“Praying is always good,” the reverend said. “I will look to the children.” He glanced to the brother, still insensate on the floor. “Watch over Brother Mergolliet, please. He . . . he does not understand what today is.”
“What is today?” Delmin asked.
“The worst day,” the reverend said. “For so many of us.”
“This is how I see it,” Sender said, lighting his pipe while standing on the walkway outside Grandma’s North Seleth flop. Bell had fled Dentonhill and had been crashing at Grandma’s with his cousin Sender for the past week, and they knew she would kick them to the street after the holiday. He and Sender didn’t push it, so they had been making a habit of slipping outside for a smoke, and whatever it was that shook the whole building was a good excuse to step outside. Bell had been enjoying spending time with family. Sender was good people, even if he insisted on staying out in westtown. “You’re on the outs with Fenmere. My crew is almost all in the wind. The time is ripe for us.”
“For us to what?” Bell asked.
“I got a few muscle boys who are still loyal to me. Access to a couple warehouses with merch. You must have a few guys. Some knowledge of buyers, of movers?”
“Yeah,” Bell said, though he struggled to think of who, exactly.
“Between the two of us, we build something. Maybe not here, definitely not in Dentonhill, but maybe if we go deep westtown, where there’s no real bosses?”
“And no real money.”
“Maybe. But maybe being the kings of the Old Quarry is better than in the gutters here.”
“I don’t—” was all Bell managed to say when some blighter tackled him to the ground. Bell didn’t even know what was going on, just suddenly had this bastard pinning him to the ground, about to drive a knife in his neck. Bell managed to grab hold of the guy’s wrist, keep the knife away. He looked up to Sender, but he was just as busy—two of them holding him against the wall as he struggled to avoid getting stabbed.
Then one of the blighters on Sender went flying. A rope suddenly wrapped around the neck of the other one, and he was yanked off of Sender, followed by the satisfying crack of wood on bone. Two more of those hits came, and the robed blighter on top of Bell slumped over.
A hand grabbed Bell’s and pulled him to his feet.
He was face to face with the Thorn. Or his shaded mask of a face. Bell instinctively let go of his hand and stumbled back. This bastard, this kid, he had been the cause of all of Bell’s troubles. The arrow in his leg, the loss of his position with Fenmere, the near exile from Dentonhill . . . it all stemmed from the Thorn. Bell’s hand balled into a fist, ready to strike him in that smug smirk on his face.
“Get off the street,” the Thorn said. “Get in and lock the door.”
“How dare—” Bell started.
In a blink, the Thorn drew his bow and fired an arrow that buzzed past Bell. He turned and saw the arrow found its mark in a creature—like a bear and a man put together—that had been charging down the street. Bell couldn’t even believe it was real, except there it was, dying a few feet from him.
The Thorn had just saved him. Twice.
“Really, get out of here. It isn’t safe.” He leaped up onto one of the street lamps, and from there to a second-floor windowsill.
“Thorn, what the blazes is this?” Bell asked.
“The worst thing I’ve ever seen,” the Thorn said from the windowsill. “But I couldn’t have them killing my favorite.”
“Where’s this coming from?” Sender asked.
“Saint Bridget’s,” the Thorn said. “If you want to make yourself useful, run for the constables.” He flung out his rope to an outcropping on the roof across the street. “Saints all know we’ll need them.” With that, he leaped off and was gone.
“Gran, lock the door ’til we get back,” Sender yelled into the flop. He shut the door. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Bell asked. “To get the sticks?”
“I don’t know,” Sender said. “All I know is that guy has every reason to put arrows in the both of us, and instead he saved us.” He gestured to the insensate men in robes, the dead bear-man. “Whatever this is, it scares him, and it’s happening where I live. So, let’s go.”
Bell scowled. “I think the nearest stick house is in Keller. We better get running.”
Amaya was surprised how much of a fight Grandmaster Orren had brought. Of course, he had been a Tarian for decades, training the people who trained the people who trained her. But at his age, she did not expect him to be as strong, fast, and nimble as he was. He had been able to cross the stage and keep Amaya from driving her sword through Colonel Altarn’s heart.
“Why, sir?” she demanded, pushing her offensive on him. He might have skill on her, but there was no way she couldn’t beat him on endurance. If she had all the time, she could hold him back until he tired, and then subdue him.
But she didn’t have that kind of time.
She had no idea how powerful a mage Colonel Altarn was, but assumed she was only briefly dazed from the shield blow. She would recover shortly. She would bring her power to bear. Amaya had only moments.
“You wouldn’t question me if you knew,” he said, parrying her blows with casual ease. “I’ve done what anyone would do in my place.”
“Not Master Denbar,” Amaya said, feinting low and then swiping at his right side. Get him to dodge left. Move away from Altarn.
“I wish he had understood,” Orren said. “I wish you did.”
“I will never,” she said. He had left an opening, and Amaya leaped, driving her boot onto Altarn’s chest. That kept her down, but Orren was able to land a swipe that sliced through Amaya’s
