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Authors: Joshua Palmatier
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through!”
When no one moved, when the group pushed forward even further instead, the guard growled, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. The rest of the Armory closed in, shoving the people back roughly. A woman cried out, and Tom tensed. More people began pressing in from behind, bodies crushing against him, pushing him forward. He fought back, struggled to keep room between himself and the men in front of him, to keep Shay in sight.
“You have no right!” a man bellowed—one of Shay’s men—his voice pleading, cracking with wildness, with an ugliness that began to infect the crowd. “We’re people of Andover, we’re from Families of the Court! You can’t do this to us!”
Sartori had reached the edge of the crowd. “Arten!”
The commander of the Armory unit, grappling with two men trying to push forward simultaneously, barked, “Yes, sir.”
“I want this wharf cleared. Now.”
“Very well, sir.” Broad of shoulder, with a face etched with three long visible scars, Arten shoved the men before him back, hard, the two stumbling into those behind them with startled outcries. They were caught by the crowd, but the Armory commander didn’t wait for the angry reaction that would follow.
He drew his sword, raised the blade above his head, and signaled the pikemen forward.
A cold dagger of fear sliced down into Tom’s core, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.
“Diermani’s balls,” Paul gasped. “ This is getting out of control.”
And then Sam’s hand latched onto Tom’s arm. “Tom! Shay and his men!”
Tom’s gaze snapped toward Shay, toward the large group of men who had shoved their way to the front of the crowd and were now standing at the edge of the wharf, directly in front of the leading Armory guardsmen. A wide swath of empty space stood between those from Lean-to and the cluster of Armory now surrounding Sartori, his son, and the tradesmen and assistants, a space defined by the pikemen and the reach of their pikes, the Armory tightening ranks. He saw Shay motion to men on the other side of Sartori, the Proprietor standing obliviously, arrogantly, behind Arten. He saw Shay’s men beginning to surge forward—
And he saw the knife Shay held in one hand, the blades all of his men wielded.
He leaped forward, roared, “No!” but his voice was drowned out in the sudden uproar from the mob. Women screamed, men bellowed in wordless defiance, and Arten and the Armory men shifted stance with a stamp of boots on the wooden planks of the wharf, forming a protective wall of metal and blades around Sartori and his entourage. Pikes were lowered, the hafts settling between the shoulders of the men carrying swords. Tom fought forward, fought toward Shay, everyone in the mob trying to move in a hundred different directions at once, half retreating, half rushing toward the dock, toward the guards. Someone’s elbow caught Tom in the ribs. Someone else jabbed him in the small of the back. Sam struggled to his right, the bulkier Paul beside him, his face suffused a startling red with anger.
Then the crowd heaved, like a swell on the ocean, everyone rolling to the side. Those in the front, including Shay’s men, staggered into the space between those from Lean-to and those from the Armory. One of Shay’s men, knife still at his side, stumbled—
And impaled himself on one of the pikes.
The man gasped, blood forming a bubble on his lips before it burst, speckling his chin, his shirt. A look of shock crossed over the pikeman’s face, over the two guardsmen on either side of him.
Arten’s face shuttered closed. Tom caught a flicker of horror, of regret, before all of that was smothered by a horrid resignation.
Tom stilled, breathed in the scent of blood mixed with the salt of the ocean, could almost taste it.
Shay’s man raised a shaking hand to the shaft jutting out of his chest, to the blood that had begun to soak into his shirt. He looked up at the guardsman who held the pike, eyes
When no one moved, when the group pushed forward even further instead, the guard growled, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. The rest of the Armory closed in, shoving the people back roughly. A woman cried out, and Tom tensed. More people began pressing in from behind, bodies crushing against him, pushing him forward. He fought back, struggled to keep room between himself and the men in front of him, to keep Shay in sight.
“You have no right!” a man bellowed—one of Shay’s men—his voice pleading, cracking with wildness, with an ugliness that began to infect the crowd. “We’re people of Andover, we’re from Families of the Court! You can’t do this to us!”
Sartori had reached the edge of the crowd. “Arten!”
The commander of the Armory unit, grappling with two men trying to push forward simultaneously, barked, “Yes, sir.”
“I want this wharf cleared. Now.”
“Very well, sir.” Broad of shoulder, with a face etched with three long visible scars, Arten shoved the men before him back, hard, the two stumbling into those behind them with startled outcries. They were caught by the crowd, but the Armory commander didn’t wait for the angry reaction that would follow.
He drew his sword, raised the blade above his head, and signaled the pikemen forward.
A cold dagger of fear sliced down into Tom’s core, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.
“Diermani’s balls,” Paul gasped. “ This is getting out of control.”
And then Sam’s hand latched onto Tom’s arm. “Tom! Shay and his men!”
Tom’s gaze snapped toward Shay, toward the large group of men who had shoved their way to the front of the crowd and were now standing at the edge of the wharf, directly in front of the leading Armory guardsmen. A wide swath of empty space stood between those from Lean-to and the cluster of Armory now surrounding Sartori, his son, and the tradesmen and assistants, a space defined by the pikemen and the reach of their pikes, the Armory tightening ranks. He saw Shay motion to men on the other side of Sartori, the Proprietor standing obliviously, arrogantly, behind Arten. He saw Shay’s men beginning to surge forward—
And he saw the knife Shay held in one hand, the blades all of his men wielded.
He leaped forward, roared, “No!” but his voice was drowned out in the sudden uproar from the mob. Women screamed, men bellowed in wordless defiance, and Arten and the Armory men shifted stance with a stamp of boots on the wooden planks of the wharf, forming a protective wall of metal and blades around Sartori and his entourage. Pikes were lowered, the hafts settling between the shoulders of the men carrying swords. Tom fought forward, fought toward Shay, everyone in the mob trying to move in a hundred different directions at once, half retreating, half rushing toward the dock, toward the guards. Someone’s elbow caught Tom in the ribs. Someone else jabbed him in the small of the back. Sam struggled to his right, the bulkier Paul beside him, his face suffused a startling red with anger.
Then the crowd heaved, like a swell on the ocean, everyone rolling to the side. Those in the front, including Shay’s men, staggered into the space between those from Lean-to and those from the Armory. One of Shay’s men, knife still at his side, stumbled—
And impaled himself on one of the pikes.
The man gasped, blood forming a bubble on his lips before it burst, speckling his chin, his shirt. A look of shock crossed over the pikeman’s face, over the two guardsmen on either side of him.
Arten’s face shuttered closed. Tom caught a flicker of horror, of regret, before all of that was smothered by a horrid resignation.
Tom stilled, breathed in the scent of blood mixed with the salt of the ocean, could almost taste it.
Shay’s man raised a shaking hand to the shaft jutting out of his chest, to the blood that had begun to soak into his shirt. He looked up at the guardsman who held the pike, eyes
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