in the corridor, just out of sight of the dock. It was hard to tell in the bad light, but it looked as though she had been crying.

“Are you all right?” Winter said.

“Just furious.” Abby dragged a hand across her face. “He always makes me that way.”

“What did he want?”

“To go back with him, of course.” She waved a hand. “It was all well and good my slumming it for a while-that’s what he says now , though at the time he threatened to disown me-but things are getting dangerous . So I need to come home and be locked in a tower behind barred windows.”

“I’m not sure I blame him,” Winter said. “If I had a daughter, I don’t think I’d want her out here. Hell, I’m not sure I want to be here myself, sometimes.”

“He’s a thickheaded old fossil,” Abby said. “And I told him so. If anyone should be locked away, it’s him. At his age he should be sitting behind a desk signing papers, not trying to hold a fortress wall against the notorious Mad Jane and her mob-what?”

Winter had started to chuckle, mixed with the occasional hiccup. She shook her head until she got control of herself again.

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m in a strange mood, that’s all.”

“Come on,” Abby said. “I need a drink.”

Now, Winter reflected as they climbed the stairs, I’m a girl pretending to be a boy pretending to be a girl. At least as far as Marcus is concerned. Just the thought made her giggle. Janus probably planned it this way. She still hadn’t figured out why he’d put her with Jane in the first place, unless it was purely to fulfill the request she’d made to him on the shores of Khandar. I very much doubt that. Not that Janus wasn’t the sort of man to keep his promises, but she was certain he would find a way to arrange matters so that he himself derived some benefit. I suppose I’m just too simple to see it. Though it would help if I knew what he wanted.

On the first floor, they became aware of a new sound. At first Winter thought there had been some new attack, and that a melee was in progress. The crowd that occupied the Vendre courtyard had erupted, all at once, in a single vast roar that seemed to shake the castle to its foundations.

“What the hell is going on now?” Abby said.

“I have no idea,” Winter said. “Let’s find out.”

No one ever claimed to have been the one who first delivered the tidings from Ohnlei, as if rumor had broken free of human constraints and flown free on shadowy wings.

Any story repeated so often was bound to be warped and distorted by the time it reached the end of the line, and a thousand lesser rumors swarmed in the wake of the great news. On two things, however, all the stories agreed. King Farus Orboan VIII was dead, and Queen Raesinia Orboan had assumed the crown. And, practically as her first act, she had called for the convocation of the Deputies-General to be held in the Sworn Cathedral.

Beyond that, the stories broke down, depending on whether the teller tended toward manic cheer or black pessimism. That night, there seemed to be no middle ground. No one could agree on what the Last Duke was doing, but everyone was happy to say what they’d heard: Orlanko was dead, killed by Count Torahn in single combat when he’d challenged the queen. Orlanko was locked in his own cells, where he’d killed himself in shame, or was being tortured with his own implements. He was gone, fled to his country estates, or had left the country entirely, to live like a prince on his ill-gotten gains in Hamvelt or Viadre.

Or he was gone, all right, but only as far as the nearest Royal Army base, to return with troops who would crush the upstart queen and her backers. Worse-they weren’t even Vordanai troops, but an army of Borelgai mercenaries on the northern border and Hamveltai levies in the east, ready to break Vordan between them as they’d done in the War of the Princes. The legions of Murnsk were on the march, the uncounted horde of the holy emperor ready to destroy the Free Church stronghold once and for all.

Winter heard all these versions, and more besides. The queen had agreed to stand for election. The queen would marry Vhalnich, hero of Khandar, and give Vordan a new king. Prince Dominic had spent all the years since Vansfeldt pretending to be dead, but now he had returned to lead his people. The deputies would force the Borelgai profiteers and speculators to give up their villainous ways, and bread would be an eagle a loaf once again.

In the wake of the news came the crowds. The queen’s pronouncement had turned the riot on its head; instead of thieves and murderers, the rioters were heroes who had taken the law into their own hands after sinister interests had tried to exploit the weakness of the dying king. People who hours earlier had been barring their doors and hiding the silver now flooded into the street themselves. Half the population of the South Bank seemed to be out, in spite of the late hour, and so many people tried to join the celebration on the Island that they ended up backed up onto the Grand Span. Before long the bridge was bright with bonfires and packed from edge to edge with shouting, happy people.

The Vendre itself remained under the control of the council, guarded by the Leatherbacks and others Jane thought she could trust not to run off and join the parties. It seemed oddly quiet compared to the roar from outside, like a cemetery in the middle of a bustling city. With her errand completed, Winter did not quite know what to do with herself. In spite of her exhaustion, there was no question of sleep, not until the celebration burned itself out. She went in search of Jane, and found her closeted with the council and some of the students from the Dregs. Winter settled for catching Jane’s eye and giving her a little wave to indicate the prisoners were free, then wandered back downstairs.

The Vendre’s main door was half-open, with a couple of Docksiders keeping watch. One of the pair recognized her and stood at attention, or at least a reasonable parody thereof. Winter almost burst out laughing again, but she bit it back and snapped a textbook salute before slipping out into the courtyard.

If there had been a carnival atmosphere before, things were now positively ebullient. One reason for this quickly became obvious: Now that the fighting was done, Vordan’s merchants and vendors were taking up the challenge of supplying the crowd with all the food, and more important, all the drink, that it might be require. Bottles were everywhere, passing freely from hand to hand, and as she watched, a man pulling a handcart loaded with wine was mobbed by customers and relieved of his burden in a few minutes. He turned the cart around, pockets jingling with coin, and headed back for another load.