One of the guardsmen snorted but grew still when Arten glared at him. When the commander of the Armory unit turned back to Tom, his expression was dark, but troubled. He held Tom’s gaze steadily, seemed about to dismiss him, to order him back to Lean-to as he’d done before But then he nodded. “Let him in.”
As those inside the gate began pulling the heavy iron bars inward, those outside fell back, pikes raised, their bases thudding into the ground. Arten motioned Tom forward and preceded him down the crushed stone walkway toward the porch of the Proprietor’s house. A small orchard stood off to one side, apples hanging heavy on the branches. A long arbor hung with wisteria and the fat leaves of grapes, a few bunches hanging down into the walkway beneath. Dogwoods spread their branches over the front of the house, their wide white blooms tinged pink as the sun began to set. The shadows of the trees and the wall were long and sharp, the clouds overhead burnished orange.
A stone porch led up to the double doors of the house itself, the pathway-wide enough for carriages- extending around the house to the carriage house and stable behind. As they drew up onto the porch, Tom noted the glass panes in the windows, the unlit oil lanterns that hung on either side of the doorway, and the two Armory guardsmen stationed outside. The doors were made of solid oak, inset with two small glass windows, decorated with subtle but intricate wrought iron hinges and handles. Arten opened one side without acknowledging the guardsmen and stepped aside so that Tom could enter.
Tom halted one step inside the door and drew in a sharp breath.
The interior smelled of wood, of pine and oak and mahogany, cured and stained. Everywhere he looked there were wooden accents: on the casings, on the stairs, on the moldings. Wainscoting banded the walls, and hardwood floors creaked beneath his feet. Wood-paneled doors that slid to the side instead of opening outward on hinges led to rooms to the left and right of the open foyer. Stairs ascended to the second floor straight ahead, another hall running toward the back of the house beneath them. The ceiling stretched above his head. Everything was constructed with simple lines, clean cuts; everything flowed together and melded with the sparse furniture, the simple decorations; and everything felt open and spacious.
Tom reached out to touch the wood, to run his hand along its smooth grain, to feel its texture. His hand trembled. He had not worked wood in so long, had not planed it, sanded it, smoothed it.. .
He felt Arten step up beside him, and his hand dropped back to his side.
“His father had a master brought here from Andover,” the commander said. He pointed with his chin toward the room on the left, where someone had lit a lantern against the dusk. “In there.”
When Tom entered, he heard someone saying, “-attention has been turned away from New Andover. The heads of the Families, the Doms, are all focused on the Rose, on seizing the land surrounding it, on obtaining it for themselves and learning to manipulate its powers. Whoever does so first will rule the Court. The Families are no longer interested in these lands except for their ability to provide them with resources for the Feud. They want material-ore, wood, food-not land.”
“For the moment,” Sartori muttered. He stood beside a stone fireplace, the hearth empty. The last of the sunlight filtered in through the windows to the west.
The man in the red vest from the West Wind Trading Company sat in one of the great chairs that littered the sitting room, a teacup and saucer in one hand. He watched Sartori’s expression intently as he took a sip from the cup. His face was narrow, his eyes a dark blue, his skin tanned and slightly windburned, most likely from his passage across the Arduon. Tom had seen men from the Companies before, had spoken to them, had dealt with them as a member of the carpenter’s guild, and most had been arrogant and effeminate, especially while wearing the powdered white wigs.
This man wasn’t. This man reeked of cold, calculated power, even without the four telltale gold buttons across the shoulder of his vest indicating he held Signal rank within the Company.
“Precisely,” the Company man said. His cup clinked against the saucer as he set it on the table before him. “Which is why the West Wind Trading Company feels that this is an auspicious time to turn our attention here. We feel there is an opportunity, one not to be missed.”
“And that opportunity is?”
“The land of course.”
Sartori stilled.
Before he could respond to the Signal’s statement, Arten cleared his throat. Sartori glanced his way, noted Tom standing beside him. Anger flashed in his eyes. “What is it? I have business to attend to.”
Arten bowed stiffly. “One of the residents of Lean-to has asked to speak to you, on behalf of his son.”
Sartori’s brow creased in irritation, and he drew breath to spit out a nasty reply, but caught himself, glancing toward his guest. “This can wait until morning.”
“Considering the riot this afternoon and that this case concerns your own son, it might be wise to deal with it now, sir.”
“This concerns Sedric?”
“No, sir. Walter.”
“Ah.” A pained expression crossed Sartori’s face, and he sighed, waving an impatient hand. “Very well. What has Walter done now?”
Arten straightened, his tone taking on a formal note. “This afternoon, Walter Carrente reported to the Armory that he and his cohorts had been maliciously hunted down and attacked near the warehouses in Portstown by this man’s son, Colin Harten.” Sartori grunted, but motioned for Arten to continue. “By his report, Colin Harten used a sling to fell two of those in Walter Carrente’s group, then used it to stun Walter himself, before viciously punching and kicking him unconscious and fleeing.”
Sartori’s eyes had grown dark. “And were there witnesses to this attack?”
“Rick Swallow fled the scene at the start of the attack but claims to have watched its conclusion from a distance. He verifies your son’s account. He claims they were caught by surprise.”
“I see. And what does this man’s son say?”
Arten shifted. “I haven’t spoken to the boy yet. He was apprehended in Lean-to just before the arrival of the Tradewind and is being held in the barracks, awaiting your judgment.”
Sartori considered for a moment, turning toward Tom. “And what do you say in your son’s defense?”
Tom’s stomach clenched, but he held Sartori’s gaze. He saw nothing there. No compassion, no warmth. Only annoyance. “My son would never hunt down and beat someone. Not unless he felt trapped. Not unless he were cornered. He was raised beneath Diermani’s Hand.”
“And my son wasn’t?” Sartori snarled.
Tom flinched, then felt his chest tighten with indignation, with a sudden and pure hatred. Of Sartori. Of everything he had made those from Lean-to suffer since their arrival in Portstown.
“My son,” he said, voice like flint, “has returned from Portstown over a dozen times bruised and beaten, attacked because he resides in Lean-to, because he is not Carrente, not one of the Family’s allies. And the reason he comes from Lean-to-the only reason-is because you cannot see fit to allow members of rival Families into your guilds here in New Andover. Guildmembers in good standing, with papers to prove it! Even when it’s obvious that you want to expand Portstown as quickly as possible, and that we could help! I gave him that sling to defend himself, to protect himself from the people of Portstown. He shouldn’t have needed it. He should have been protected by the Armory, by the people of this town, by the Carrente Family and the Court. But the Carrente Family has abandoned us. That’s why my son attacked your son. And that is why the people of Lean-to attacked you on the docks this afternoon.”
“No,” Sartori said, his voice hard with anger. “No, the people of Lean-to attacked me this afternoon because they are common criminals, sent here to work off their punishments in New Andover, but who are ungrateful, degenerate slobs who want everything handed to them or fed to them, who don’t even appreciate the opportunity they have been given.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve given us nothing.”
“I’ve left you alone in Lean-to,” Sartori said, taking a step forward, voice rising, “when I have every right to send the Armory up onto that hill and clear you all out. And after the attack today, I have every intention of doing just that.”
“You can’t.”
Sartori snorted. “I most certainly can. I am the sole arbiter of the Carrente Family lands in New Andover. I am the Proprietor of this little section of New Andover. And I now have evidence that Lean-to is nothing but a pit of
