Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (53 page)

“Then we'll come back and get her later,” the noble suggested, with a dark, nasty smile. “With cavalry. We'll see how you like that, you stupid pagan goatfucker.”

The first leatherworker didn't bother drawing his sword, he simply punched the noble in the face. With a roar the two sides leapt at each other, barehanded, and the face-off disintegrated into a brawling mass of flying fists. Tables collapsed, chairs were picked up and hurled, bodies went crashing and wrestling to the floor. A Goeren-yai tried to throw a townsman through a window, missed, and crashed him headfirst into the wall instead. Another townsman dropped a Goeren-yai out cold with an impressive left, only to be crash-tackled into the bar by his companion.

Sofy scampered into a relatively safe corner with the woman, the two of them shielding the little girl. Sofy watched in disbelief as several of the younger lads danced about the perimeter of the fight, yelling encouragement to their fathers and uncles, and handing them chairs at need. No one had yet gone for their blades, however, in which respect the riotous confusion held to a remarkable discipline. If it weren't so completely preposterous, Sofy might have sworn that many of the men seemed to be…
enjoying
themselves.

“Oh how ridiculous,” said the Goeren-yai woman at Sofy's side, wincing as a man toppled backward over a table nearby. “I can't take my men anywhere. This is the third brawl this year.” The fallen man leapt back to his feet…he was Verenthane, and the woman reached out her foot and tripped him as he sprung forward. He stumbled, and his opponent took advantage, hurling him bodily into a wall, then pummelling him with fists. Sofy blinked at the woman, but she seemed far more interested in following the fight. Sofy
wondered what Sasha would do. Probably the same as the other women, she decided. Against men, Sasha fought with her blade, or not at all.

A new arrival barrelled in through the door, a tall man with red hair flying. Teriyan. He grabbed a townsman, locked an arm with an athletic twist, spun whilst falling and
threw
…the townsman went shoulder-first through the bar, wood splintering as the innkeep ducked for cover. Another townsman came swinging, but Teriyan blocked, ducked, then lashed, lightning fast, catching his opponent in the jaw. The man staggered, caught Teriyan's boot in the groin, then an elbow smash to the side of the face that dropped him like a sack of vegetables.

“Oh, he's good!” enthused Sofy's companion. “He's an expert, you can tell.”

Indeed, Teriyan's arrival seemed to swing the fight and suddenly there were more Goeren-yai standing than townsmen. Another townsman was outflanked and dragged down, and a big Goeren-yai simply grabbed one smaller man and threw him out the window…which was closed, naturally. Glass crashed and fell, and then the remaining townsmen were backing away, making a dash for the door, or the broken window. The Goeren-yai men let them go, followed by much cheering and shouted abuse at the retreating men's backs as they ran, holding several hobbling injured between them.

The Goeren-yai woman abandoned her daughter to Sofy's care, dashing forward to assist one groaning, half conscious Goeren-yai on the floor. A Verenthane townsman was hauling himself up, his face bloody, legs refusing to cooperate as he clutched to a table. One of the leatherworkers went to him, and the townsman's hand went to the knife at his belt.

“Hey!” said the leatherworker firmly. “None of that, stranger. You put up a good fight and you lost, no shame in that. Now don't be a damn fool and spoil everyone's fun.”

The townsman's hand retreated from his belt. Even through the blood, he looked a little shamefaced.

“Did you see my daddy hit that man?” asked the girl in Sofy's care. She was beaming with delight. “He hit him so hard his face broke!” Well, Sofy supposed, Sasha had always said she should get out sometime and see the real Lenayin. Now she had. And she was learning why her people made lowlanders nervous.

“Hey there, M'girl!” said Teriyan, spotting her and striding over, sweaty and enthusiastic, yet not so triumphant as the others. “Is he here yet?”

The messenger, Sofy remembered. “No!” she replied, anxiously. “Maybe this will have scared him away!”

“Well he better get here fast before the real soldiers get here. What happened?”
Sofy told him. Teriyan looked grim. “Damn, they'll be back then. For any old brawl they wouldn't bother, but if he was after you…”

“I don't think he…”
knew who I am
, she nearly completed, but silenced herself with a glance down at the little girl.

Teriyan crouched before the girl. “What's your name, petal?”

“Rassy,” said the girl.

Teriyan tipped her nose with a calloused finger. “Did you like that fight, Rassy?”

Rassy looked uncertain, her face screwed up with conflicting emotions. “No. But…well, we won.”

“Aye we did!” Teriyan beamed at her. “Goeren-yai always win when we stick together. Don't forget it!”

“Excuse me,” came a nervous voice to their side. Teriyan and Sofy both looked, but the young, swordless lad of perhaps fourteen years had eyes solely for Sofy, wide like saucers. He smelled of horses. “Are you…I mean, M'Lady…are you…?”

“Oh
there
you are!” Sofy said happily, put a hand on his shoulder and steered him out to the verandah as though he were an old friend. The men in the inn were preoccupied with settling their mess. “I'm just a common town girl,” she told the boy in a low voice once outside, “and you'd best remember it or my friend here will get angry.” Teriyan had followed them out, and loomed alongside.

The boy nodded hastily. “M'Lady, I was sent by Lieutenant Hamys…I was working in the stables as usual, and he comes to me, and he says—”

“Does he know where Jaryd is?” Sofy interrupted impatiently.

The boy nodded. “There's a small place on the edge of the main square, only you don't enter from there, you get in from an alley at the back. It's…it's where the lords keep their secret liquors and weed for big celebrations, the ones they don't want the priests to know about…”

Oh aye, Sofy had heard of
those.
Rumours were that Myklas and some of his stupid friends liked to keep such a place somewhere in the palace, to the scandalised horror of their elder brother Wyldred. A place with servants would never do, because servants always gossiped.

“Then it'll be small and dark with probably a few guards,” she said to Teriyan, guessing what the big man would want to know. “Probably there'll only be one way in or out, it has to be isolated, Jaryd's still plenty popular with enough people, Arastyn couldn't risk putting him any place where lots of people might have access…”

“Perfect,” said Teriyan.

“Oh, no wait,” said Sofy, recognising that look immediately. “Isn't there some way to do it quietly? I mean…”

“It'll be quiet enough,” said Teriyan. “But if there's only one way in and out, it's not like there's lots of options.”

“Tomorrow, the lieutenant says,” added the boy, anxiously. “During the wedding when everyone will be in temple.”

Teriyan beamed at the lad. “Sounds like a plan!”

T
O FIND TROUBLE ON THE MIDSLOPE
, one needed only to follow the sound of the yelling. Sasha and Errollyn climbed along alleys and darted across narrow streets, seeing men and women running, and children being ushered inside. There was tension in the air, as thick as the sky was grey.

Sasha pressed herself to a street corner and edged a look each way—the street turned downhill to the left. To the right, it opened onto mostly abandoned market stalls. She listened for the familiar city sounds—the cry of a water carrier, the clatter of wheels on cobbles, the clangour of a smithy. Today, there was nothing but the yelling, coming from somewhere upslope, very near.

Errollyn yanked her sharply backward, and a hiss cut the air, a bolt striking the stone by her corner and clattering away. Errollyn thrust her behind him, drew an arrow and aimed around the corner. “Several windows,” he said. “I see no target, it could have been any of them.”

Sasha's heart recovered, and she heaved a deep breath. “It was a crossbow. He'll take time to reload. Let's go.”

They dashed across the street to the opposing lane mouth and sprang up a short flight of steps. Sasha rounded a bend cautiously, and heard a warning hiss. She flattened herself to the wall. Behind her, Errollyn gave a whistle. Ahead, another whistle answered.

“Have you ever tasted eel?” came a whisper from ahead, in Saalsi.

“I've tasted every foul, slimy thing that swims and farts and shits in that ocean,” Sasha muttered in reply, also in Saalsi, unpeeling herself from the wall. “Get me a steak and I'll marry you.”

A man stepped from behind a crooked wall, blond and thin-bearded. Bret. “Done,” he said with a grin. “I'll enjoy being husband to a princess.”

“The way I'm going,” Sasha said as she joined him, “all you'll inherit is a sore head and an early grave.”

“I expect those anyway.” There were another three men with him, Sasha saw, crouching along the lane ahead. The sound of shouting was barely beyond the next line of houses now. And she could smell fire.

“Where's Kessligh?” Sasha asked Bret.

“Preparing defences,” he said, grimly. “You didn't see him?”

“I saw lots of people running around Dockside putting up barricades,” said Sasha. “I didn't know he was directing it, I just got back from fishing and found this.”

“You heard Father Berin is dead?” Errollyn asked. Bret stared at him. A younger lad further along gave a small cry of dismay.

“Shit,” said Bret, fuming. “So much for the negotiated solution. Some of us were hoping the archbishop would seek to resolve this quietly. Instead, he's declared war.”

“Nothing that dignified,” Sasha snorted. “He panicked, like a small boy in his first stick fight. He lost his advantage, events took an unexpected turn and now he's gone completely wild.”

“It's to be expected from fanatics,” said Errollyn. “King Leyvaan did it in Saalshen—he thought he was divine, so he ignored martial common sense and paid for it. Fanatics always defeat themselves in the end.”

Sasha gave him a cynical look. “Surely not always?”

Errollyn exhaled hard. “What happens here?” He gestured up the slope to the sounds of turmoil. “That's House Gesheldin under attack?”

“Attack is too strong a word,” said Bret. “Some worshippers from a nearby temple tried to storm the house with rocks and tools, but there's ten
talmaad
in there with bows, so they haven't had much luck. I've suggested to Daerlerin that he should evacuate while he has time, but he says otherwise.”

Errollyn made a face. “Daerlerin is stubborn. If it remains just this mob, he can hold out indefinitely. What more do we know?”

“Our knowledge of anything beyond the ridge is slight,” said Bret. “There may be many gathering in Backside and Riverside, but we won't know until they get here.”

“The patachis could block them from crossing the ridge,” Sasha said hopefully.

“And stand before the archbishop's holy mob?” said Errollyn. “Why should they?”

“It's too early for the patachis to declare war on Saalshen. They can't afford it.”

“They can afford to lose the archbishop even less,” Errollyn said grimly. “They'll watch the bodies pile up, and offer sage advice afterward. There's no time, we have to convince Daerlerin and the other
talmaad
to evacuate to Dockside. I'll go and talk to him.”

“That could be a problem,” Bret remarked.

Errollyn gave him a cool, almost surprised look. “Surely not?”

The lane climbed up several broken steps and emerged onto the higher road at an angle, above which a tall building rose. Errollyn crawled up the steps as Sasha waited back, anxiously watching. Arrowfire whistled, and a bolt clattered off the building below a window. Rocks followed, bouncing harmlessly. Sasha could hear individual words in the shouting, now. It was obscene, the language of bigotry. She'd never actually heard it herself.

As Errollyn approached the top step, a man with a crossbow ducked into the lane just above Errollyn's head. The man took aim at a window but was immediately struck by an arrow, and fell tumbling backward down the stairs, crossbow clattering. He rolled at Sasha's feet, head bloodied and unconscious, a shaft through his shoulder.

“Poor shot,” Sasha remarked to Errollyn.

“An excellent shot,” Errollyn disagreed. A second man darted into the alley and fell with a shout as Errollyn simply yanked him down the stairs. He sprawled awkwardly across his comrade's legs.

Sasha levelled her sword at his neck. “There's a reason most townsfolk don't risk even a peek down the alleys,” she told him. He stared in terror, clutching his arm.

“We can't take prisoners,” Bret complained.

“No problem,” said another man, hauling the injured man to his feet and punching him in the head. He fell hard…possibly too hard. Sasha gritted her teeth and looked elsewhere, disliking the necessity, but reasoning that there were people in Petrodor far more deserving of her sympathy than rioting bigots.

Errollyn peered around the corner. “Twenty paces that way,” he said, pointing left, loud enough to be heard above the yelling and clatter of stones. “Around forty of them, about half with some kind of weapon. I couldn't see much that way…” pointing right, “the road bends uphill, but I'd guess about the same. There's some blood on the street, but no serrin arrows. The archers can hold them off from this side, the real trouble will be at the back of the house.”