2
OLIN CROUCHED DOWN IN THE GRASS at the lip of a knoll, his head just above the waving stalks, the knot of his sling clutched in his right hand. The late summer sun beat down on the plains spread out around him, turning the grass gold. Spring had come and gone, most of summer as well. The heat had dried out the ground and the grain had ripened, the seed heads pattering lightly against Colin’s face as he stared down onto the flat land below.
Mounds of dirt pockmarked the ground in all directions, the entrances to the burrows beneath like black eyes. An occasional prairie dog poked its head up, chirruped briefly, before vanishing again. But they were relaxing, growing used to Colin’s presence. He’d arrived over an hour ago, had settled into position downwind of the burrows for the wait.
One of the prairie dogs slid out from its burrow and stood on its hind legs, nose twitching, tan fur blending into the grasses around it. It scanned the area, turning with quick shifts of its body. It chirruped, went down to all fours, and slid away from the entrance. Three more heads appeared in other burrows, surveying the area, and farther away two more slunk out of their protection into the sun. They called to each other, moving onto the plains warily, at least a third of them standing up and on guard while the rest foraged through the grasses. Clouds passed by, and in the breeze coming from the east Colin could smell a hint of coming rain. But he didn’t move. He waited, the prairie dogs edging farther and farther from their burrows. He’d learned the hard way that the little buggers were quick, that with a single chirp of warning from one of the guards all of them could vanish into safety beneath the earth in the blink of an eye.
One of the prairie dogs inched closer, picking through the grass with his nose and front feet. Colin focused in, clenched his hand around the knot of the sling. His breathing slowed as he watched. The bands of the sling tied around his forearm pressed into muscle as he raised his arm, as he began to gently twirl the stone already placed in the pouch. An overhead throw, because the distance was short.
And because he needed a killing blow.
The motion caught the prairie dog’s attention and it stilled, then lifted its head in one swift jerk. At the same instant, one of the guardians emitted a piercing chirp.
Every prairie dog in sight stood up, long bodies rigid, small front feet dangling over the soft lighter fur of their underbellies. All of them turned in his direction.
Colin swore and released the sling, cords snapping out, stone flung.
In puffs of dirt, every prairie dog vanished. Except one.
Colin released his pent breath with a fierce whoop of triumph and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning so hard it hurt. Skidding down the incline, he crouched down next to the body of the prairie dog, noted the splash of blood and matted fur where the stone had struck its head. Exactly where he’d intended.
He sat back on his haunches and smiled. He’d been practicing for months, first on the beach, getting the feel for the sling, for distance, for accuracy. Blocks of driftwood served as targets, set at intervals down the sand, where they remained stationary, then thrown out into the ocean, where he could practice hitting a moving target as the wood bobbed and rocked in the waves. Hours of practice, begun as soon as his chores were finished.
His father had watched him on occasion, had come to throw with him when he could, when he wasn’t doing some menial labor in Portstown or helping someone in Lean-to. It had been his idea to send Colin and others out to the plains to hunt for rabbits and fowl and whatever else they could find in this new world that everyone had started to call New Andover. Others from Lean-to were sent down to the beaches to dig for clams or to catch the occasional large crab that had wandered up onto the sand. Still others were sent out in boats into the channel to fish.
Yet over half of those in Lean-to—mostly criminals and miscreants who’d chosen the New World over the Armory in Andover— were doing nothing except seething in discontent and squalor.
Colin had had little success at first on the plains—real animals were harder to hunt than driftwood—but now . . .
Now, he felt ready for his real target.
His smile twisted with anger as his eyes narrowed. His hand clenched on the cords of the sling.
A gust of air, leaden with the weight of rain, pushed against his face. Shoving the anger down, but not the anticipation, Colin closed his eyes and bowed his head, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks to Diermani for the kill, as his mother had taught him, then gathered up the limp body of the prairie dog and placed it into the satchel at his side that contained the two rabbits he’d caught that morning. Shading his eyes, he squinted up at the sun, then stood and scanned the horizon to the east.
“Time to head back,” he said to himself.
But he didn’t move.
The breeze brushed his hair back from his eyes, the scent of rain stronger now. In the distance, he could see the leading edge of the storm, white clouds at the forefront, darker clouds behind. It would arrive within the hour.
He sighed, removed his sling and stowed it in a separate pocket of the satchel, and headed back to the west, trudging up the incline where he’d waited for the prairie dogs and down the far side. The satchel bounced against his side as he moved, as he picked up his pace.
Half an hour later—the wind gusting at his back with enough force to flatten the grass around him, the clouds beginning to blot out the sun overhead—Colin came upon the outermost farms still close enough to be considered part of Portstown. He paused as he drew alongside the first. The house had yet to be completed, but the barn, twice as large as the house, had been raised the week before in the span of two days. A large tract of land had already been carved out of the grassland, freshly plowed, and if Colin shaded his eye he could see a team of horses in the distance, digging out another stretch of field. A woman worked in the garden plot nearest the house, a basket tucked in tight to her hip. Two children roughhoused around her.
She stood as soon as she noticed Colin, glared at him, face set with hostility.
Colin spat to one side—a habit his father had picked up in the past months whenever those in Portstown were mentioned—and continued on his way.
He entered Lean-to with the first fat drops of rain pattering down from the sky. Men and women cursed and shot black looks at the clouds, then tucked pots and baskets under their arms, shielding them from the rain as they ducked into huts and tents, flaps falling closed behind them. One woman bellowed, “Come here you little terrors!” and rounded up the last of her four children, ushering them into a shack made from pieces of discarded boat hulls and driftwood.
Colin ducked into his parent’s hut to the first grumble of thunder. He squatted and pulled a shutter of wood over the front of the opening before letting the blanket drop, then turned.
And halted. His parents had guests.
“They’ve shut us out completely!” Paul spat, then took a pull from an aleskin. He shoved it at Sam, who wiped the mouthpiece on his shirt before taking his own pull.
“What is he talking about, Sam?” Colin’s mother asked in disgust, motioning Colin toward her where she worked near the fire, taking his satchel.
Colin settled down next to his mother, away from the table where his father, Paul, Sam, and Shay sat on various crates and stools, a game of Crook and Row set out before them. Sam glared at his cards, then threw one before answering, Shay snorting as he picked up the tossed card.
“The Proprietor has banned anyone from Lean-to from the docks. We can no longer seek work there or at the warehouses. It’s as if we have the plague!”
“He can’t do that.”
“Oh, he didn’t officially ‘ban’ us,” Paul said, his words slurred with more than derision. “No, no, he’s too crafty for that.”
Shay played a stretch of four and discarded. “The bastard has sent out the Armory, men just over from Andover, sent by the Family. They’ve started patrolling the docks.”
“I don’t understand it,” Ana said, knife slicing through the first rabbit with rough jerks as she began gutting and cleaning it. She motioned for Colin to help her. “He should want to have refugees flooding the town. He could double its size within months. There’d be more land producing goods, more tradesmen producing wares. Trade would increase. He’d be wallowing in the profits!”
“Portstown has already doubled in size,” his father said, as he continued with his own move. “There’s a new mill along the river, at least five new merchant houses, two taverns, a granary. But none of that matters. He doesn’t need profit, he’s already wallowing in it.”
“Then what’s he looking for?” Paul asked.
“Status.”
Everyone at the table turned toward him. Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”
Colin’s father paused, caught their intent looks, then set his cards down. “It’s all political. I think Sartori sees Portstown as his path into the Court. Look at what he’s done with the land since we arrived. He’s parceled it out to members of various Families in Andover, to their lesser sons, to those allied strongly with the Carrente Doms and their immediate successors. Last week, he awarded a huge chunk of land to the east to the third son of Dom Umberto, a thousand acres of arable farmland at least.”
Paul choked on his ale. “Umberto is part of the Scarrelli Family!”
His father nodded, anger touching his eyes. “Sartori is curr ying favor with his allies and the Family trading companies, using the land as his collateral. In exchange, he’s gaining influence in the Court. That’s where the Armor y is coming from. His allies are bringing them in to protect their interests here in Portstown. He’s never going to award the land to any of us, because we don’t have anything that he needs. We can’t help him take advantage of the Feud in Andover. Look at all of us here in Lean-to! We’re either bonded to one of the rival Families of the Carrentes, or we’re miscreants, troublemakers, or criminals shipped here from Andover.”
Colin’s mother snorted. “We came here to escape the Feud.” No one responded. Rain began pounding on the roof of the hut, leaking through near the covered hole where the smoke from the fire could escape. Colin’s mother shook her head and set a pot under the drip before returning to the carcasses. They’d finished the two rabbits, had begun working on the prairie dog.
As Colin began cutting it open, careful not to damage the hide, since his mother could use the pelt, he said into the silence, “I saw it.”
All of the men turned toward Colin. The knife slipped in his hand, narrowly missing his palm.
“What did you see?” Shay asked.
Colin forced his hands to stop trembling. “I saw the farm, the one given to Umberto’s son. On my way back from the plains.”
His mother gasped as she took the prairie dog and knife from him. “You were out that far into the plains? I told you to stay close. We don’t know what’s out there!”
“Ana,” his father said, and his mother fell silent with a glower. His father didn’t notice, his attention on Colin. “What have they done so far?”
Colin glanced toward Sam and Paul, toward Shay, who’d shifted forward. He didn’t like the darkness in their eyes, the intensity, especially in Shay’s. Their cards had been forgotten. And the ale.
Thunder growled overhead as Colin said, “They’ve plowed at least two fields. And the garden.”
“What about the house?” Sam asked. “The barn?”
And suddenly Colin understood. They were carpenters and masons and smiths. They could have been hired to help raise the barn, to help build the house.
But they hadn’t been. Just as they hadn’t been hired to help with the new buildings in Portstown, the mill or the granary.
He swallowed against the sourness in his stomach, against the faint taste of bile in the back of his throat, and said, “The barn is already up. The house isn’t finished, but—”
“But it’s been started,” his father finished for him as all four of them slumped back into their chairs.
Shay slammed his cards down onto the table. “Goddamned bloody cursed motherf—”
“Shay Jones!” his mother barked, and Shay leaped to his feet. “What!” he spat, face livid. “I can’t swear? The goddamned Proprietor is sucking our lives away—purposefully!—and I can’t bloody curse? What’s going to happen? Is the blessed Diermani going to strike me dead where I stand? Is He going to send lightning to crisp me into ash? Because at this point I’d bloody well welcome it!”
“Shay,” Colin’s father said, and then repeated more harshly. “Shay! Sit down!”
Shay collapsed back into his seat, but the rage on his face didn’t change. “What did we cross the bloody Arduon for? Not for this.” He motioned toward the rest of the hut, toward all of Lean-to. “Not to live in a shack, begging for menial work on the docks. Not scouring the beaches for crabs or scavenging the plains for rodents, just to eat.” Leaning forward, he hissed, “I didn’t give up an apprenticeship with one of the finest guilds in Andover for this. Something has got to change or, Diermani is my witness, I’ll make it change.”
He hesitated, eyes locked on Tom, then shoved back from the table, the crate he’d been sitting on tilting and tumbling to the ground. He’d ducked out into the storm, the shutter thrown aside, before anyone had even drawn a breath.
No one moved; Sam and Paul sat with stunned looks on their faces, cards held before them. Thunder rumbled.
Then Ana set her butchering knife down and wiped her hands on an already bloody cloth. “Well,” she said. “I’d say Shay’s a little . . . angry.”
“He’s not the only one,” Sam said, tossing his cards into the center of the table.
Ana hesitated at the warning in Sam’s voice, then moved toward the entrance to the hut to replace the shutter.
“A large group of people in Lean-to have gotten tired of waiting,” Colin’s father said.
“Some of them have already left,” Sam added. “The Havensworths gave up and returned to Andover. They used the last of their money for passage. The Colts and the Ferruses both took ship to other settlements along the coast.”
“The Wrights packed up and headed inland, to settle their own land,” Ana said with a huff.
“And the Wrights haven’t been heard from since,” Colin’s father said meaningfully, watching his mother’s back. “I’m not a farmer, Ana. I’m a carpenter. I don’t think we’d survive long if I simply packed you and Colin up and headed off into the plains alone. And we don’t have any funds left to get passage back to Andover or even down the coast.”
After a moment, his father shifted, gaze dropping back to Sam and Paul. “But Shay is right. Sartori is doing everything he can to push us out, to force us to leave, and I’m tired of it. Tired of the restrictions, of the pressure. Of the threats that are becoming more and more overt, like the presence of the Armory. Something needs to change. Soon. If it doesn’t . . .”
Paul snorted. “Shay isn’t one to waste words when action will do. And he’s got plenty of followers. He’s been recruiting from the dissidents in Lean-to, the criminals who opted for the New World rather than the Armor y in Andover, and there’s a lot more of them here than honest folk. There’s what? Thirty guildsmen here in Lean-to? There are four times as many of them. It could get ugly.”
Ana frowned as she returned, her eyes going to Colin. She hugged him from behind and murmured, “I don’t want you going into town, Colin. Not for the next few days.”
Colin pulled out of her embrace. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what Shay might do.” When Colin rolled his eyes, she added, “And because I said so! Now, go take this bucket of innards to Nate. He’ll make good use of it.”
“But it’s raining!”
“I don’t care,” his mother said, voice black, and she held out the bucket. “Now go! And stick to this area of Lean-to, where the craftsmen are!”
Colin sighed in exasperation, but he took the bucket. Because of the warning in his mother’s voice and the look he got from his father.
But he didn’t intend to stay out of Portstown.
The next day, Colin told his mother he was going hunting, but as soon as he left the outskirts of Lean-to, he cut around the edge of the shacks and tents and headed toward the town. He carried his satchel, hung over one shoulder, and his sling was tied to his forearm, the straps and pouch for the stone bundled up in his hand. He’d worn a long-sleeve shirt, so that the crisscrossed ties of the sling would be hidden, the cuff rolled back slightly so that it wouldn’t interfere with his throw. He wanted to be ready.
He entered the town from the north, a flutter of nervousness tightening in his gut as he passed through the outermost houses. Low stone fences surrounded the town now, separating the ramshackle Lean-to on the rise above from the land Sartori had given to some of the more influential members of the port. The stone walls—fieldstone mostly, although some had used the water-worn stone from the shore—marked the boundaries of the different estates. As Colin came upon a dirt lane, he peered over the low walls, curious, and tried not to scowl. These were the houses of the nobility, the tradesmen and lesser nobles, or those that fancied themselves nobles here in New Andover. The stone walls were broken by iron gates, and carriage houses and stables hid behind the main houses, even though there were only two carriages in all of Portstown. Ornamental gardens had been planted inside the walls, the trees young, barely twice Colin’s height, the hedges trimmed, the rose bushes pruned. Colin saw stable hands cleaning out the stables, a servant’s face appearing briefly in one window before vanishing, but no one else. Not here. Most of the regular people in Portstown would be down at the docks, or in the market in the center of town.
The lanes between the estates ended at the beginning of Water Street and the docks. Colin slowed as soon as he stepped onto the new planking of the wharf, his eyes immediately drawn to the Armory guardsmen that stood at the end of the first dock. Dressed in leather armor, white shirts with the Carrente Family crest, breeches, and a metal helm with points to the front and back, they stood out from the rest of the men that lined the wharf. Two of them carried swords, sheathed; the third carried a pike. One of the swordsmen grimaced as Colin moved forward onto the wharf, pointing with his pipe before puffing on it and blowing smoke in Colin’s direction. Colin frowned, and the guardsman snickered before turning away.
The docks weren’t empty, but they weren’t crowded either. A few men were toting crates from a stack at the end of the wharf, a boy younger than Colin sitting watch. Another group moved barrels marked with the Carrente Family sigil onto the back of a wagon, grunting and cursing. On the second dock, workers were readying for the arrival of another ship, although when Colin shaded his eyes and stared out at the dark waves of the ocean he couldn’t see anything on the horizon. No ships were berthed in Portstown, but numerous boats were out in the channel between Portstown and the outer banks of the Strand, the stretch of sand that protected the coast from the worst of the storms that came from the sea.
Colin hesitated at the end of the dock, watching the preparations long enough that the Armory guardsmen finally shifted and began drifting in his direction. Before they’d made it halfway to his position, he stepped off the wooden planks of the wharf back onto the dirt road and headed deeper into town.
The buildings closest to the docks were taverns and the mercantiles of the trading companies, with stables or small warehouses in back for storing supplies over short periods of time. Behind these lay the wide town square, the Proprietor’s estate on the far side surrounded by another stone wall, higher than those of the lesser nobles. Diermani’s church sat to one side, a graveyard in the back. There were more people here: townspeople, women walking in pairs, headed toward the mercantiles, children with dogs in tow, a few men. Colin wove through them, trying not to be seen, ignoring the occasional look of disdain, the furrowed brows, the sniffs and huffs of the women. He’d intended to pass through the square quickly, there and then gone—
But he slowed before the church, halted. He stared up at the steeple and the tilted cross against the clouds and sky, and hesitated.
“It always calms me, even in the worst of times.”
Colin ripped his gaze away from Diermani’s cross and spun toward the voice, his heart thudding hard in his chest. His hand tightened on the sling, then relaxed as he spotted the priest standing a few steps behind him, watching him solemnly. About the same age as his father, the priest’s eyes were dark, his face tanned, but his hair was fair, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Dust from the marketplace coated the bottom of his black robe, but the white length of cloth draped over his shoulders was pristine and vibrant in the sun.
Wrinkles creased the priest’s brow as he regarded Colin a moment, then cleared. “You’re from Lean-to,” he said. “That’s why I don’t recognize you.” He hesitated, half turned toward the Proprietor’s manse, then halted. Irritation flashed across his face, as if he were angry at himself, and then he smiled. “Would you like to see inside?”
Colin frowned in suspicion, but his heart quickened. Everyone in the guild back in Andover had spoken of the great churches, of the work they’d been commissioned to do inside them, some of the finest that the guild had to offer. No one but a master could take on such an endeavor. His father had been awestruck for weeks after gaining journeyman and being allowed entrance into the cathedral in Trent. “Yes, Patris.”
The priest’s eyes widened slightly. “So you know a little of the church.” He stepped forward, one hand guiding Colin toward the steps and the entrance. “I am a Patris, yes, but here in New Andover we aren’t as formal. You can call me Brindisi.”
They’d reached the main wooden doors, built of heavy oak. Brindisi opened one side, motioning Colin through, then followed, swinging the door closed behind him. Brindisi stepped forward, but he paused partway into the sanctuary and turned when Colin did not move to follow him. “What’s wrong?”
Colin didn’t answer. He breathed in the scent of newly worked wood thickened with the heavy taint of oil and some type of incense. A wooden lattice, intricate in detail, separated the entrance from the main sanctuary, where pews formed neat ranks between high, arched windows and heavy banners, all beneath a vaulted ceiling. A huge cross filled the recess behind the altar on the far side of the room, draped with thick folds of white and red cloth, the central beam tall and straight, the crossbeam tilted downward. Below, a long, narrow basin of water gleamed beneath the light of dozens of candles, separated from the pews by another carved railing of wood. Everything had the mark of the carpenter’s guild on it, intricate and fine, the pews solid, all of it worked with fine oils to a polished sheen, even the recesses of the windows.
And his father hadn’t had anything to do with it. Because his father belonged to the Bontari Family.
Brindisi took a step toward him. “You can enter the sanctuary. Diermani accepts everyone.”
He turned a harsh glare on Brindisi. “Even a Bontari?”
Then he turned and fled the heady scent of worked wood, a scent he thought he’d forgotten on the three-month voyage to the New World and the time they’d spent here. He heard Brindisi call for him to wait, but he ignored him, shoving through the door into the bright outer sunlight. He stumbled down the steps, stood blinking as his eyes adjusted, his hand squeezed tight on the sling as anger assailed him. An anger tinged with doubt, with guilt.
He wondered what his mother would think of what he intended to do. His mother, who wore Diermani’s tilted cross on a chain around her neck.
He shoved the doubt aside, shot a glare toward Sartori’s estate, thought about the Armory on the wharf, of his father’s face every time he returned from town with nothing. The scent of wood filled his nostrils. Then he turned and headed farther south, toward the warehouses, toward the end of Water Street.
Toward where he knew Walter and his gang would be.
He saw Walter, Brunt, Gregor, and Rick before they saw him. Even then, fear tingled through his skin, setting the hairs on the backs of his arms on end and settling with an all too familiar queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. One hand clutching unconsciously to the satchel at his side, he ducked out of sight behind another warehouse. Breath coming fast and harsh, he fought the urge to run, to flee back to Lean-to, back to the quiet of the plains. He thought of how they’d beaten him until he’d pissed his pants, thought about how they’d humiliated him, how they’d driven him from the town too many times since then to count . . . and when his breath had slowed enough that he was no longer panting, when the fear had abated enough that he could loosen the fist that clenched the sling, he shifted to the corner and peered around it to watch.
“Move faster, you slackers!” Walter bellowed, leaning against a cask set to the side of the warehouse door. Behind him, his cronies snickered where they lounged among a stack of empty crates and barrels. “My father wants this cart unloaded and back to the wharf before the next ship arrives.”
The leader of the work crew cast Walter a dark glare, but he said, “You heard the little whore’s son. Let’s get this cart finished, lads.”
Walter bristled, face going a stark red, the leader of the crew barely containing a smile as Walter’s gang burst out in laughter. One of the crew snorted, then heaved and swung one of the heavy sacks up onto his shoulder with a grunt.
Before he’d gone two steps, Walter shifted away from the cask and caught the man’s ankle with his foot.
The man staggered, tried to catch his balance, but Walter jerked his foot from underneath him, and he crashed to the street with a curse. The sack landed with the rip of burlap. Grain hissed from the rent in the sack, spreading across the ground in a smooth fan of gold.
The leader of the crew leaped forward and knelt beside his worker. “What in the seven hells happened?”
“His little royal pissant tripped me,” the man growled, wincing as he tried to move his shoulder.
The leader glared at Walter, the tolerant anger he’d shown before now slipping into rage.
“I did no such thing,” Walter said. “Your incompetent worker fell. Isn’t that right, Brunt?”
Walter’s heavy sidled up to Walter’s back. “Yup. He fell. Tripped over his own feet.”
“The sad sack can’t even carry a sack of grain,” Rick threw in from behind, then began to giggle.
Colin’s shoulders tensed, right between the shoulder blades, and he found himself breathing harder.
The leader stood slowly, the rest of the work crew halting and gathering behind him. He stepped over the fallen man’s body. Walter faced the man with confidence, his grin not faltering until the moment the leader’s hand snaked out, gripped Walter by the front of his shirt, and hauled him in close.
“I’ve had enough of your attitude,” he said, voice low, but carrying in the sudden deathly silence, “and of you throwing out orders like you’re the Proprietor himself. You’re nothing but the second son of a privileged landholder. A bastard son at that. You won’t amount to anything.”
Then he pulled back, hand clenched into a tight fist. Colin felt hope surge up into this throat, almost fell out of his hiding place behind the warehouse—
But then someone muttered, “What’s going on here?”
A man emerged from a cross street, accompanied by a contingent of Armor y guardsmen dressed like those Colin had seen on the dock. The man was dressed in the fine silks of the nobility— white shirt with ruffles at the neck and down the front, loose sleeves, a blue vest over it with gold-painted buttons and gilt stitching. The tailored brown breeches were tucked into kneehigh boots. He wore a powdered wig, the hair stark white in the sunlight, and a hat whose sides were folded up to form a rough triangle.
Everyone in the work crew—and in Walter’s gang—froze. The leader of the crew lowered his fist and released Walter’s shirt with obvious reluctance before stepping back.
“Nothing, Proprietor Sartori. We’ve simply had a . . . mishap.”
Sartori held the leader’s gaze a moment, then shot a glance toward Walter. The lines around his eyes and mouth tightened. “Is this true, Walter? Was this an accident?”
Walter tried to flatten the creases in his shirt as he answered. “Yes, sir. An accident.”
Sartori drew in a deep breath. “I see. Accidents seem to happen on a regular basis in your vicinity.” Walter seemed about to protest, but his father cut him off. “I don’t recall sending you here to oversee this shipment.”
“You didn’t. But I thought with my brother out at the new mill—”
“That you could be helpful. Ah, yes. I understand. Since it appears that this shipment is almost unloaded, perhaps you could be helpful . . . elsewhere.”
A black look crossed Walter’s face, but he hid it from his father by looking toward the ground. “Yes, sir.”
Turning toward his gang, he motioned Brunt, Gregor, and Rick down the street, heading directly toward Colin. Behind them, the leader of the crew attempted to apologize, but Sartori waved him silent.
“Clean this up as best you can,” the Proprietor said. “Then report to the docks. I’m expecting the arrival of the Tradewind today, along with . . . someone of significance to the West Wind Trading Company. I need you there.”
And then Colin heard Walter mutter, “Look what I see, boys. A loiterer from Lean-to.”
Colin’s gaze dropped from Sartori to Walter, now only twenty paces away.
His heart leaped into his throat. Then he spat a curse and dodged behind the cover of the warehouse.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, down the length of the warehouse, the tread of Walter’s gang close behind. As soon as they were out of sight of his father, Walter began calling out names, taunting Colin as he ran, joined by Brunt and Gregor and Rick. Pulse thudding in his neck, in his chest, Colin cut left at the end of the street, cut right again after that, slipping in the dry grit of the street as he took the corner too fast. Catching himself with his left arm, he rolled, hip hitting the hard-packed earth with a wrench, but he used the momentum to swing back up into a crouch and then leaped forward. It gave him a brief glance of Walter and his gang coming up from behind. But the older boys weren’t moving fast, had barely managed to close any distance at all, confident they would catch up.
And after the incident with Sartori, blind and stupid enough to continue following him.
Colin suppressed a grin, then sprinted for the far end of the street.
When Walter and his gang finally rounded the last corner, they found Colin standing in the middle of the back street, feet spread, satchel on the ground to one side, waiting. All four of them ground to a halt, Brunt snorting in derision.
“Looks like the Bontari squatter is begging for a bruising,” he muttered.
Colin said nothing, which made Walter frown. He shifted to the front of the group, wary, Brunt to his immediate left, Gregor and Rick to his right, but a step behind. Only Gregor seemed to pick up on Walter’s hesitation.
Walter’s gaze flicked down toward Colin’s satchel, then toward the hand Colin held behind his back. “What do you have in your hand?”
Colin brought his hand forward. A strange prickling sensation coursed through his skin. Fear and excitement and anticipation all mixed together smothered him like a wool blanket, so thick it felt hard to breath.
“It’s something my father gave me,” he said.
He let the pouch go, but held onto the knot, felt the cords unravel, felt the sling jerk when it reached the end of the straps, then swing there, a stone already in place.
Gregor sucked in a sharp breath, but Walter and the rest frowned in confusion.
“What is it?” Rick asked.
“It’s a sling.” Gregor had already taken a step backward, had begun to turn.
Walter’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Colin. “He doesn’t know how to use it.”
Colin smiled. A moment before Gregor broke and ran, he saw a flicker of doubt in Walter’s eyes.
Colin wound up and threw without any conscious thought, the tingling sensation surging through his arms, into his fingers.
Gregor was the tallest of the four, the easiest to target, the easiest to hit. The stone struck him in the back of the head before he’d taken three steps and he fell to the ground like a sack of grain, landing with a dull thud, arms and legs loose and gangly, dust rising in a puff.
“Diermani’s balls!” Brunt shouted. Rick took a step away from
Gregor’s body, eyes wide.
Walter didn’t even turn to look. His entire face had gone taut with rage.
Colin slipped another stone into the sling, began twirling it by his side.
“Is he dead?” Walter asked.
Rick hesitated, then sidled close enough he could look and still keep Colin in sight. Colin had used an underhanded swing to hit Gregor, not an overhead one, and he hadn’t used enough force to kill, but he’d learned that you could never be certain of the outcome when dealing with a sling.
“He’s still breathing,” Rick said, his voice cracking with relief. “Good.” Walter’s eye darkened. “Brunt, take care of the little pissant.”
Colin turned his attention to Brunt. Walter’s heavy hesitated, shifted from one foot to another, but then Walter shot him a black glare, and with a roar of anger Brunt charged forward.
Warm terror flooded through Colin as Brunt bore down on him, his arm tightening, the swing increasing. He waited a single breath, two, Brunt closing in with surprising speed, and then let the knot go.
A dark splotch of red bloomed on Brunt’s forehead, but Brunt didn’t slow. Colin took a startled step backward, reached to place another stone with his opposite hand, knew he wouldn’t have enough time to load it, swing, and throw before Brunt hit him—
But then Brunt’s legs gave out beneath him. He toppled forward, knees hitting the street first with a sickening crunch, body following gracelessly, a surprised expression cutting through the rage in his eyes. His face slammed into the dirt, then ground forward an inch before coming to a halt.
He didn’t move, his arms stretched out by his sides.
Colin gasped and swallowed, wiped the sudden sweat from his face, then grinned at Walter as he placed another stone in the sling. “Now what, Walter? You’ve lost your heavy, and you’ve lost your thinker. Who’s next?”
Rick bolted for the end of the street, but Colin didn’t care. His gaze remained fixed on Walter, on the livid expression on his face, on the cold, hard desperate sensation of satisfaction that coursed through his own body, making him tremble. Stepping around Brunt’s limp form, he let the stone fly before Walter had time to move, before the dust from Brunt’s landing had even settled to the ground.
And he didn’t aim for Walter’s head.
Walter screamed, the rage on his face transformed into pure pain as he clutched at his groin and toppled to the ground. The scream bled down into harsh sobbing as Colin advanced, another stone in place, the sling already swinging, even though Colin couldn’t remember reloading. A sheet of white rage fell over him, blinded him to everything but Walter, writhing on the ground, everything but the sound of the cords of the sling as he whirled it at his side, everything but the remembered taste of bitter blood in his mouth and the stench of his own urine soaking his breeches.
“That was for my father!” he yelled, moving forward slowly, his voice wild, cracking with emotion. He let the second stone fly, the rock catching Walter hard in the chest. “And that was for my mother!” Walter groaned and rolled away, hands between his legs, body curled into a tight ball, his fine clothes covered with dust and dirt from the street.
Colin had moved too close to use the sling. He circled the Proprietor’s son, blood pounding in his ears as he glared down at him. “And this is for me.”
He kicked Walter in the stomach, hard, as hard as he could. He wanted to see him piss his pants, wanted him to taste blood, but the arms that protected Walter’s balls also protected his gut. The kick landed awkwardly, and with it, all of the intensity of Colin’s rage and terror fled. He stood over Walter’s body, breathing hard, body flushed, the prickling sensation in his skin feverish now, sticky. He wiped at his nose with one hand, realized that tears streaked his face, hot tears, but he didn’t care. The urge—the need—to beat Walter unconscious died.
He turned, glanced at Brunt’s prone form, at Gregor’s, shame mingling with the heat of anger. He’d imagined running away from the encounter triumphant, laughing like a maniac, grinning like a madman.
Instead, he scrubbed the tears and snot from his face with one arm, cast one last glance at Walter where he lay, moaning and rocking back and forth in the dirt—
Then he turned and walked away, head down.
His mother knew something was wrong the moment he pushed through the entrance to the hut. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had thought she’d be out to the north of Lean-to, where the refugees had claimed and dug up their own section of land, had planted and now tended their own crops. A plot of ground small enough for Sartori to ignore but enough to provide Lean-to with some fresh vegetables.
“Colin?” she asked, setting the cloth she was stitching down in her lap. “Colin, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t look at her. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he stalked over to his pallet, tossed his satchel and sling to one side, and collapsed onto the blanket, lying with his back to the rest of the hut, his arms crossed over his chest, hands hugging his shoulders. He still felt overheated, the skin of his face tight, and his chest ached. So much that it was difficult to breathe.
He stared at the back wall of the hut, at the planks his father had bought when they’d first arrived in Portstown. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He felt lost. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to feel. He knew he shouldn’t have led Walter to that back street. He knew it.
Yet part of him thrilled at the idea that it had worked. Part of him reveled in the bewildered expression on Brunt’s face before he collapsed, in the terror on Gregor’s when he’d seen the sling.
And he couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching into a tight smile when he heard Walter’s scream of pain as the first stone caught him in the balls.
Colin shuddered, trapped between the smile and the feverish guilt, then stilled as he heard the rustle of shifting clothes behind him, his mother moving closer, then kneeling at his back.
He flinched when she laid her hand over his. “Colin, what happened?”
He drew breath to answer . . . but couldn’t. Because he knew she’d be angry, after everything she’d taught him about the Codex of Diermani, after everything he’d learned.
But her disappointment in him would be worse.
“Nothing.” His voice sounded thick and hoarse, deeper than usual, as if he’d been sobbing uncontrollably for hours. Or as if he’d been shouting. “Nothing happened.”
His mother’s hand began rubbing his shoulder as she considered this. Colin could feel her thinking, could feel her debating whether to press him.
But then she patted his hand and stood, moving back to her work.
“Your father and the others have gone down to the docks. There’s a new ship expected today, and they’re hoping to get some work unloading the cargo. As soon as I’m finished here with the stitching, do you think you could run the clothes up to Miriam? She should have a few loaves of bread for us in return.”
She spoke as if nothing were wrong, as if nothing had happened. But Colin could feel her eyes on his back, so he nodded.
“Good.”
And then she left him alone, working in silence behind him. Slowly, the ache in his chest receded, and he could no longer feel the blood pulsing in his skin, in his throat. He found he could breathe.
When he finally rolled over, arms sluggish, body tired, as if exhausted, he found her watching him, her brow creased slightly in concern.
“All right?” she asked, her voice soft and calm.
He nodded, even though it wasn’t. He didn’t think it would ever be all right again.
His mother accepted the nod, and somehow that made it worse. She handed over the basket of clothes with a smile, reached to tousle his hair, but then caught herself, a fleeting expression of regret passing through her eyes.
“Don’t forget the bread,” she said.
Colin ducked out of the hut, paused outside. He squinted up at the afternoon light, the sun almost too bright, then headed off up the slope toward Miriam’s, moving slowly.
He hadn’t gone twenty paces when Karen fell into step beside him. She smiled when he looked up, then glanced down at the basket of clothing.
“Finally learned to wash your own clothes?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice.
He rolled his eyes. “No. These are for Miriam. My mother mended them.”
“Oh.” Karen hesitated, then added, “Mind if I join you?” Colin answered her with a confused look and she laughed.
“I’m headed that way anyway,” she said. “We may as well walk together, right?”
Colin shrugged. “I guess.” He didn’t want to deal with Karen. Not now.
Karen gave him a questioning look. “Is there anything wrong? You seem . . . different somehow.”
“Different from what?”
“I don’t know. Different from when we crashed into each other by the stream.”
Colin blushed. “We’ve seen each other since then.”
“I know,” Karen said. “I’ve seen you watching me.”
The blush suddenly deepened, and Colin found he couldn’t speak.
Karen grinned. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been watching you as well. Down on the beach, practicing with your sling, and here in Lean-to when you helped your father and his friends build the community oven, and dig the plot for the garden, and any of a hundred other small things. You’re pretty good with the sling.”
Colin ducked his head, but not because of the compliment. He thought of Walter writhing on the ground instead. “Not that good.”
“That’s not what my dad says.” She eyed him from the side. They’d almost reached Miriam’s tent. “You usually bring back at least one kill every time you go hunting. That’s something to be proud of.”
Colin was about to respond when a voice he recognized—a voice that filled him with dread—barked, “That’s him! That’s the bastard who attacked me!”
Colin spun, Karen turning beside him. He saw Walter almost instantly, noticed the two guardsmen in the Carrente crest a moment later. Seeing the Armory in the middle of Lean-to, where they’d never dared enter before, sent a shock down through his spine and froze his feet in place. Seeing the pure hatred on Walter’s face made his heart shudder.
His only thought was that he’d left his sling back in the hut. Karen raised a hand 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 Karen, “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 shouted 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.
Then, 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 saidsoftly, “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.