She hurried back to where Cyte and the girls were waiting. Curious eyes followed her as she grabbed Cyte and dragged her away again, out of earshot of the rest.
“What?” Cyte said. “What’s going on? Was that a message from Jane?”
Winter shook her head. Impulsively, she tore a strip off the bottom of the note, removing the signature, and handed the rest to Cyte.
“Who’s this from?” Cyte said, glancing at the scrap in Winter’s palm. Winter crushed it into a ball.
“Someone I trust,” she said. I think.
“Then you really believe-”
“Yes.”
“But that’s insane. The queen invited the deputies here. It’s treason.”
“Be sure to mention that to the duke when you see him!” Winter snapped.
Cyte was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. Give me a minute.” She glanced at the pack of girls, all of whom were now watching Winter and Cyte instead of the dull proceedings on the floor. “Let’s see if we can get them out of here, to start with. Once we’re downstairs I’ll try to find Giforte. There’s Armsmen here-maybe we can organize a barricade.” And he owes me a favor.
“Okay.” Cyte blew out a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’re armed?”
Winter shook her head again. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Me, either. Saints and fucking martyrs.” Cyte swallowed hard and straightened up. “Let’s go.”
Corralling the girls and convincing them that they needed to leave-and never mind why, lest someone scream and spark a panic-took longer than Winter would have liked. They got them moving in the end, though, and nothing untoward seemed to be happening as they trooped along the unsteady gallery, past other curious onlookers.
The main stairs to the gallery were at the bend of the horseshoe, near the rear of the main hall. On the far side, at the very end of the right-hand stretch, a small walkway led to a stone door letting on to the cathedral’s warren of second- and third-floor rooms. Winter led her charges toward the stairs, letting Cyte watch the girls while she stayed a couple of strides ahead.
The stairway was a long switchback, and when they got there it was shaking under the tread of many feet. No one was descending from the gallery, though, which meant that a crowd of people was coming up. Either some big group downstairs decided they want a better view, or else-
Four men came around the switchback, standing shoulder to shoulder to block the stairway. They weren’t immediately recognizable as Concordat-no black coats or shiny insignia, just plain homespun and worn tradesmen’s overcoats-but all four wore swords, and something about their purposeful formation shouted trouble to Winter. She backpedaled up the steps, only to collide with Cyte and Molly coming in the other direction. The rest of the girls pressed them forward, still chatting obliviously.
“Back,” Winter said. “Up the stairs. Go-”
Someone down below barked an order. Each of the four drew a pistol from under his coat.
One of the girls screamed. At the same time, shouts rose from the main floor, then cut off all at once at the sharp report of a pistol.
“I am Captain Richard Brack,” boomed a voice, carrying beautifully through the high-vaulted chamber. “Of the Ministry of Information, Special Branch. And everyone in this room is under arrest!”
“Everybody on the floor!” drawled one of the four ahead of them. “All you girls, get down now!”
“Get back!” Winter shouted, pushing the screaming Becks up the stairs. The other girls needed little encouragement to flee, stairs creaking under their panicked footsteps. “Cyte! Go that way!” She gestured frantically to the right.
“I said stop!” one of the men repeated, stepping forward of the line and lowering his pistol to point directly at Winter. “We’re with the Special Branch. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Winter met his gaze, and there was a moment of contemplation. He held the pistol awkwardly, and his sword belt looked brand-new and poorly fitted. And there was something in his eyes-a bit of fear, she thought. This wasn’t one of Orlanko’s trained killers, Winter was certain. She doubted he’d ever fired the weapon he held.
Special Branch must mean the reserves. Not the regular Concordat agents, but some cadre of thugs and mercenaries summoned into service for emergencies. Men who were more used to bullying helpless civilians than to actual combat, who expected to command respect simply by virtue of having a weapon, without having to use it. .
If she’d been facing an experienced soldier, what she did next would have been suicidal. But an experienced soldier would never have stepped so close to her in the first place. Winter’s left hand shot out and grabbed the pistol around the hammer. The Special Branch man gulped and pulled the trigger, convulsively, but he’d hesitated too long, and the flint slammed down hard on the back of Winter’s hand. This hurt like hell but produced no sparks. The thug’s eyes broadened in comical surprise, and Winter brought her right hand up and delivered a hard blow to his wrist. His fingers opened automatically, and she plucked the weapon from his grasp. Before his companions realized what was happening, she reversed it, clicked the hammer back, and leveled it at his forehead. He froze.
“Fucking Beast,” one of the others said, and three other pistols swung to bear on her.
“Don’t be stupid.”
Winter stepped back, carefully maintaining her aim, and climbed toward the shaky wooden walk. She desperately wanted to look over her shoulder, but if she took her eyes off the Special Branch men, the fragile moment could shatter. Five steps? Four? Three?
“There’s no way out,” said the man whose weapon she had taken. “We’ve got the building surrounded.”
“No reason for you to get shot, then,” Winter said.
That seemed to be the general opinion. They held their aim but didn’t fire, and she kept backing up. Something creaked beneath her, and her groping foot couldn’t find the next stair, throwing her dangerously off balance. Before she could trip, though, someone caught her from behind, and she heard Cyte’s soft grunt. Winter steadied herself on the top step.
“The first head that comes up those stairs,” she said, “gets a lead ball through the ears. Got it?”
Without waiting for an answer, she ducked around the corner, dragging Cyte with her. Jane’s girls waited in a huddle against the wall. Down below on the main floor, she could see more of the Special Branch men moving through the crowd with weapons drawn.
“Come on,” Winter said, shivering all over with released tension. She gestured with the pistol at the second-floor exit. “We may be able to get out that way. There has to be a back staircase.” When none of Jane’s girls moved at once, she let a touch of army sergeant into her voice. “Move!”
Floorboards creaked behind her as the Special Branch men came up the stairs. If she fired, they’d know she was unarmed and rush her; she closed the lock on the pistol, thrust it into her waistband, and ran for it. Cyte ran beside her, and together they chivvied the girls down the length of the Widow’s Gallery like dogs herding a flock of geese.
The motion attracted some notice from the Special Branch men on the ground floor, but they had their hands full for the moment with the unruly crowd. Winter could hear several deputies competing to shout the loudest denunciation of Orlanko’s “illegal and treasonous” actions.
They’re brave, Winter thought. Stupid, but brave. Brack barked an order, and his thugs closed in around the offenders. Whatever reluctance they might have had to use their pistols did not apply to their fists, and the opposition was soon silenced.