Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

A mix of exhaustion and alcohol had Winter on the verge of that herself, and her steps were heavy as she dragged herself through the Vendre’s courtyard and back to the big, half-open doors. She carried a sealed bottle in one hand, a present for Jane, who hadn’t gotten the opportunity to get out and enjoy herself. The only question, Winter thought muzzily, was whether she would manage to deliver it before she collapsed into some corner. The chamber Jane had taken over had a bed, she seemed to recall. That would be. . convenient.

She was vaguely aware of passing Leatherback guards, at the main doors and again on the stairs, but they all let her through with a wave. Winter answered with a cheery lift of her bottle, trudging up to the floor where the old prison staff had had their quarters and where Jane had made her own accommodations. At the top of the steps, she took a moment to compose herself, standing where a cool breeze came in by a gun slit and trying to shake the muzziness from her head.

Maybe I should just go to bed, and find Jane in the morning. She wasn’t that drunk, but alcohol had formed a dangerous cocktail with the aftermath of too many nights without sleep and the loneliness of being by herself in the midst of the citywide revel. She felt fragile, on edge, and suspected the sight of Jane might bring her to tears. I’ll feel better in the morning.

Good sense warred for a moment with sentimentality, but sentimentality gained the upper hand. Winter shook her head, feeling the world reel slightly. I’ll just see how she’s doing. Jane’s been up all night, too. She might need someone to. . talk to.

The door to Jane’s room stood a few inches open, but there was no sound of conversation from inside. The council had apparently departed. Hell, Winter thought suddenly. She’s probably asleep by now. I’ll just poke my head in and check on her.

Wood creaked, and Winter froze, just beside the doorway. Something scraped against the floor, as though someone had pushed a chair. Listening closely, below the fading roar of the now-exhausted crowd outside, she could make out soft, quiet sounds. Quick breaths, the rustle of cloth, a faint sigh.

Jane?

She ought to have turned around, then and there. Every instinct Winter had was telling her to go back the way she’d come, to write the whole thing off as a drunken, maudlin fantasy. She fought them all and eased forward, setting the wine bottle on the floor so gently it didn’t even make a click. The gap between door and doorframe was only a few inches away, and Winter leaned toward it, hardly daring to breathe.

Someone gasped. Jane said, very quietly, “Don’t.”

“It’s been”-pause-“weeks. Seeing you every day”-pause-“and every night, I. .”

This was Abby’s voice. Winter finally got her eye against the crack in the door. She saw Jane, leaning on the big council table, her red hair damp and spiky with sweat. Abby was pressed up against her, arms wrapped around her waist. Her lips brushed a delicate trail of kisses from Jane’s collarbone up into the hollow of her neck. Jane leaned her head back, like an animal offering its throat in submission, and her hands clenched the edge of the tabletop.

“I told you,” Jane said weakly. “We can’t. I can’t.”

“I know.” Abby kissed the corner of Jane’s jaw, then her cheek. “Just for tonight, all right? Just once. Please.”

“Abby. .”

“Call the guards, if you like. Throw me in the dungeon.”

Abby kissed Jane full on the lips, and after a moment’s resistance Jane’s arms came off the table and wrapped around Abby’s shoulders. Abby’s hands roamed upward, running gently over Jane’s flanks, her fingers tangling in the hem of Jane’s shirt.

Jane moaned, very quietly, but Winter was no longer there to hear. She stalked away down the corridor, leaving her bottle by the doorway, eyes brimming with unwanted tears.

RAESINIA

For the moment, they were letting Raesinia remain in her chambers in the Prince’s Tower. Eventually, she assumed, some court stickler for protocol would probably demand that she move over to the Royal Apartments, but that would require refurnishing, and the staff of the palace was fully occupied. So many of the more cautious nobles and their retinues had departed for the country as the riots had developed that the royal household had been left with a skeleton crew, managing a building that was suddenly vastly too large for its inhabitants. The task of putting the palace in its mourning garb was big enough to occupy an army, even without considering all the changes to the lists of precedence that would be required by so many departures and the consequent adjustments to social calendars, place settings, and so on.

Raesinia was happy to leave well enough alone. Sothe was adamant that her days of sneaking out to visit the revolutionaries were over, but it was nice to know that she still had her convenient-if-painful escape route from the tower. New rooms would come with a squadron of new servants, too, with all the complicated negotiations that entailed. Here in the Prince’s Tower, Sothe ruled with an iron hand, and she had a very simple protocol-when Raesinia was present, Sothe met visitors at the door and no other menials were allowed to enter. The cleaning and laundry staff had learned to pounce on the room the moment Raesinia stepped out the door.

This morning, Sothe brought breakfast to her table, as usual, together with a stack of the morning papers. One advantage of being queen was that she could pay attention to current events more openly, without having to play the part of the brainless princess.

There was no news except the Revolution, as the papers were already starting to call it. Several woodcuts of Danton looked up at her, including a rather good profile in the Barker . The Deputies-General, scheduled to open today, had driven everyone into renewed frenzies of excitement. A more or less permanent camp of revolutionaries, centered on the occupied Vendre, was surrounded by a temporary mob whose size varied with the mood of the public. Today, Raesinia read, they occupied most of the Island, leaving only a small clear space around the cathedral in the hands of the Armsmen. The South Bank was boiling, and even the North Bank was starting to rumble, centered on the University and the Dregs.

Not all the news was good. Fresh water was becoming scarce on the Island, in spite of the best efforts of the merchants selling it at ruinous prices, so some of the gathered thousands had been reduced to drinking river water. The result was an epidemic of the bloody flux, which had already laid low hundreds and was claiming several victims a day. One paper even helpfully provided a cartoon, which showed Raesinia herself walking over the bridge to the Island in full regalia only to be met by a tidal wave of oncoming diarrhea.

In addition to disease, the prostitutes and thieves who gathered wherever there was a crowd to fleece were out in force, and with the Armsmen banished there was nothing to restrain their street feuds. Still, it looked to Raesinia as though everyone was behaving remarkably well under the circumstances, and the view of the papers seemed positive. The people believed in the deputies, which was exactly what the deputies needed in order to be effective.

The people also believed in Danton. Several papers reprinted the text of his latest speeches, beside columns calling for him to have some kind of a role in government even before the deputies had met. Or Raesinia should marry him, and make him king, so his wisdom could lead Vordan to a new golden age.

“Look at this nonsense,” Raesinia said, rattling the paper. “He’s telling everyone to stay calm, which is all well and good, but then he goes on and on about the nature of the social compact and the theory of a just monarchy. That’s Maurisk’s writing, obviously.” She turned the paper over and rolled her eyes. “It goes onto the back, in small print. He never did know when to shut up.”