Rocks hissed past him. A turnip struck the cobblestones before him, bursting apart into moldy pulp. The wagon clattered ahead. He held his right arm tight to his body, numbing fire blazing in his shoulder.
“Get the gray-fingered bastard!” the mob roared behind him.
A rock struck him between the shoulder blades, blunted by his leather jerkin. He stumbled, almost tripping, but caught himself. He threw a look behind him. They were snapping at his heels. The nearest rioter clutched thick cudgels. One in the back threw another bottle.
It tumbled end over end and bounced off his already numb shoulder.
Agony flared.
He snarled through clenched teeth, his legs stretching out faster before him. His daily exercises kept him running as the burning settled into his muscles. He tasted blood in his mouth. Avena waved at the wagon, shouting something lost to the roar. She looked at Miguil.
He’s not stopping, realized Ōbhin.
Avena shouted again. Dualayn looked up. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve.
Ōbhin’s boots pounded down the cobblestones. Another rock slashed past his ear and bounced on the pavement before him. He pushed himself. The stitch in his side flared. His boots thudded hard on the ground.
Miguil turned the wagon to the right. The horses neighed. The iron-rimmed wheels rumbled over the road. The wagon slowed as it rounded the turn. Ōbhin snarled and threw every ounce of energy he had into his sprint.
The mob’s roars whipped at him.
Avena reached out a hand for him as he closed. He cut a sharp angle for the corner as the wagon cleared it. Any moment, it would pick up speed, outpacing him again. This was his only chance. Glass shattered at his feet, dark-brown shards peppering his boots. He cleared the corner.
Miguil cracked the reins.
Avena leaned out with her hand.
He snagged it, engulfing her dainty hand in his sable grip. He seized her and pulled.
She gasped, yanked forward by his weight. Her eyes widened as she lost her grip on the wagon’s edge. He caught her gaze, this moment almost stopping as he realized they were both about to tumble across the road.
The mob roared behind him.
Dualayn’s arms seized Avena by the waist and stopped her plunge.
Ōbhin crushed her hand, holding tight as Dualayn hauled Avena back. It jerked Ōbhin forward just enough. He seized the wagon bed with his left hand and pulled. His feet left the pavers. He rolled onto Avena’s legs, pinning her beneath him as he blew heavy breaths.
A final moldering turnip struck his left side, busting into slimy rot. The mob stumbled to a halt, winded while the wagon clattered on.
Chapter Seventeen
Avena trembled as she watched Dualayn run the topaz over Ōbhin’s shoulder as the wagon cleared the gate. A stream of guards was rushing towards the city from the slums. She hugged her skirts again, wanting to sink back into that helpless terror.
She’d only wanted to help Ōbhin and Smiles. There were so many rioters. Their patients were in danger. She had the means to fight. One more person swinging a binder would help them with the odds. She couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
She’d vowed to never be helpless again, but . . .
Her gaze fell on Smiles’s stitched leg. Fresh bandage covered the wound. He groaned as the wagon rocked, no longer slipping into shock. He would survive. In a day or so, with a few more applications of a healing jewelchine, he’d only have a scar.
Proof of her last mistake.
I’m wearing skirts, she berated herself. Heeled boots. How could I expect to have good footing? Idiot! The men hadn’t needed her. Ōbhin could have routed the rabble by himself. The way his blade carved through flesh . . .
Revulsion gurgled through her. The damage he’d done horrified and fascinated her. The fight hadn’t lasted long, and yet so many men lay dead or dying. He’d killed with ease. He’d flowed through them like they were buckwheat before the farmer’s scythe. No hesitation or fear.
They were bad men, she told herself, struggling to swallow the lie.
They were angry men. Frustrated men. They’d just witnessed the king assassinate the high refractor. Her arms tightened on her knees. Kash had always felt safe to her. She knew there were parts of the city, especially in the slums, that were dangerous, but a woman shouldn’t have to take up a binder to fight during the day.
She glanced back at the city and blinked at how far away the walls were. She looked around and realized they were almost to the manor, passing through the Breezy Hills Slums. Children and women sat on roofs, staring at the smoke drifting over Kash. Hardly any young men, or middle-aged ones, were in the streets.
The clatter of the hooves changed as they crossed Tendril Bridge over the Blue Tendril. They passed their neighbors’ estates, their guards all out in force at the gates, brawny men in gambesons or chainmail, swords belted to sides with cudgels or partisans in hand.
Fingers and Bran stood out before the gates to Dualayn’s estate. Fingers clapped a hand over his brow at their approach then he barked something at Bran. He opened the gates and darted through them as Fingers moved aside. The older guard had his gambeson on, the padded undercoat worn beneath armor. It added more bulk to him.
“Master Dashvin,” he said. “Ōbhin?”
“Stay on the gate,” Ōbhin said.
“What’s happening in the city?”
Avena started to speak but the words choked in her throat. The high refractor is dead . . . Elohm, shine your Colours on us. Bring Patience and Compassion to Kash. Calm the violence.
“Riots,” Ōbhin answered. “Smiles is hurt, but he’s mending.”
“Made the mistake of blocking a sword with
