“I’ve got him,” Sam said over the tumult around them. “Let’s go.”
Paul nodded as Sam threw Tom’s arm over his shoulder and began shoving out of the riot. When they saw the blood staining Paul’s arm, they cursed, the rage in their faces tightening.
They broke through the back of the crowd into the streets of Portstown, near one of the mercantiles. Sam dragged Tom over to the side of the building. They leaned against the wood, gasping, men and women running away from the riot around them, a few running toward it. Three Armory guardsmen pelted past, pikes before them; Paul hid his knife behind his back until they’d gone.
Sam wiped at the sweat on his forehead with one arm. “That turned into one cursed mess.” His breath still came in heaves, but he didn’t seem to be hurt.
Tom didn’t answer. There was no need.
He was just about to shove away from the wall and head back to Lean-to when he heard Ana shout, “Tom!”
He spun and saw Ana and Karen and a small group of others, mostly women, bearing down on him.
He thought instantly of Arten, of the sword leveled at his throat. “Ana, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, not now!”
“Oh, God, Tom.” Ana charged into him so hard he grunted. His arms closed around her, and he held her a moment, tight, too tight, realized she was trembling. But then she shoved back from him, and he saw the terror in her face, her eyes darting toward the sounds of fighting. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“A riot at the wharf, between the Armory and some of the people from Lean-to.”
“Who?”
“Shay and those from the prison ships, the ones who refused to work.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders straightening, but then the terror broke through even this.
“They’ve taken him,” Karen gasped from behind her, and for the first time Tom noticed the tears that shimmered in her eyes.
Tom shook his head in confusion. “Taken who?”
“Colin,” Ana said. She clutched at him, her hands cold as they caught his, her voice unnaturally calm. “Sartori’s men have taken Colin. They’ve arrested him.”
“What? What for?”
“They said he attacked Walter,” Karen said.
Tom’s eyebrows rose, and he couldn’t quell a slash of pride, lancing up through his back.
“It’s about time,” Sam murmured.
Ana shot him a dark look, her expression going defensive and hard, the emotion beneath uglier than anything Tom had ever seen in her before. Then she turned the look on Tom. “You get Colin back, Tom Harten.” The ugliness had seeped into her voice, beneath the roughness brought on by tears, by the effort to hold them back. “Get him back, and then by Diermani’s Hand you get us the hell out of here.”
Then she turned, halted when she saw Karen, saw her tear-streaked face. Placing an arm around the girl’s shoulders, she hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head, then tugged her toward Lean-to, the others who had followed her down from their tents and huts trailing behind her.
“We’ll make certain she’s safe,” Sam said, watching them retreat, and Paul nodded agreement, his hand twisting on his knife. They could still hear the clash of weapons near the docks, the sound of metal harsh and vibrant in the sunlight.
Tom didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. The shock, the anger, the fear of what they might do to Colin while they held him, too overwhelming.
As if he understood, Sam patted him on the back, then motioned to Paul.
Tom simply stood, staring after them. He had never intended things to end this way, never intended any of this. Portstown was supposed to have been a haven, an escape from the Feud, a new beginning. And now. ..
Now, all he could hear was the hardness in Ana’s voice, the harshness. It settled around his heart like a cold, heavy hand.
As if of its own volition, his hand rose to his chest, to the pendant that hung on a chain about his neck and rested against his skin beneath his shirt. The pendant that signified their vows, that held their mingled blood. He’d worn it so long, hidden from view as such a sacred vow should be, that he barely noticed it anymore. He’d worn it since the day he and Ana had wed in the little church in Trent, since the Patris had used Diermani’s power to bind them.
But today… today it felt cold.
When Sartori and his escort and Company guests finally emerged from the buildings near the docks, Tom had moved to the edge of the square, near the church. A group of Armory appeared at first, thrusting a few of the rougher members from Lean-to, including Shay, before them, their arms tied behind their backs. They led them toward the barracks. Another group emerged behind them. He watched as this group escorted Sartori and the Trade Company representative to the gates of Sartori’s estate, the Proprietor stalking through the plaza, head held high, back rigid, face suffused with fury. Sedric and the other merchants must have already broken away. Arten stood outside the gates until everyone had entered, eyes scanning the square. His gaze fell on Tom for a moment, hesitated there, a frown touching his expression, but then he motioned the soldiers in the rear-most of them wounded-toward the barracks, left a few outside on guard, and stepped through the gates. They closed behind him.
Tom felt a momentary surge of anger, but he calmed himself, his hand finding the pendant again. He couldn’t afford to do anything stupid, couldn’t afford to overreact.
Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and muttered a short prayer to Diermani, feeling the presence of the church at his back, soothing, comforting. His grip relaxed, and he sighed heavily, scrubbed at his face with one hand, and began to pace.
He waited another hour before approaching the gate. He would have waited longer, but the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, and with it his apprehension rose.
They had his son. His son.
The guards at the gate shifted before he came within twenty paces of the wall, pikes held ready. “Halt where you are,” one of them barked. “Don’t come any closer.”
Tom stopped in his tracks. He choked down the bitterness and anger in the back of his throat and said, “I need to speak with the Proprietor. I need to speak with Sartori.”
One of the guards rumbled, “That’s not likely today. Now get your ass back to Lean-to, where it belongs.”
Tom bristled. “I need to speak with Sartori,” he said again, the words hard, edged. “Today. Tonight. I won’t leave until I do.”
Neither guard said anything. The one on the left-hair peppered with gray, nose broken in at least two places-eyed Tom up and down, then shifted back. Keeping his attention on Tom, he motioned to someone on the other side of the gate, said something Tom couldn’t hear, and then settled in to wait.
A short while later, Arten appeared. His eyes narrowed. “Sartori will not be seeing anyone today. Go home.” His voice rumbled, deep in his chest, like distant thunder. He began to turn away.
“It’s not about the riot,” Tom said, taking an involuntary step forward. The two guardsmen outside the gate moved, pikes lowered so fast Tom never saw the adjustment in stance. But he ignored both weapons, ignored the men behind them, focused all of his attention on Arten’s retreating back. “It’s about my son!”
Arten halted. “Your son?”
“Yes, my son, Colin Harten. He was arrested this afternoon, in Lean-to, before the riot.”
Arten’s shoulders tightened. Then he turned.
“Do you know what your son did? What he was arrested for?”
“They said he attacked Walter.”
Arten took a step forward, a menacing step. “He attacked the Proprietor’s son and his friends with a sling. He knocked two of them unconscious.”
Tom felt the same thrill of fierce pride spread warmth through his chest, but he forced the emotion down, forced himself to focus on Arten. He took another step forward, raised his empty hands as the guards threatened him. “He was defending himself! He’s been attacked by Walter and his friends before. They must have chased him, cornered him, forced him to take action!”
