OM HARTEN WATCHED FROM THE BACK OF THE CROWD of desperate men and women from Lean-to as Tradewind pulled into port with its sails whuffling in the wind from the ocean, his arms crossed over his chest. Men in the rigging and on the deck of the ship called to those on the docks as the trade ship dropped anchor in the bay. With a sharp command from Sartori’s men, boats were dispatched from the docks. The Tradewind’s hull was too deep for it to draw up to the docks themselves. Tom knew that Sartori intended for the bay to be dug eventually, deepened so that the ships with larger hulls could be berthed at the wharf, but for now, anything that sat too low in the water remained out in the channel between Portstown and the Strand.
At the thought of Sartori, Tom’s eyes skipped over the boats rowing out to meet the Tradewind and picked the pampered, primped, and vested Proprietor out of the throngs of dockworkers, tradesmen, and Armory that lined the wharf. He stood at the end of the longest dock, surrounded by his first son, Sedric, two of the more prominent merchantmen of Portstown, servants, and a few of the Armory guardsmen. Sartori spoke to the merchants, but they were far too distant for Tom to pick out any words, even without the gusting wind blowing in his face.
The rest of the Armory were arranged around the edges of the wharf and were even now casting black looks in the direction of Tom and the rest of those from Lean-to, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords or the handles of their pikes.
“There’s more Armory on guard today than usual,” Sam said as he and Paul sidled up to Tom on the right.
Without taking his eyes off the guardsmen, Tom answered, “This is more than just a trade ship bearing supplies. Something else is going on.”
“What?” Paul asked.
Tom shrugged. “If I knew, I’d have warned everyone to stay away from the wharf. The Armory doesn’t look like they’re in a forgiving mood.”
Sam shifted nervously, picking up on Tom’s unease. “What could warrant such a heavy guard?”
“I don’t think it’s a what, but a who.” Tom motioned toward Sartori with his chin. “Sartori is here in person, along with his son and two of the merchantmen. I think they’re waiting to meet someone.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “One of the nobility? One of the significant Family members, rather than the offshoots we’ve been getting around here all summer?”
“Perhaps.” The thought sent a chill through Tom’s skin and he shivered. “Where’s Shay?” he said suddenly, voice sharp.
“Over there, closer to the main dock.”
Tom craned his neck to peer over the restless crowd, catching sight of Shay. He was surrounded by other members of Lean-to . . . but not those from the guilds. These were men from the prison ships, the ruffians and troublemakers who hadn’t made an effort to fit into Portstown, their faces scarred, unshaven, their clothes worn and tattered. Shay watched the dock and the boats like a hawk, eyes narrowed, his expression black. Everyone around him fidgeted uneasily, glancing sharply left and right, taking in the guardsmen. Tom scanned the rest of the restless crowd and realized it was mostly composed of men like those near Shay. Angry men. Dangerous men.
Like Shay himself, he suddenly realized.
He frowned, turned to catch Paul and Sam’s gazes. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
Out in the bay, boats had been lowered from the Tradewind, men dropping down to where they rocked in the waves. They broke away, oars plying the waves, and passed the boats that Sartori had sent out for the cargo.
As the lead boat drew nearer, Tom’s eyes narrowed. Someone in a blood red vest and a white wig sat in the middle of the boat. Two much younger gentlemen sat beside him, in brown vests.
“Who is he?” Paul asked.
“One of the West Wind Trading Company’s men, based on the color of his vest. Not one of the nobility, but close enough to be within spitting distance.” He resisted the urge to actually spit to the side with difficulty. Ana had been after him about it lately. Colin had picked up the habit.
He couldn’t help a small smile. Then he nodded to the left. “Let’s move closer to the main dock. I want to see this trader.”
And he wanted to be closer to Shay and his men.
They stepped out of the main throng of people, now pushing forward as the boat carrying the Company representative reached the dock. Men helped him up from the boat itself, and hands were shaken, introductions made.
When they turned, Sartori motioning for the tradesman to accompany him down the dock, the people of Lean-to surged forward.
“Sartori! Proprietor! We need work! We need food!”
“Please, sir!” a woman cried. “I need to feed my children!”
“Let us help unload the ship!”
Sartori frowned but otherwise ignored everyone. As he neared the end of the dock, he motioned to the Armory men, who pushed forward, those gathered pushing back. As Tom, Paul, and Sam skirted the outer edges, coming up behind the group near Shay and his men, Tom realized he could smell the desperation of the crowd, rank like old sweat, and thicker than usual.
“Fall back!” one of the guardsmen bellowed. “Fall back and let the Proprietor through!”
When no one moved, when the group pushed forward even further instead, the guard growled, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. The rest of the Armory closed in, shoving the people back roughly. A woman cried out, and Tom tensed. More people began pressing in from behind, bodies crushing against him, pushing him forward. He fought back, struggled to keep room between himself and the men in front of him, to keep Shay in sight.
“You have no right!” a man bellowed—one of Shay’s men—his voice pleading, cracking with wildness, with an ugliness that began to infect the crowd. “We’re people of Andover, we’re from Families of the Court! You can’t do this to us!”
Sartori had reached the edge of the crowd. “Arten!”
The commander of the Armory unit, grappling with two men trying to push forward simultaneously, barked, “Yes, sir.”
“I want this wharf cleared. Now.”
“Very well, sir.” Broad of shoulder, with a face etched with three long visible scars, Arten shoved the men before him back, hard, the two stumbling into those behind them with startled outcries. They were caught by the crowd, but the Armory commander didn’t wait for the angry reaction that would follow.
He drew his sword, raised the blade above his head, and signaled the pikemen forward.
A cold dagger of fear sliced down into Tom’s core, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.
“Diermani’s balls,” Paul gasped. “ This is getting out of control.”
And then Sam’s hand latched onto Tom’s arm. “Tom! Shay and his men!”
Tom’s gaze snapped toward Shay, toward the large group of men who had shoved their way to the front of the crowd and were now standing at the edge of the wharf, directly in front of the leading Armory guardsmen. A wide swath of empty space stood between those from Lean-to and the cluster of Armory now surrounding Sartori, his son, and the tradesmen and assistants, a space defined by the pikemen and the reach of their pikes, the Armory tightening ranks. He saw Shay motion to men on the other side of Sartori, the Proprietor standing obliviously, arrogantly, behind Arten. He saw Shay’s men beginning to surge forward—
And he saw the knife Shay held in one hand, the blades all of his men wielded.
He leaped forward, roared, “No!” but his voice was drowned out in the sudden uproar from the mob. Women screamed, men bellowed in wordless defiance, and Arten and the Armory men shifted stance with a stamp of boots on the wooden planks of the wharf, forming a protective wall of metal and blades around Sartori and his entourage. Pikes were lowered, the hafts settling between the shoulders of the men carrying swords. Tom fought forward, fought toward Shay, everyone in the mob trying to move in a hundred different directions at once, half retreating, half rushing toward the dock, toward the guards. Someone’s elbow caught Tom in the ribs. Someone else jabbed him in the small of the
back. Sam struggled to his right, the bulkier Paul beside him, his face suffused a startling red with anger.
Then the crowd heaved, like a swell on the ocean, everyone rolling to the side. Those in the front, including Shay’s men, staggered into the space between those from Lean-to and those from the Armory. One of Shay’s men, knife still at his side, stumbled—
And impaled himself on one of the pikes.
The man gasped, blood forming a bubble on his lips before it burst, speckling his chin, his shirt. A look of shock crossed over the pikeman’s face, over the two guardsmen on either side of him.
Arten’s face shuttered closed. Tom caught a flicker of horror, of regret, before all of that was smothered by a horrid resignation.
Tom stilled, breathed in the scent of blood mixed with the salt of the ocean, could almost taste it.
Shay’s man raised a shaking hand to the shaft jutting out of his chest, to the blood that had begun to soak into his shirt. He looked up at the guardsman who held the pike, eyes pleading, almost confused.
Then he sagged forward, the knife he held in his other hand dropping to the ground beside him, his knees giving way. He fell forward until his knees hit the ground, bearing the pike down with him, then halted, the pike itself holding him upright.
Except for the blood, for the blade jutting out from his back, he could have been praying.
Everyone stilled, breaths drawn and held. Tom used the moment of hesitation to grab the men in front of him by the shoulders and haul them back, stepping into the space between them, sliding forward to within a few paces of Shay, the man’s face red with rage.
Then the moment of stillness broke.
In a single heartbeat, the space between Shay’s men and the Armory closed, Shay bellowing, “For the Avezzano! For the Family!” Knives slashed downward; swords were raised. The pikeman kicked the dead man’s corpse off of the end of his pike with a jerk. Blades flashed, edges now slicked with blood, and Tom felt himself pulled forward with the tide, the men Shay had seeded throughout the crowd rushing the wharf in outrage, an outrage Tom could feel prickling on his skin, an outrage that sent terror into his gut as the mob overran Sartori and his entourage, guards and all. Screams split the afternoon sunlight, wordless bellows that sounded like battle cries as all of the tensions between those from Lean-to and Portstown finally exploded.
Tom tried to shove back, to retreat, but he was thrust forward. He stumbled into the man before him. The pommel of Arten’s sword slammed into the side of the man’s neck, and he dropped. Tom staggered into his place, falling to one knee, white-hot pain searing up into his hip as his kneecap dug hard into the dirt. He hissed and jerked backward—
And found Arten’s blade trained on his throat.
He froze, muscles locking. His heart halted in his chest for one breath, two, resumed with a shuddering pain. His gaze latched onto Arten’s. In their hazel depths, he saw cold, calculated death.
Tom raised both hands, palms outward, empty, and thought of Ana, of Colin.
“I came here for work,” he said, voice hoarse, tongue suddenly dry. He swallowed, his throat making a harsh clicking noise. “Nothing more.”
The sword didn’t waver. Something flickered in Arten’s eyes, there and gone.
Then the Armory commander took a single step back, sword still level with Tom’s throat, and turned.
Weakness washed down through Tom’s legs, trembled in his arms. He lowered his hands to his knee, the riot raging around him, the man Arten had knocked unconscious so casually slumped to the ground before him. Someone shouted a command, the Armory on all sides responding, boots pounding against the wharf, but the sounds were distant, removed.
Sam appeared, knelt down by Tom’s side. “Tom, are you all right?”
Tom nodded, still shaky. “I’m fine.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
He grabbed Tom under the shoulder and hauled him into a standing position, turned and reached behind him to catch Paul’s attention. Paul held a knife at the ready with one hand, defensively, the other clutching his upper arm, blood seeping out between his fingers.
“I’ve got him,” Sam said over the tumult around them. “Let’s go.”
Paul nodded as Sam threw Tom’s arm over his shoulder and began shoving out of the riot. When they saw the blood staining Paul’s arm, they cursed, the rage in their faces tightening.
They broke through the back of the crowd into the streets of Portstown, near one of the mercantiles. Sam dragged Tom over to the side of the building. They leaned against the wood, gasping, men and women running away from the riot around them, a few running toward it. Three Armory guardsmen pelted past, pikes before them; Paul hid his knife behind his back until they’d gone.
Sam wiped at the sweat on his forehead with one arm. “That turned into one cursed mess.” His breath still came in heaves, but he didn’t seem to be hurt.
Tom didn’t answer. There was no need.
He was just about to shove away from the wall and head back to Lean-to when he heard Ana shout, “Tom!”
He spun and saw Ana and Karen and a small group of others, mostly women, bearing down on him.
He thought instantly of Arten, of the sword leveled at his throat. “Ana, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, not now!”
“Oh, God, Tom.” Ana charged into him so hard he grunted. His arms closed around her, and he held her a moment, tight, too tight, realized she was trembling. But then she shoved back from him, and he saw the terror in her face, her eyes darting toward the sounds of fighting. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“A riot at the wharf, between the Armory and some of the people from Lean-to.”
“Who?”
“Shay and those from the prison ships, the ones who refused to work.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders straightening, but then the terror broke through even this.
“They’ve taken him,” Karen gasped from behind her, and for the first time Tom noticed the tears that shimmered in her eyes.
Tom shook his head in confusion. “Taken who?”
“Colin,” Ana said. She clutched at him, her hands cold as they caught his, her voice unnaturally calm. “Sartori’s men have taken Colin. They’ve arrested him.”
“What? What for?”
“They said he attacked Walter,” Karen said.
Tom’s eyebrows rose, and he couldn’t quell a slash of pride, lancing up through his back.
“It’s about time,” Sam murmured.
Ana shot him a dark look, her expression going defensive and hard, the emotion beneath uglier than anything Tom had ever seen in her before. Then she turned the look on Tom. “You get Colin back, Tom Harten.” The ugliness had seeped into her voice, beneath the roughness brought on by tears, by the effort to hold them back. “Get him back, and then by Diermani’s Hand you get us the hell out of here.”
Then she turned, halted when she saw Karen, saw her tearstreaked face. Placing an arm around the girl’s shoulders, she hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head, then tugged her toward Lean-to, the others who had followed her down from their tents and huts trailing behind her.
“We’ll make certain she’s safe,” Sam said, watching them retreat, and Paul nodded agreement, his hand twisting on his knife. They could still hear the clash of weapons near the docks, the sound of metal harsh and vibrant in the sunlight.
Tom didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. The shock, the anger, the fear of what they might do to Colin while they held him, too overwhelming.
As if he understood, Sam patted him on the back, then motioned to Paul.
Tom simply stood, staring after them. He had never intended things to end this way, never intended any of this. Portstown was supposed to have been a haven, an escape from the Feud, a new beginning. And now . . .
Now, all he could hear was the hardness in Ana’s voice, the harshness. It settled around his heart like a cold, heavy hand
.
As if of its own volition, his hand rose to his chest, to the pendant that hung on a chain about his neck and rested against his skin beneath his shirt. The pendant that signified their vows, that held their mingled blood. He’d worn it so long, hidden from view as such a sacred vow should be, that he barely noticed it anymore. He’d worn it since the day he and Ana had wed in the little church in Trent, since the Patris had used Diermani’s power to bind them.
But today . . . today it felt cold.
When Sartori and his escort and Company guests finally emerged from the buildings near the docks, Tom had moved to the edge of the square, near the church. A group of Armory appeared at first, thrusting a few of the rougher members from Lean-to, including Shay, before them, their arms tied behind their backs. They led them toward the barracks. Another group emerged behind them. He watched as this group escorted Sartori and the Trade Company representative to the gates of Sartori’s estate, the Proprietor stalking through the plaza, head held high, back rigid, face suffused with fury. Sedric and the other merchants must have already broken away. Arten stood outside the gates until everyone had entered, eyes scanning the square. His gaze fell on Tom for a moment, hesitated there, a frown touching his expression, but then he motioned the soldiers in the rear—most of them wounded—toward the barracks, left a few outside on guard, and stepped through the gates. They closed behind him.
Tom felt a momentary surge of anger, but he calmed himself, his hand finding the pendant again. He couldn’t afford to do anything stupid, couldn’t afford to overreact.
Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and muttered a short prayer to Diermani, feeling the presence of the church at his back, soothing, comforting. His grip relaxed, and he sighed heavily, scrubbed at his face with one hand, and began to pace.
He waited another hour before approaching the gate. He would have waited longer, but the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, and with it his apprehension rose.
They had his son. His son.
The guards at the gate shifted before he came within twenty paces of the wall, pikes held ready. “Halt where you are,” one of them barked. “Don’t come any closer.”
Well of Sorrows Page 6
