to shade her eyes. “What’s the Armory doing here?”
Colin didn’t answer. Before either of the Armory guardsmen moved, he dropped the basket of clothes and turned to run, but slammed into the chest of one of the guardsmen who’d come up behind them, the man’s hand reaching out and closing over Colin’s arm as he reeled away.
“Hold on now,” the guardsman said, voice hard, like stone. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tightening his grip, he pushed Colin forward, heading down between the tents and shacks toward Walter and the others.
“Colin, what’s going on?” Karen asked.
“What’s going on,” one of the guardsmen said as he brushed past her, “is that this little squatter is under arrest.”
“What for?” Karen shouted, the outrage in her voice layered beneath the growing fear. She tried to push forward, but the guardsmen shoved her back. People had emerged from the hovels on all sides at the commotion, mostly women and children, all of them with expressions of doubt and disgust, most of them family members of guildsmen.
“For attacking the Proprietor’s son and his associates,” the last guard said over his shoulder as they shoved their way through the gathering throng.
Colin twisted around in the guardsman’s grip. “Tell my father!” The guardsman shook him, forced him to stumble. “Karen, get my father!”
And then he stood before Walter, the Proprietor’s son still dirty from their encounter that morning. Hatred burned in Walter’s eyes, in the tightly controlled muscles of his face.
Without warning, he punched Colin in the gut, the fluid pain so intense Colin folded over Walter’s fist with a gasp, tears coming immediately to his eyes. The denizens of Lean-to cried out in protest, but the voices were muffled, lost in the pounding of blood in Colin’s ears.
Walter leaned forward, his other hand on Colin’s shoulder. “That was for me,” he breathed. He drew back to punch Colin again, but the Armory guardsman behind him grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away.
Walter struggled, but the man holding Colin glared and said softly, “That’s enough of that.” His grip on Colin’s arm had relaxed, but not enough for Colin to even think about escaping.
He motioned to the other guardsmen, and they began wending their way out of Lean-to.
“Where are you taking him?” Karen shouted from behind.
“To Sartori,” the guard answered. “To the penance locks!”
Colin twisted around in the guardsman’s hand, struggling to see Karen.
His last sight, before the crowd of Lean-to settlers blocked her from view, was of her squatting to retrieve the clothes and the basket from the ground, her eyes a mixed blaze of anger and terror.
3
T OM HARTEN WATCHED FROM THE BACK OF THE CROWD of desperate men and women from Lean-to as the Tradewind pulled into port with its sails whuffling in the wind from the ocean, his arms crossed over his chest. Men in the rigging and on the deck of the ship called to those on the docks as the trade ship dropped anchor in the bay. With a sharp command from Sartori’s men, boats were dispatched from the docks. The Tradewind ’s hull was too deep for it to draw up to the docks themselves. Tom knew that Sartori intended for the bay to be dug eventually, deepened so that the ships with larger hulls could be berthed at the wharf, but for now, anything that sat too low in the water remained out in the channel between Portstown and the Strand.
At the thought of Sartori, Tom’s eyes skipped over the boats rowing out to meet the Tradewind and picked the pampered, primped, and vested Proprietor out of the throngs of dockworkers, tradesmen, and Armory that lined the wharf. He stood at the end of the longest dock, surrounded by his first son, Sedric, two of the more prominent merchantmen of Portstown, servants, and a few of the Armory guardsmen. Sartori spoke to the merchants, but they were far too distant for Tom to pick out any words, even without
Colin didn’t answer. Before either of the Armory guardsmen moved, he dropped the basket of clothes and turned to run, but slammed into the chest of one of the guardsmen who’d come up behind them, the man’s hand reaching out and closing over Colin’s arm as he reeled away.
“Hold on now,” the guardsman said, voice hard, like stone. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tightening his grip, he pushed Colin forward, heading down between the tents and shacks toward Walter and the others.
“Colin, what’s going on?” Karen asked.
“What’s going on,” one of the guardsmen said as he brushed past her, “is that this little squatter is under arrest.”
“What for?” Karen shouted, the outrage in her voice layered beneath the growing fear. She tried to push forward, but the guardsmen shoved her back. People had emerged from the hovels on all sides at the commotion, mostly women and children, all of them with expressions of doubt and disgust, most of them family members of guildsmen.
“For attacking the Proprietor’s son and his associates,” the last guard said over his shoulder as they shoved their way through the gathering throng.
Colin twisted around in the guardsman’s grip. “Tell my father!” The guardsman shook him, forced him to stumble. “Karen, get my father!”
And then he stood before Walter, the Proprietor’s son still dirty from their encounter that morning. Hatred burned in Walter’s eyes, in the tightly controlled muscles of his face.
Without warning, he punched Colin in the gut, the fluid pain so intense Colin folded over Walter’s fist with a gasp, tears coming immediately to his eyes. The denizens of Lean-to cried out in protest, but the voices were muffled, lost in the pounding of blood in Colin’s ears.
Walter leaned forward, his other hand on Colin’s shoulder. “That was for me,” he breathed. He drew back to punch Colin again, but the Armory guardsman behind him grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away.
Walter struggled, but the man holding Colin glared and said softly, “That’s enough of that.” His grip on Colin’s arm had relaxed, but not enough for Colin to even think about escaping.
He motioned to the other guardsmen, and they began wending their way out of Lean-to.
“Where are you taking him?” Karen shouted from behind.
“To Sartori,” the guard answered. “To the penance locks!”
Colin twisted around in the guardsman’s hand, struggling to see Karen.
His last sight, before the crowd of Lean-to settlers blocked her from view, was of her squatting to retrieve the clothes and the basket from the ground, her eyes a mixed blaze of anger and terror.
3
T OM HARTEN WATCHED FROM THE BACK OF THE CROWD of desperate men and women from Lean-to as the Tradewind pulled into port with its sails whuffling in the wind from the ocean, his arms crossed over his chest. Men in the rigging and on the deck of the ship called to those on the docks as the trade ship dropped anchor in the bay. With a sharp command from Sartori’s men, boats were dispatched from the docks. The Tradewind ’s hull was too deep for it to draw up to the docks themselves. Tom knew that Sartori intended for the bay to be dug eventually, deepened so that the ships with larger hulls could be berthed at the wharf, but for now, anything that sat too low in the water remained out in the channel between Portstown and the Strand.
At the thought of Sartori, Tom’s eyes skipped over the boats rowing out to meet the Tradewind and picked the pampered, primped, and vested Proprietor out of the throngs of dockworkers, tradesmen, and Armory that lined the wharf. He stood at the end of the longest dock, surrounded by his first son, Sedric, two of the more prominent merchantmen of Portstown, servants, and a few of the Armory guardsmen. Sartori spoke to the merchants, but they were far too distant for Tom to pick out any words, even without
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