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.
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.