He’s waiting for reinforcements, Winter realized. This operation was obviously an emergency measure, hence the hastily recruited Special Branch mercenaries. Sooner or later more of the Last Duke’s men would be along to take the prisoners in hand. Or maybe not. Janus said help was coming. And if Jane has heard about what’s happened. .
Winter glanced back at Danton and shook her head. We have to do the best we can with the cards we’ve got. She crept back to the doorway. Cora was whispering urgently in Danton’s ear, and he nodded occasionally to show that he was listening. Cyte, standing behind them, still looked disapproving. The girls were waiting in the corridor, clustered around Becks, who had apparently earned some kind of legendary status by nearly losing her head to a Concordat swordsman.
“Something wrong?” Winter said to Cora.
“Some last-minute advice,” the girl said. “To suit the text to the circumstances.”
“Is he ready, then?”
Danton bobbed his head happily. “I’ve got it.”
“Go ahead, then. They’re waiting.” He shuffled past, and Winter caught Cyte’s eye. “If they start shooting, help me drag him back into the corridor.”
Cyte nodded, grimly. Winter, the Infernivore’s hunger tingling in her fingertips, watched Danton walk onto the gallery. A change came over him as the crowd came into view-he stood up straighter, his gait became more confident, and he strode over to the rail and took hold of it with casual confidence. Before anyone below noticed he was there, he started to speak.
Winter had been afraid he’d begin his address with a bellow that would draw pistol fire from the soldiers, but Danton surprised her. His voice started nearer to a whisper, but a whisper that somehow echoed from the vaulted ceiling and cut through the low murmur of the Concordat scribes going about their work. Winter saw people look around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, and by the time they saw Danton he had already hit his stride.
“-the gathered representatives of the nation, assembled in the light of hope, are here to discover if the great issues of our time can be resolved, not through royal fiat or the horror of war, but rather by men of good sense coming together in friendship to discuss the things which divide them-”
There were some good turns of phrase there, and Winter-watching with new appreciation-wondered who had written them for the orator. He was pleasant, reasonable, somehow both unremarkable and spectacular. What he said was convincing, not because it was him saying it, but because it just made such good sense.
And yet. .
At first Winter thought it wasn’t working. He was good, but not that good. It was hard to believe that this was the Danton who had sparked all the trouble. She had a moment of panic, wondering if his magic had somehow failed.
Then she took in the slack-jawed expressions on the faces of Cyte and Cora beside her. The hall below had gone absolutely silent, every face turned up toward the gallery with wide, staring eyes. Danton’s voice rose, his stentorian baritone ringing through the chamber. His hands came up, punctuating his address with sweeping, slashing gestures, as he moved from the high purpose of the assembly to the strength of the forces that would inevitably oppose it.
“They will slander us, they will bribe us, they will crush us underfoot and blast us with cannon,” Danton boomed. “The corrupt forces that have infiltrated the state will bring against us every instrument at their disposal. But I am not afraid. Let them come! It only shows that we are what they fear, the people united to drive them from their filthy pits and into the unforgiving light of day-”
It’s just me, Winter realized. The tingling feeling had spread from her hands throughout her body, as though all her limbs had fallen asleep and had pins and needles. She wondered if it was the Infernivore actively protecting her, or if its mere presence made her immune to the spell Danton wove with his voice. For one absurd moment, it made her feel left out, envious of whatever profound emotion everyone else was clearly in the grip of. She felt, suddenly, very alone.
But not entirely alone. Someone was moving, down among the sea of frozen faces. The Special Branch thugs had put their pistols away or simply let them fall, and stood side by side with their erstwhile prisoners, trapped like flies in amber by the power of Danton’s voice. Even Brack and the other black-coats didn’t seem to be able to move. But one man walked freely, threading his way through the mob toward the altar. He wore a full-length robe with long sleeves, but instead of the gray of a Free Priest or even the pure white of the Sworn preacher, he was in black from head to heel. His face was obscured by a black, faceted mask, which sparkled like glass in the light from the braziers.
Winter shot to her feet. “Look out!”
No one heard, of course. Not the enthralled people down below; not Danton, who seemed oblivious; and certainly not the man in black. His hand came out of his sleeve, holding a pistol.
“Ahdon ivahnt vi, Ignahta Sempria. In the name of God and Karis the Savior, we stand against the darkness.”
Danton had reached his peroration. “We will fight them,” he promised. “I will not let those who died at the Vendre have sacrificed in vain. I will lay my life down alongside theirs, in the name of Vordan and the queen, and I know that every one of you would do the same! If our determination remains unbroken, then we can never-”
Winter fumbled for her own pistol. But, of course, she hadn’t thought to reload it when she had the chance.
The masked figure fired. Danton halted in midsentence, as the boom of the pistol echoed around the hall. The orator brought one hand to his chest and held it up, slick with blood. His face went slack, and he looked at Winter and Cora with a frown.
“I don’t understand,” he said, and toppled backward.
Smoke rose from the barrel of the masked man’s pistol. He tossed it aside, turned to face the crowd, and spread his hands as if in benediction.
The mob went mad.
MARCUS
Marcus had never thought to find himself in the royal carriage of the king of Vordan. It was as opulent as he’d expected, but all the cushions and velvet couldn’t manage to disguise the fact that it was, basically, a box on wheels, not that far removed from the meanest hired cab. He felt oddly disappointed.
It was certainly roomy, but it wasn’t far into the journey when Marcus started to feel that it wasn’t big enough. He sat on the backward-facing bench, sinking into the thick cushions, and Janus sat beside him. Opposite them, prim in her black mourning dress, was the young queen. Apart from an exchange of courtesies when they’d mounted, none of the three had said a word.
The carriage proceeded down the Ohnlei Road toward the city at an unhurried pace. Spread out in front and flanking it on either side were Janus’ Mierantai Volunteers, followed by a tighter wedge of Armsmen. The Mierantai driver kept the horses to a walk to allow these escorts to keep pace.
Marcus had questions for Janus, but hesitated to ask them in front of Raesinia. After a few minutes, however, he decided anything would be better than more tense silence. He leaned toward the colonel and cleared his throat.
“Hmm?” Janus looked up. “Is something wrong, Captain?”