Well of Sorrows (8 page)

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 tearstreaked 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!”

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.”