Uhlan was consulting with a pair of red-uniformed Mierantai who’d just entered the clearing. He looked up. “We’re clear, sir. Got about thirty prisoners. Carriages are waiting in the main drive, and the sergeant commanding the Armsmen says he’s with us.”
“He’d damned well better be,” Marcus growled.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” Janus said. “On days like this, it’s never easy to know which way to jump.” He and Marcus shared a look that spoke of some shared memory, and Marcus grunted. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”
Uhlan barked orders in his harsh, nearly unintelligible dialect, and the Mierantai formed up around them. Marcus drifted back as the column set off, until he was walking beside Raesinia.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“I could have told you earlier that this might happen.” He nodded at Janus. “He insisted that I not say anything until Orlanko tipped his hand. I think he was worried you might panic. But if I’d said something, Sothe might”-he hesitated-“might not have gotten hurt. I can see she’s. . important to you.”
Raesinia nodded, walking for a moment in silence. “I can hardly blame you for following orders.”
“Still. I’m sorry.” Marcus squared his shoulders, as though facing something unpleasant. “Whatever Orlanko had planned for the deputies may have happened already. Giforte is there with as many Armsmen as I could spare, but. .”
“I know.” Raesinia was thinking of Maurisk, Cora, and Sarton. Danton, Jane, Cyte, and all the rest.
“I hope we get there in time to do some good.”
Raesinia nodded grimly. “So do I.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WINTER
In the hundred and twenty years since the Sworn Church had first been expelled from Vordan, the Sworn Cathedral had never played host to a congregation large enough to fill its echoing, vaulted hall. For years, when praying in a Sworn Church had been tantamount to being a traitor to the Crown, it had stood empty. Later, more tolerant ages had seen the Sworn Priests return, chase out some of the bats and rats who had taken up residence, and offer services to those few foreigners and die-hards who wanted them.
The War of the Princes and Borelgai proselytizing had brought a few more into the fold, but Winter was certain the gloomy old building hadn’t seen a gathering like this in living memory. The Deputies-General packed the floor of the main hall-the moldy pews had been hauled outside to clear more space-and members of delegations searching for private space had invaded the warren of rooms, damp corridors, and drafty wooden stairways behind the altar that had once housed the massive administrative staff charged with overseeing the spiritual welfare of all of Vordan.
Giforte and a band of staff-wielding Armsmen were vainly attempting to keep order, but the most they could manage was to protect the floor of the main hall-which, it had been decided, constituted the actual chamber of the Deputies-General-from being invaded by crowds from outside. Eager to get a glimpse of what was going on, the spectators had found the stairs leading up to the old Widow’s Gallery, a wooden-floored balcony that described a broad horseshoe shape around the back of the main hall, about thirty feet off the ground. Getting up took a bit of daring, since the stairways were in bad shape and the balcony itself was riddled with rotten boards, but it provided an excellent vantage point. From here, the adventurous could get a good view of the proceedings and, in spite of the best efforts of the Armsmen, throw chunks of floorboard at speakers they didn’t care for.
Those proceedings were not, in Winter’s opinion, worthy of all this attention. They had begun well enough, with the crimson-clad Sworn Bishop offering a nervous-sounding prayer, followed by a plea for fellowship and common sense from a pair of Free Priests. Once the clergy had departed, however, the wrangling over the agenda had begun. In fact, as best Winter could tell, things had not yet progressed to the point of arguing over the agenda; the deputies first needed to decide the order of precedence in which they would be allowed to offer points during the debate over the agenda, and this crucial discussion had thus far engaged the entire attention of all parties.
It was possible that this was taking an overly cynical view of matters. But in Winter’s current mood, she was inclined to see everything cynically. The spectators on the gallery sat near the edge, as far forward as they dared test the rotten boards, while Winter paced in the back, lost in shadows.
Jane and Abby obviously had. . something. Of course they did. When Winter listened to Abby talk about Jane, she could see an echo of the way she herself had felt all those years ago. Only willful ignorance had kept her from figuring it out sooner.
And, she thought, that’s for the best. It’s only to be expected, isn’t it? For all Jane knew, I was dead, or gone away never to return. Hell, I never planned to return. I wouldn’t have asked to her to spend her whole life pining away for me. And since she did find someone, how can I expect her to just drop everything the minute I come back?
All perfectly reasonable. So why is it that whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is the two of them? Jane’s face, and the little sigh she made as Abby’s lips touched her throat. Abby’s hand, sliding up her flank, pushing up her shirt.
She might have told me. Winter bit her lip. Either one of them might have told me. But that wasn’t really fair, either. Jane had made her intentions perfectly clear from the very start, and Winter had turned her down. No wonder she’s gone looking elsewhere.
Wood creaked and popped under her weight. She found herself on the left-hand side of the horseshoe, near the end, where the balcony most closely approached the altar. The steps leading up to the altar had been adopted as speaking floor, with the silver and gold double circle dangling from its long, thin chain directly behind the speaker. Someone plump and well-dressed whom Winter didn’t recognize was down there now, in the middle of what had obviously been a long address.
A small group of young women had occupied the very end of the horseshoe. Winter recognized Cyte, along with Molly and Becks from Jane’s Leatherbacks, chatting amiably and apparently no worse for wear after their brief stay in a Concordat prison. The rest were a mixed group of Jane’s girls and other young women from the South Bank who’d drifted up to have a look at the fun.
Before Winter could turn on her heel and stalk back in the other direction, Cyte noticed her and waved her over. Winter reluctantly picked her way through the chattering throng.
“Watch out for splinters,” Cyte said.
“I’m a bit more concerned with the whole thing giving out underneath us,” Winter said, sitting down carefully. “I don’t think it’s had a workout like this since the Civil War.”
Cyte laughed. Her eyes were dark, Winter noticed. Not with makeup, this time, but the wages of interrupted sleep. Her face was thinner than it had been, and more worn.
“It never fails,” Cyte said darkly. “Here come the scavengers.”
“I’m sorry.”
She indicated the fat orator, who was gesturing in the classical style and sweating profusely. “Look at him. A North Bank merchant, if I’m any judge, or maybe a banker. Never done an honest day’s work. And he wasn’t out in the streets when Orlanko turned his dogs loose. He didn’t storm the walls of the Vendre. But now he’s here, and we’ve got to listen to his self-righteous prattle.”
“The queen called the deputies to represent all of Vordan,” Becks offered. “Like it or not, that includes him and the other North Bankers.”
“At least we’re shot of the damned Borels,” another girl said. “Those are the real bloodsuckers.”