“Is that . . . from the square?” she asked.
“Remember what I said,” Ōbhin said.
“Back way,” agreed Miguil.
“Back way?” Avena muttered before she finished climbing into the carriage and closed the door firmly. “We have sick people needing tending.”
She sat down on the horse-hair stuffed seat, her back straight. She became aware of the binder strapped to her calf hidden by her skirt and petticoats. A cold weight settled in her stomach as the carriage trotted forward. The clatter of the wagon, with the three sick, rattled behind them.
“Should they be shouting so loud?” she asked, leaning forward and staring out the window. The carriage went right instead of left to return to the main thoroughfare.
“Hmm?” Dualayn asked, looking up from a journal bound in brown leather he wrote in. “Sorry, child.”
“The shouting from the square, Father,” she said, staring at the passing buildings. There was hardly anyone in the streets. The few she spotted were moving fast. One man undid a blue cloth from his arm and furtively threw it to the street.
A rotting nervousness grew in her, attracting new fears like blowflies to spoiled meat.
“Surely the high refractor would calm down the mob,” Avena said.
“Yes, I’m sure he would,” Dualayn said. “I am trying to jot down my thoughts, child. Those three patients are interesting. I have ideas about their treatment. I want to finalize them before we reach the house.”
She nodded as the carriage took the turn to the right, heading west. She watched the buildings passing by, a tight row of shops with tenements built above them. Many of the doors had their purple drapes closed, announcing they were closed.
To the north, a curl of smoke rose.
“Is that a fire?” she asked, her braid swaying down the side of the carriage.
Ōbhin glanced back at her from where he rode. He held his sword, still scabbarded, across his lap. “It is. There are several.”
“Several?” she gasped. “Why?”
“I do not think the high refractor’s words were well received.”
“But . . . he’s the high refractor. Elohm’s Colours shine through the prism of his soul. He interprets it with such clarity.”
The roar grew louder as they approached an intersection. In its center lay a fountain of three maidens bathing, their clothing clinging to their bodies and water pouring from jugs they carried into the cistern for the neighborhood to drink. A man ran past it, fleeing south. He threw a look behind him. Three more men appeared, running fast, wearing white armbands across their upper arms. One held a cudgel.
“Ōbhin?” she asked, her chest tightening.
“I saw them. I hope none of us are wearing blue.”
“They’re rioting against the king?” she gasped as another man spilled around the corner and ran towards them, his face flushed. He panted and leaned against a painted stone wall. As the carriage neared him, she called out, “Goodman, what is going on?”
“They killed him,” he answered, his pale face flushed red. Sweat poured down from his unkempt hair. He wore dirty leather pants and a stained shirt. A bit of blue cloth poked out of his coat pocket.
“Who?” she asked.
“The guards. They . . . they put an arrow in him. Right in the middle of his speech.”
“Who!” she hissed, the fear squeezing around her heart. “Did they kill a demonstrator?”
“The high refractor.” A look of wild panic crossed the man’s face. “He fell from his balcony. He landed in the square and . . . and . . .”
A loud roar echoed from the intersection.
“Buggering darkness,” the man gasped and bolted down the street.
Avena sank down into her seat. She stared across at Dualayn. “The king killed the high refractor?”
“Hmm?” he asked, peering up from his notes. “Elohm’s Colours, you’re white as snow, child.”
“They killed the high refractor,” she whispered. “Why would they do that?”
Dualayn lowered his quill. He swallowed, color draining from his face. “I . . . see.”
“Turn left past this street,” Ōbhin growled as they crossed the intersection. “I want us heading as far from this madness as possible.”
“Yeah,” Miguil said, his voice tight.
Out the carriage window to the right, she could see a wild mob boiling down the street. They were two blocks away, smashing the front of shops, tearing down signs. A group broke in and into a chandler’s shop. Avena clapped a hand over her face, spotting three men who were kicking a fourth lying on the ground.
“Where is the guard?” she whispered. “Why are they allowing this?”
“They caused this,” spat Ōbhin. “Faster, Miguil. The horses can take it.”
Miguil cracked the reins. The carriage sped up, wheels clattering. She clutched her hands tight as she peered ahead, the wind of their passage rippling around her head. Another street crossing lay ahead, a narrower one. She chewed on her inner cheek. Would Deffona be fine? Would they break into the hospital like the chandler’s shop? The fury thundered behind them.
And before them.
A mob of men burst into the street ahead, flowing like a muddy torrent of a flooding river. Miguil pulled sharp on the reigns, the horses neighing and snorting as the carriage clattered to a stop. The fury of the mob washed over them. The Black had seized their souls.
Surely they won’t attack us, flashed through her mind. We aren’t the guard. We didn’t kill the high refractor.
“Smiles!” Ōbhin shouted as he leaped down from the carriage, his tulwar flashing out of its scabbard. The emerald in the pommel flared to life, green light spilling over his hip and thigh, highlighting the creases in his black glove.
Smiles rushed down the side of the carriage
