“No time,” snarled Ōbhin, glancing behind him. Smoke curled over a nearby roof. The sound of rioting swelled. The mob was smashing their way into the intersection, breaking everything in their path in a glut of pointless rage. Ōbhin panted, hot from the fight. His leather jerkin trapped in the heat of battle. “Miguil, get us moving!”
The groom nodded, his face pale. He raced down the length of the wagon and climbed onto the bench. Ōbhin scrambled up into the back, sitting on the tailgate as it lurched into motion. The horses freed from the carriage neighed and snorted, their eyes wild.
Blood filled the air.
It dripped from the black sable leather. Ōbhin stared down at a rivulet running across his glove. Miguil smacked reins, urging the draft horses to trundle along. Dualayn placed the healing topaz on Smiles’s thigh above the wound then pulled out a needle and fine thread.
“Avena, child, I need you,” Dualayn said, his voice calm.
Avena rocked, her bloody hands clutching her skirt, ruining the fabric. Her eyes peered sightlessly ahead. Ōbhin’s jaw tightened. She had no place charging up. Why did I teach her? She’ll get hurt just as fast knowing how to fight.
The wagon passed the killing field. Men groaned where they lay on the ground, clutching bleeding limbs. Some struggled to aid friends. Ōbhin didn’t want to kill a single one of them. Hatred blazed as they glared at him. He weathered the weight of their gazes as Miguil turned the wagon left, fleeing the riot gripping the heart of Kash.
What choice did I have? he asked himself. They would have cracked all our heads with cudgels. Their blood ran hot. They would have violated Avena.
His stomach curdled.
“Avena, child, please, I need your help,” said Dualayn. “You have to hold the topaz while I stitch him. Avena!”
Avena shifted. Her vacant eyes twitched. Their emptiness sent a shiver through Ōbhin. Then she blinked and shook her head. Her jaw worked. Confusion flickered across her expression for a moment.
“Father?” she asked.
“Phelep needs you,” Dualayn said softly. “He is not out of danger yet. I must stitch him up so the healer can work with more efficacy. You’re the only spare hand I have.”
Ōbhin’s hands balled into fists. Fit only for death . . .
As Avena crawled to Smiles, Ōbhin peered in the direction they raced. Miguil drove the wagon down the empty street. They passed doors closed tight, storm shutters shut and latched. Word was spreading. His shoulders rolled. He glanced behind them.
Smoke boiled around the Rainbow Belfry, staining the blue sky and drifting with other markers of death. An itch grew between his shoulder blades. Why would the city guard kill the high refractor? It was madness. The king had to see what would happen. Right?
Ust’s foul words rippled through his mind. Had Handsome Baill made the shot? Was this sanctioned by the Brotherhood? What reason would Grey have to destabilize the king and sow discord in Kash?
Money. Opportunity for vice and crime.
Ōbhin clenched his fists, gloves creaking. Cracks appeared in the rivulets of drying blood. Some flaked off while thicker bits oozed.
“Ōbhin!” Miguil shouted.
Ōbhin peered ahead and groaned. A brawl spilled into the intersection. The city guard retreated before a mob of Whites and Greens. Clubs cracked, sending rioters falling limp to the ground. The guard’s heavy gambesons and steel helmets shielded them from the worst of the mob’s attacks, but they were too few.
“Go right!” Ōbhin said. “That alley. We can fit through it.”
“Tight,” muttered Miguil as he hauled the reins.
The horses turned, their harnesses jingling. The wide street they were on allowed them to turn into the narrow alley. Shadows fell around them. Buildings flashed by within arm’s reach on both sides of the wagon.
They burst out into chaos on the other side. The horses shied as Miguil cursed.
“Gray fingers!” guards shouted to the right, driving back a group of men who were throwing trash and rocks at them.
One struck the wagon side as Miguil hauled the reins left. The horses neighed and whinnied, hooves clattering on cobblestones. The wagon lurched. The three sick groaned as they slid into each other. Dualayn looked up in annoyance.
“I am trying to stitch his leg. I cannot do that with the wagon performing such violent maneuvers.”
“We’re trying not to die,” Ōbhin muttered, feeling useless.
“Right, right, perspective,” Dualayn said and looked down. “Easy to forget perspective.”
“Yeah,” Avena echoed.
The color had returned to her cheeks. Her bloody hand gripped the topaz, staining it with Smiles’s life. The amber light shone between her fingers, dancing across her face.
“The True Briflons!” roared from an alley to the right.
Ōbhin ducked a wine bottle hurtling from a mob of young men who spilled out onto the street paces away from their wagon. All sported white armbands, a few with swollen knots on temples. They roared and raced after the wagon.
Their boots thudded as they pursued. They wielded their makeshift weapons. A chair leg hurtled from the crowd, spinning with force. Ōbhin rose and swept it to the side with his drawn blade. The wagon hit a pothole.
His feet shifted. His balance was lost.
“Black-cursed Tone!” he gasped and pitched forward.
He hit the edge of the tailgate and tumbled off hard. He slammed into the road, landing with bruising impact on his shoulder. His arm went numb as sharp pain flared across his collarbone. He rolled twice and came to a rest on his back.
The young man racing at him snarled, charging faster.
Ōbhin pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. His sword arm throbbed. Bones ground on bones, sparking pain down his arm and across his back. Angry, snarling faces rushed at him, closing the distance in
