The messenger lad watched our preparations in awe.
“Ready?” I asked, when everyone was done.
“Ready,” they all replied in unison.
I stepped forward and shoved the door open, leading my team out into the town square. “Let’s go rescue the Governor.”
Chapter Twenty
As soon as I stepped out of the door into the town square, I could feel the trouble brewing. On every side, the townsfolk of Brightwater were hurrying together toward the north gate. They moved in small groups, with no particular organization, but there was a sense of purpose in the air that made my hair stand on end.
“Come on,” I said to my companions. “Don’t draw your weapons just yet; we need to see what’s happening first.”
Jacques somewhat reluctantly sheathed his razor-sharp rapier and fell in behind us. I led the way, Veronica and Amelia at my side and Jacques a couple of steps back and to our left.
We crossed the square and followed the flow of people toward the northern end of the town. In the clear morning light, I saw that many of the villagers who were hurrying in that direction were armed. I saw several folk who, by their clothes, I guessed were miners like the ones I’d fought in the Sticks and Stones Tavern on our first night in Brightwater. I thought I caught a glimpse of Mohawk’s shriveled hair leading one cluster of unpleasant-looking fellows. He glanced in our direction but didn’t seem to see me.
Many of the other townspeople looked more respectable, and I could see more than a few of them pointing at me and my companions, nudging each other and whispering. I supposed that our fight in the tavern had given us a bit of a reputation, and the story of how we’d used our tattoos must have got around. From the admiring glances we received from a lot of the younger folk, I guessed that most people were pleased with us for beating up Mohawk and his gang. That figured. Bullies, however feared, were generally in the minority.
The lad who was guiding us seemed to notice this admiration, and he stood a little straighter as he led us across the stone-flagged square, proud of his status as messenger to us. Nice as it must be for him, I couldn’t help thinking that we were in for trouble. I’d have to get him out of the way soon.
We were halfway across the square when a sudden commotion at the north side caught our attention.
“Stop,” I said, holding up a hand. My companions stopped and closed ranks around me. The lad stopped too, instinctively drawing nearer to us.
At the far side of the square, a knot of people emerged from the shadowy tangle of streets. Leading them, in a tight square formation and with their pikes at the ready, came the cohort of soldiers we had seen with the Arcanist. They looked tense and grim, like men who were doing their job, but were not particularly happy about it.
In the middle of the square marched the Arcanist Maximillian. He was taller than the others, indeed, he seemed a head taller than any man I’d ever seen. Could that be part of his magic? He gazed imperiously out over the heads of the formation of soldiers as the whole group moved into the light of the town square.
Around the soldiers, muttering and shouting angrily, came a tightly packed but disorderly group of townsfolk. These seemed to be merchants and craftsmen by their clothing; they wore brighter colors and lighter shoes, not the heavy, dirty leathers of the miners. They had been jammed shoulder to shoulder into the cramped street, but as they emerged, they broke up, spreading out among the many townsfolk who had, like us, stopped in the square to watch the spectacle. Their angry murmur was picked up by the rest of the people in the square, rising to a threatening rumble.
“There’s at least a hundred people here, maybe more,” said Jacques. “And all armed.”
He was right. From pitchforks and cudgels to swords, spears, and shields, nearly everyone in the square bore some kind of weapon. Some even wore some bits and pieces of armor—a helmet here, a breastplate there, gauntlets, greaves, shin guards, a skirt of chainmail.
“Even so,” I muttered, “I don’t fancy their chances against the Arcanist’s soldiers. Even outnumbered ten to one I think those men could do some serious damage. What’s that they’re protecting in the center?”
In the middle of their square formation, their Captain stood tense next to the red-robed figure of the Arcanist. The Captain was gripping something—a man, I suddenly realized. A man doubled over with his arms wrenched up behind his back. A well-dressed, paunchy, bald-headed man, with a golden chain of office hanging askew from his neck.
The Governor.
“That’s him,” said Jacques, answering my question. “That’s Governor Arnold.”
The soldiers held formation and broke into a quick trot, moving away from the buildings toward the center of the town square. Then, at a word from the Captain, they stopped, broke formation, and reordered themselves into two rows behind the Arcanist, the Captain, and the prisoner.
The whole square was deathly quiet. Arcanist Maximillian swept the crowd with his steely gaze, and for the first time, he noticed me and my companions. His gaze snagged on us, and he frowned. Then, he raised up his hand and began to declaim in a loud voice which rang off the walls and stones of the town square.
“People of Brighwater! This man, Governor Arnold, has been found guilty of corruption, bribe-taking, and tax evasion. I have been dispatched to this town to seek him out, and to enact the King’s justice! The penalty for his crimes is death! By royal command, I shall carry out the sentence!”
Nearly the whole crowd immediately cried out in protest, but there was one group who conspicuously did not. This was the group I’d observed earlier, the group led by Mohawk and his cronies. They stood near the soldiers, perhaps twenty brawny miners armed
