Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

It seemed as though the entire city had decided to drink itself into an oblivious stupor. In the courtyard, some of Jane’s Leatherbacks had formed a circle and were playing some kind of game, which involved a repeating chant and frequent pulls from any of several circulating bottles. Some of the girls, Winter thought, were too young for that sort of thing, but she was hardly in a position to complain. She spotted Cyte among them, dark makeup finally washed away, looking relaxed and comfortable and roaring with laughter. When she saw Winter, she beckoned her over, but Winter only shook her head and pointed out the gate, as though she had somewhere to go.

The street outside was a continuation of the same madness. Portable stoves had been hauled in, or improvised from boxes and wooden scraps, and a dozen enterprising vendors were hawking hot meals. It was far too loud for any shouts to be heard more than a few feet away, so they stood on boxes and raised what they had for sale above the heads of the crowd.

It reminded Winter of the markets of Ashe-Katarion. There she’d tasted roasted imhallyt beetle on the half shell (bitter and gooey), fried dhakar (a kind of centipede, spiced and crunchy) along with thick black bread, cornmeal cakes flavored with honey, and every conceivable product that could be made from any part of a dead sheep. The thought made her stomach rumble, but what was on offer felt strangely alien. Staring at the steaming sugar chestnuts, pork buns, and sizzling bacon sandwiches, she felt a pang of homesickness. Not for Ashe-Katarion, exactly, but for the camp outside it, for stale crackers and “army stew.”

She felt as though she had spent half her life as a stranger among a strange people, only to return to the city of her birth and find herself a stranger there as well. In the middle of the jubilant crowd, Winter felt more alone than she had since. .

Since Fort Valor. Since Captain d’Ivoire made me a sergeant, and I met Bobby and the others. She’d been alone before that, of course, when she wasn’t being tormented by Davis and his thugs, but she hadn’t really believed there was any other way she could be. The Seventh Company had changed that. But Bobby, Feor, and the others were still at sea, far away from here.

She suddenly wanted very badly to run back into the Vendre, pull Jane out of her meeting, and stay wrapped in her arms until the tumult in her head settled down. When she was with Jane, everything was simple.

Don’t be silly, she instructed herself, sternly. Jane had been forced into quasi-leadership of this weird, leaderless coalition, and the last thing she needed was for Winter to have a breakdown and demand comfort. There’ll be time for that later. She marched over to the closest vendor and bought a paper bag of sugar chestnuts, inhaling the sweet steam and popping one into her mouth as soon as they were cool enough to stand. It was crunchy and sweet, and she had to admit that as a snack it was an improvement on centipedes.

A large group had gathered in one of the nearby squares, and Winter drifted in that direction out of curiosity. She couldn’t get close enough to get a view, but it sounded as though someone was giving a speech, and when she managed to catch a few words she realized it was Danton.

“The fourth duty of a citizen,” he was saying, “is to at all times keep in mind the condition of the implements of labor given into his care-the land and its improvements, the seed stock and herds, the tools of his trade, and everything else that tends to the increase of his prosperity. It is his duty to his country to maintain and improve these tools, both for the sake of his own descendents and so that the nation as a whole shall progress toward a greater prosperity in accordance with God’s design. However, this duty shall not conflict with the first, second, or third duties, and a citizen shall not. .”

There was more in that vein, a great deal more. Winter wasn’t sure she could have struggled through more than a page if it had been laid out in text. In Danton’s great, booming voice, it had a certain ring to it, but it was still not exactly passionate stuff. And yet the crowd all around Winter showed every sign of being enthralled, standing in total silence so as not to miss a word of the great man’s explanation of why, for example, potatoes were a superior crop to turnips and encouraging their growth was in the national interest.

Probably at this point he could be reading out of a dictionary and people would stand at rapt attention. Danton was certainly capable of a good turn of phrase-his speech to the prisoners on the night the Vendre had fallen had been stirring, even to Winter-but he clearly had not exerted his rhetorical talents here. She wondered idly which was the real Danton, the man of action beloved by the crowd or this intellectual with his obsession with potatoes.

Something tingled at the base of her spine. The Infernivore was restless, like an anxious child rolling over in its sleep. Ever since her near contact with Raesinia had roused the thing, she’d been more aware of its moods. Danton, apparently, made it nervous, and Winter slipped away from the crowd and back toward the prison.

Raesinia . Winter had wanted to get a message to Janus about her, telling him about the Infernivore’s strange reaction, but the girl had been assassinated before she had a chance. According to those who’d been on the parapet, she’d been shot in the head by a Concordat spy, who had subsequently fallen to his own demise on the rocks below. After what she’d seen from Jen Alhundt in the Desoltai temple, Winter wondered if there wasn’t more to it than that. If Raesinia really was some kind of wild talent, maybe the Black Priests sent someone to eliminate her. She decided she would have to tell Janus after all, if they ever had the chance to meet in private.

Behind her, Danton droned on. Ahead were the walls of the Vendre, where Jane would still be engaged in oh-so-important business. In between, the street was full of happy people, drinking toasts, singing traditional café songs, and even gathering round for impromptu dances. Someone had hauled out a fiddle and was playing it with more enthusiasm than skill, which suited the caliber of the singers perfectly.

Winter popped the last of the chestnuts into her mouth, balled up the bag, and wandered.

RAESINIA

At the door of Lady Farnese’s Cottage, now surrounded by Janus’ red-and-blue-uniformed guardsmen, Raesinia turned to address the small horde of servants and courtiers who had followed her from the palace proper. She took a deep breath, or tried to. The mourning dress was simple by court standards, but still uncomfortably stiff.

“I need to speak to Count Mieran on a number of important matters,” she said. “I must ask you all to excuse me.”

She jerked her head at Sothe, who stepped up to her side. Janus opened the front door, and a cordon of Mierantai stepped between the new queen and her followers. A babble of protest rose immediately, and Raesinia turned again.

“My lords, please. There will be time later for formalities, but the affairs of state will not wait. I thank you all for your concern.”

Once she was inside, with the door shut behind her, she let out a sigh. Is the rest of my life going to be like this? It seemed depressingly likely.

“I’m sorry to impose on Your Majesty by asking you to come here,” Janus said. “But I imagine you are no more eager to have our conversation reported to His Grace than I am.”

“You think we’re safe here?” Raesinia looked around. No guards or servants were in evidence, but that didn’t mean much. Ohnlei was a labyrinth full of hidden doors and back corridors, ideal for eavesdroppers.