Well of Sorrows (43 page)

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Authors: Benjamin Tate

BOOK: Well of Sorrows
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Colin thought about the group of guardsmen he’d seen emerge from the walled manse, headed toward the wharf.
“Is Aer—Lord Aeren among them?”
The boy shrugged in irritation. “Could be, could be not. Not likely to come here.” Then he tucked one hand beneath his arm and held out the other expectantly, eyes wide.
Colin grunted and handed over the coin, and the boy was gone in the blink of an eye. He turned his attention back to the storyteller, but the crowd had tired of histories and were rowdily demanding a ribald song of mirth and mayhem, so he began to eat.
“Aeren,” he murmured, letting the bursts of laughter from the other patrons roll over him as he thought about the plains, about the Alvritshai he’d met so long ago. He might have written the boy’s story off as nonsense—a grandfather’s interpretation of the battle, told to impress his grandson—except he’d seen the slightly contemptuous faces of the other men in the tavern. The older men, the ones with scars on their faces and the habits of fighting men, their movements careful, stances too casual, even here, relaxed with drink. Those around the hearth were younger, quick to judge and eager to accept.
He wondered if the Aeren from the tale was the same Aeren he’d met so long ago on the plains.
There was one way to find out.
 
Colin eased a little closer to the main thoroughfare where the delegation from the Alvritshai was rumored to pass on their way to their ship at the harbor. He’d missed the initial procession to the Governor’s estate, the manse he’d seen from the ridge when he’d first viewed the city, and no one from the delegation had been spotted outside the walls of the estate since.
A wise decision, Colin thought, glancing around at those gathered on both sides of the street. Most had come to gawk at the foreigners, at their strange skin and wild clothes, some with their children in tow. “Careful of their eyes,” an old man in the alley next to Colin hissed. “If they catch your gaze, they’ll suck out your soul!”
A middle-aged woman scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They just hold you with their eyes; it’s the knife to the gut when you can’t move that takes your soul!”
Colin’s brow creased in irritation. He pushed his staff forward between two younger men—their faces taut and angry, arms crossed over their chests—and slid in between them. He now stood at the mouth of the side street, barely more than an alley, but it was enough for him to see down the thoroughfare if he craned his neck. He hadn’t managed to find out from the citizens of Portstown if Lord Aeren was part of the group; they only knew it was an Alvritshai delegation, come to see the Governor to discuss trade agreements.
Colin settled back slightly. Provinces, Governors, and Kings. He’d learned enough in the past few hours to know that shortly after the wagon group had headed east—within a year if he’d pieced all of the information together correctly—outright war had broken out in Andover, the Feud over the Rose and its powers coming to a head, and the Proprietors of the colonies had been drawn into it. But by then the refugees from the war had grown desperate. Small groups had risen up against the Proprietors, groups like those in Lean-to, led by men like Shay and Karl and composed mostly of criminals and political dissidents, only with four or five times the number of members by then. The Court thought they could crush the rebellions. But the war for the Rose had sapped their resources. The Proprietors found themselves abandoned, the Court’s attention completely on their own lands in Andover, on preserving their standing in the Court itself while still pursuing their bid for the Rose.
The “minor” rebellions became a full- fledged revolution. The Proprietors attempted to pull together to defend their lands, but they’d allowed too many refugees into their towns. And this time the dissidents and rabble- rousers had the support of the laborers and craftsmen and merchants. The Proprietors had counted on their Armory to protect them, but in the end . . .
In the end, the Armory wasn’t as loyal as the Proprietors believed.
The Proprietors fell, or vanished. No one knew what had happened to Sartori, which Colin found . . . disappointing. He could go back and find out,
sink
back, but he satisfied himself with knowing that he’d been removed, most likely killed by Karl and the men who’d led the revolt.
Ahead, on the thoroughfare, a ripple passed through the crowd. Colin straightened, pushing away from the stone of the building at his back. He would have stepped forward, but the two men he’d passed to reach the position pressed forward instead, shoving people aside, their faces intent. They kept their attention on the street, where the crowd had begun to sigh with passing whispers of awe and wonder, but they pushed farther down the block, joining two other men at the next corner.
Colin frowned as he saw something pass from one of the men’s hands to another, something narrow and thin.
The crowd ahead parted as the Legion forced a path through the center of the street. The guardsmen were there to hold the press of people back, except that as the horses of the delegation appeared, those in the crowd, full of whispers and murmurs a moment before, fell silent and withdrew. Not in fear, but respect. It left the members of the Legion uncomfortable, alone in the space between the citizens of Portstown and the delegation itself. Their hands fell to the hilts of their swords for reassurance, their eyes on the crowd, flicking from face to face.
When the delegation came into full view, Colin caught his breath.
These were not the Alvritshai he remembered from the plains. Aeren and his escort had been rough, deadly, exotic, but practical. He remembered their intensity, their curiosity, and their profound respect for the people in the wagon train.
These Alvritshai were also intense. But they radiated a stiff formality and an intangible aloofness. The rough practical clothing from the plains had been replaced with soft, colorful silks sewn with severe lines, emphasizing the Alvritshai’s angular features, their tense postures, heads held high, eyes gazing down from the elevated height of their mounts. The expressions on the guardsmen in front were close to sneers, mouths drawn down in distaste, and they kept their eyes forward, not deigning to look to either side. Colin thought of what the old man and woman had said about their eyes and wondered if the Alvritshai knew what the common people thought—
But then he saw the Alvritshai lords the guardsmen protected.
Colin let his held breath out with a sigh, felt his heart falter with relief.
It was Aeren. Older than on the plains, taller and hardened somehow, more mature, but not as old as Colin had expected, not as worn. He kept his eyes forward as well, not looking to either side, but his expression was set, registering neither distaste nor scorn. It was merely . . . regretful, as if he were enduring what must be endured. He was dressed in a deep blue tunic, slashed along the torso, with a vibrant red fabric beneath. He wore the same band of gold on his forearm Colin remembered from the plains, although it couldn’t be the same one. This one appeared larger and contained more writing.
Another lord rode next to him, dressed in a warm maroon with gold accents—buttons and braided cords. Behind the two lords rode personal guardsmen, and with a start Colin recognized Eraeth. The guardsman had aged more than Aeren, with new scars on his face. But if Aeren had been at the battle the storyteller had related at the Hangman’s Noose, then no doubt Eraeth had been there as well.
But it was Aeren who caught Colin’s attention, who held it. Because since he’d left the forest, he had found nothing familiar, aside from the church. That lack had settled into his bones, an ache that he hadn’t even recognized until he saw the Alvritshai lord.
He stepped forward, only half aware of what he’d done, not certain what he intended to do—
And out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement, motion where the crowd should have been still.
It happened fast. The four men Colin had noticed earlier broke through the edge of the crowd. He heard one of them bellow, “Traitorous bastards!” saw the flicker of knives, the deadlier glint of sunlight on a crossbow—a bolt, the slim shaft he’d seen being passed from hand to hand had been a crossbow bolt—and then the snick of the release, the bolt flying too fast for the eye to see.
Someone in the Alvritshai entourage roared, a sound of shock and pain and rage. The thick scent of blood punched through the stench of sea salt, sweat, and smoke from the city.
The crowd broke, screams rising, the Alvritshai Phalanx a flicker of fluid movement, no longer aloof, no longer pretentious, the Legion sent to protect them hesitating. Aeren and those in the Alvritshai party were lost from sight as the Alvritshai pulled the lords from their horses and surrounded them, but he could see the four men as they charged the Alvritshai line. They launched themselves into defending Alvritshai guardsmen as the Legion reacted, but slowly, almost leisurely. Another crossbow bolt sped into the fray, and an Alvritshai guardsman fell. The three men with knives clawed at the edges of the wall of bodies surrounding the lords, too close for the Alvritshai to draw their long, thin blades.
And then an Alvritshai guard pulled a dagger and stabbed it deep into the side of one of the attacking men. The man reared back, his scream setting the hairs on Colin’s arms on end. With a vicious twist, the Alvritshai withdrew the blade, blood flying, and as the body fell, the leader of the attacking group swore in frustration.
As if it were an order, the attackers broke off and fled, two heading toward the street one block away, the other bolting down the thoroughfare in the opposite direction.
Colin hesitated a moment—enough to see that the Legion hadn’t yet moved to follow, the men looking to their commander; enough to see that the Alvritshai were focused on protecting the lords—
And then Colin spun, dodged into the street at his back that ran parallel to the one the attackers had taken. Rage burned in his lungs, lay thick on his tongue. The Legion had expected the attack, had barely moved to halt it, and were now allowing the culprits to escape. They
intended
to let the men escape.
But Colin could still smell the blood. Possibly Aeren’s blood. He hadn’t seen Aeren fall, couldn’t tell who within the group had been struck, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen the expression on the Legion commander’s face, the same expression he’d seen on Walter’s face as the Proprietor’s son beat him senseless in the dirt streets of Portstown, the same expression he’d seen on Sartori’s face when the Proprietor blackmailed his father into accepting the lead role in the expedition east: a grim satisfaction and the knowledge that there would be no consequences.
Colin shoved forward through the fleeing people,
pushing
, aware that the crowd moved too slowly as he rounded the corner and cut left onto the cross street, rage driving him. He burst into the next intersection, turned to see the two fleeing men charging toward him, also moving slowly, too slowly, as if they were running through mud. Colin ground to a halt, felt a familiar pressure shove him from behind, and staggered as the world settled . . .
And realized everyone hadn’t been moving slowly. No. The entire
world
had slowed.
He’d
slowed it, reached out without thought and forced it to slow in order to get to the intersection ahead of the attackers.
The implications of what he’d done stunned him. But there was no time for thought. The two men were almost on him, shock registering on their faces a moment before Colin’s staff lashed out. He drove it hard into the leader’s groin, and the man folded over with a strangled grunt; then he pulled it back and pivoted the other end so it connected with the second man’s head.
They fell like sacks of potatoes, the leader groaning, curled into a tight ball. The other simply crumpled, unconscious, his knife striking the cobbles with a brittle clang.
Colin drew up straight, gasping, his heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his neck, rage tingling along his arms. He wiped sweat from his face, coughed as he tried to swallow and breathe at the same time, then leaned heavily on his staff. A few stragglers from the crowd streamed past on either side, giving Colin and the bodies a wide berth, but he ignored their sharp gestures and fierce whispers.
At the end of the street, where it intersected with the thoroughfare, members of the Alvritshai Phalanx suddenly appeared. They poured between the buildings, swords drawn, faces black with intent, the Legion a step behind.

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