Stonewall had spotted the trouble too; he silently signaled Flint and Milo, who set the kuvlu back down before they hurried toward the guards, though Milo heard the sergeant bid farewell to the merchant before they left. As they drew closer to the guards, Milo caught words like “barbarian,” and “thrall,” the latter of which set his blood to racing as he glanced around, searching for a demon. No sign of anyone with glowing eyes, but Milo mentally prepared himself and rested a hand on one of his daggers, just in case.
“Captain,” Stonewall said as the sentinels reached the pair of city guards. The woman bore a captain’s insignia; at Stonewall’s call, she glanced his way and nudged her companion.
“Serla Sentinel,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “What can we do for you?”
Stonewall pointed to the mob and the merchants. “They’re the ones who need your assistance. We can help if you–”
“No need,” the captain broke in, frowning beneath her helmet. “It’s just a couple of sixth tier dregs.”
Her companion spat upon the cobblestones. “Aye, scum from Cander, in a sodding gypsy wagon, no less. Don’t trouble yourselves with their kind, serlas.”
Milo’s jaw dropped open and he glanced at his sister, whose mouth pressed into a thin line. They each looked to the sergeant, who stared at the guard captain in a way that made Milo’s guts twist. Thank Mara he wasn’t at the receiving end of that glower.
“You’re guards for a reason,” Stonewall said tightly. “Those people need your help.”
The captain and her underling exchanged looks before she shrugged, then pointed her fellow guard in the opposite direction of the jeering mob. “With respect, Serla Sentinel, those dregs are not our problem. The Laughing God will sort them out.”
The two city guards turned their backs on the sentinels and ambled off towards the inner portion of the Eye. Stonewall’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched them go, then he glanced back at Milo and Flint, a question in his eyes.
“We’re with you, Stonewall,” Milo said as Flint gripped one of her daggers.
The sergeant nodded and the three of them made their way toward the mob. The crowd was so focused on the fracas, no one noticed the sentinels approaching until they were in the thick of the trouble. Milo's heart sank at the sight. The merchants at the Sufani wagon were older than the weapons dealer, and clearly outmatched. Their wares—a variety of musical instruments—rested on wooden stands in front of the wagon; a few had been knocked to the ground and one viol was already smashed to splinters. The couple stood back-to-back in a way that made Milo think they were not strangers to outside threats. The man was about Flint's height; slender, save for a bit of belly that meant he probably enjoyed his ale a little too much. By contrast, the woman was tall and sturdy. Her hair was white, faded into blonde at the tip of her thick braid, and her eyes were bluer than any Milo had ever seen.
“Canderi?” Flint murmured.
“Looks like she is,” Milo replied.
The man had flung one arm over the woman, glaring at the crowds. “Keep back, the lot of you. We've done nothing wrong!”
“Get that foul creature out of our city,” someone in the mob shouted. “Before she spreads her poison to the rest of us!”
Someone else called “demon,” and others took up the cry. A hail of small stones flew over Milo's head, toward the elderly couple, who ducked, trying to avoid being pelted.
Stonewall quickened his pace and shouldered through the crowd, Milo and Flint on his heels. Within seconds, the sentinels stood between the merchant couple and their attackers. Silence fell over the area as Stonewall faced the mob, his mouth a hard line. “Break it up,” he called. “Leave these folks alone and go about your business.”
“Why should we?” a woman shouted in reply. “Those sodding Canderi keep attacking us! My daughter lives in Parsa; they've already been hit. How many more will die?”
“Aye,” a younger man cried. “And how long until the barbarians come for us? How long before we're all raving monsters?”
“That won't happen,” Milo heard himself stammer. All eyes turned to him, but he managed to add, “We'll make sure of it.”
The first woman, whose iron-gray hair was coming undone from its braid, glared at Milo. “Oh, aye, like you’ve done so far? How many sentinels have the thralls slaughtered?”
“That’s right,” someone else called. “What sodding good are you hemies, if you can’t keep these monsters at bay?”
“It’s magic,” the young man added. “It must be. And those shits are useless against it.” He jabbed his finger at the sentinels as he spoke. “Maybe we should take matters into our own hands.”
Other folks in the crowd shouted agreement and the faces around the sentinels grew even darker as they pressed closer. A bead of sweat trickled down Milo’s back; he was acutely aware of how many people surrounded him and his squad-mates. More than he could take on in a fight, even if they were unarmed, although surely more than a few folks carried weapons of their own. Breath short, pulse drumming, he glanced at Sergeant Stonewall for direction.
The officer’s face showed his nerves, but at Milo’s look his expression solidified into one of pure authority. “I've fought many thralls,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. “And I can say for certain that these two are no more demons than I am.”
The young man glared right back. “But are the thralls caused by magic? Are the mages involved?”
“No,” Stonewall said without hesitation. “I don’t know where the thralls have come from, only how to kill them. But they are not caused by mages. You have my word on that, sers.”
“What about that Canderi filth?” the gray-haired woman asked, pointing to the merchants.
Flint lifted her chin. “Oh, leave these poor old sods alone. They’ve not done anything to you.”
“You heard her,” Stonewall said. “Kindly step back and go about your business.”
A handful of people still muttered and shot distrustful looks between the sentinels and the merchants, but Stonewall’s words seemed to mollify most of them. Though Milo wanted to believe it was the sentinels' mere presence that made the crowd comply, he did not miss the hasty glances at their swords and daggers, and at the armor itself. The bits of hematite embedded in the boiled leather glinted in the sunlight, no doubt creating an impressive spectacle. In any case, the angry glowers turned away and the crowd backed off, allowing Milo’s breath to come a little easier.
When the sergeant judged it safe to turn his back to the crowd, he glanced behind him at the elderly couple, both of whom gaped openly at the sentinels. “Are either of you injured? We have thalo.”
The man blinked at him, then shook his head. “No, Serla Sentinel. We're fine. Aren't we, Merti?”
This he said to his wife, whose gaze darted between the sentinels. “Aye, we're well. Thanks to you, serlas.” She swiped her eyes and gave a wavering smile. “Please, we must repay you for your kindness.”
Milo squared his shoulders. This was a sentinels' true purpose: to protect those who could not protect themselves. Yes, it was nice to occasionally be admired and respected. But nothing compared to the glow of rightness that filled him upon seeing the relief in the civilian’s gaze.
“Not necessary,” Stonewall started to say, but the woman straightened and looked him dead in the eye.
Though Merti's face was round and kind, she had her own sort of authoritative air. “None of that nonsense.” She considered something, then her blue eyes brightened. “Ah, I know just the thing! The best almond cakes you've ever had. Ged picked up a batch this morning – I smelled them and couldn't resist, you know. Who doesn't like sweets? Wait here.”
Without waiting for a reply, she clambered up the rickety steps of the wagon and ducked inside, while her husband remained outside, surveying the damage. “Ea's tits,” the man muttered, scratching his neck. “Why couldn't I have been a stonemason?”
***
Though the angry crowd had left, Stonewall could not subdue a prickle of unease. Mobs were dangerous and sometimes not easily banished. He'd seen more than his share during his years of service, and even some when he was a boy in Pillau. So he signaled to Flint and Milo with a jerk of his chin. “Keep an eye out, will you?”
The burnie twins took positions behind the wagon, leaving Stonewall alone with the Aredian man whose keen brown eyes studied the sentinel with interest. Stonewall guessed him to be in his sixties. “Name's Ged Irhorn,” the fellow said, offering a bow. “Merti's my wife.”
Stonewall bowed as well and gave his name. Ged regarded him, sweeping his gaze across the armor and weapons before turning his attention to the fallen instruments. “What brings you lot down to the Eye?”
“Had the morning off,” Stonewall replied. “I'm new to the city, and thought I'd like a look around.” He knelt before the shattered viol, suddenly filled with equal parts regret and wonder. Had Kali's been in a similar state? She'd said it'd been bad, but her magic had repaired the wood. He collected the largest pieces, including the delicate neck, and glanced at Ged. “I'm sorry, ser; I think this one's done for.”
Ged sighed as he accepted the viol. “You're probably right, lad. Shame. This was one of my finer pieces.”
“You… made that?”
Ged squinted up at Stonewall. “I know we've a small operation,” he gestured to the wagon, “but you'll find no finer instruments in all of Aredia.”
“I've no doubt,” Stonewall replied. “It's just… I can't imagine making anything so…” he faltered, gesturing to the intact viols, dulcimers, and other instruments he couldn't identify. “Beautiful. I can't imagine making anything at all.” I can’t even read, he thought.
“Ah,” Ged replied, grinning broadly. “Well, it's not important work—not like keeping those mages in check—but music brings about its own sort of magic, I think. Good magic,” he added quickly. “When music hits you...well, you feel no pain, do you?”
Stonewall could not help but smile. “Only the good sort.”
The fellow chuckled and set the pieces of the viol on a small table beside the wagon. “Prepare for your weight in almond cakes. Merti has a fondness for them, and I stocked up this morning. Only thing she loves more than eating them is giving 'em away.”
“That's very kind, but not necessary,” Stonewall said. “We're not supposed to take payment for services rendered.”
Ged waved dismissively. “I know what the Circle says. But where I come from, when someone does right by you, you make it up to them as best you can. Merti's mother was Canderi,” he added. “A… what do they call 'em? Kulkri; Canderi who've left their home to live in Aredia. Mert was born on Aredian soil; she's as much Aredian as I am—and I'm from Redfern, as many generations back as you can count—but folks take one look at Mert and think the worst.” He sighed. “Especially lately.”
Stonewall picked up another instrument that had been knocked from its stand; its shape was similar to the viol, but the body was rounder and more bulbous. “Because of the thralls?”
The furrows in the merchant’s forehead deepened with his frown. “Aye. So many folk think the worst of the Canderi – especially with more and more of those sodding thralls cropping up. And even I can't deny that at first, most of those creatures seemed to come from Cander.” He sighed and ran a hand through his messy gray hair. “But now I hear tales of Aredians getting… changed into monsters.” He shuddered. “The worst is that no one knows exactly what’s going on. Heard a blacksmith in Callat saying the thralls have no souls; that they’re normal folk being punished by the gods for some misdeed or another. A trader up from Dilt told me she ran into a pack of the creatures on the road. Poor lass had to hide in a rotting tree stump until they passed by.”
“She’s lucky to be alive,” Stonewall replied grimly. “Whatever they are, thralls aren’t to be trifled with.”
“You’ve fought many of them?”
Stonewall nodded. “And truthfully, ser, most of the thralls I've seen have been Canderi. But there's been more and more Aredians being…changed. I think whatever's going on is...” He swallowed. “Spreading.”
Ged studied him. “Is it true that they cut down a whole sentinel squad?”
Stonewall hesitated. While he had not explicitly been forbidden to speak of the decimated Starwatch squad—of which he’d been a part of—he did not think it wise to further undermine the people’s faith in the sentinels. Unfortunately, in this case, a lie was a necessary evil to protect the greater good. “Thralls are dangerous,” he said at last. “And they have left marks on a few sentinels. But we’re well trained, ser. We hold our own in a fight against the monsters.”
“Good to hear.” Ged scanned the marketplace warily. “Folk are scared, I know that. But still. It’s not right that all the blame’s placed on the blue-eyed warriors. Nox’s tits… the Canderi don't want anything to do with us. They think Aredians are as soft as newborn babes.”
“Perhaps they’ve changed their minds.”
Ged snorted. “Doubtful. Canderi are more set in their ways than the mountains. Trust me.” He glanced around, then dropped the pitch of his voice to just above a whisper. “You’re a sentinel, lad. You deal with mages on the regular.” Misgiving coiled in Stonewall’s stomach, but he nodded, and the merchant continued. “You really don’t think mages have anything to do with these thralls?”
“I don’t,” Stonewall answered immediately. “For one thing, none of the Canderi have magic, so the thralls coming from Canderi can’t be connected to our mages. For another…” He sighed. “I saw a mage attacked by a thrall—quite recently, too—so I don’t think the magic-users have started this trouble.”
“Perhaps.” Ged did not look convinced. “Still, it makes me wonder.… Can the Circle be wrong about magic folks being dangerous?”
“Mages are… different from us in many ways,” Stonewall said when the other man trailed off. “But they are flesh and blood. They’re human, as we are. They want the same things that we do: security, peace.” Dark eyes and a wry smile came to his mind as he added, “Love.”
“I suppose you’d know better than most.” Ged studied him a moment more before looking toward the wagon. “Mert! What in the blazing void are you doing? Picking the almonds?”
“Hush, you old possum,” she called back from the wagon's interior. “Be patient.”
“Patient,” he grumbled. “Woman, I'm sixty-seven summers; I've no time to be patient.” But his smile was fond even as he shook his head.
In an attempt to not seem as if he was listening to the exchange, Stonewall had turned his attention to the table beside the wagon. A selection of strings, all neatly wound and tied with twine, lay upon a blue velvet cloth. He could not help but skim his fingers along a shining, silver set, thinking of Kali's viol.
“You play the viol, son?”
Stonewall jerked his hand back, his face hot. “No, ser. But a… friend of mine does.”
He didn't know why he said such a thing, but Ged's eyes gleamed and a smile tugged at his mouth. “Ah, a friend. Well, those strings will work for most viols. Does your friend need a set?”
Ea’s tits and teeth! Stonewall forced his voice to remain neutral; he thought he knew what the other man was thinking. “Yes, but if you’re–”
“All right,” Merti said as she emerged from the wagon, a small sack in her hand. She paused, glancing around, then looked at Stonewall. “Where are those dear siblings?”
“Mi, Flint,” Stonewall called, and the burnies appeared from around the caravan.
Merti regarded them fondly, and then looked at her husband. “Hearty, aren't they? And those eyes… I'd wager the two of you have Canderi blood.”
Ged snorted. “Best not advertise that.”
Milo and Flint exchanged startled looks before Milo shook his head. “No, ser. Our mother was from Callat.”
“An
d your father?”
They were silent. Merti made to hand over the sack, but Ged grabbed it first, shooting her a glance Stonewall couldn't read. Merti stepped down the wagon and came closer to the burnies, studying them carefully. Stonewall had to bite back a grin as both Mi and Flint stood at attention.
“Aye,” Merti said, nodding. “You've got some of the tundra in your bones, or else I'm a peacock.”
“Um…” Milo frowned in confusion. “Thank you?”
Merti patted his arm. “Such a polite boy. And you,” she said to Flint. “Look at you. So graceful, and strong, too. I'm sure you discombobulate all the others.”
“Oh, I do, ser,” Flint said, grinning. “But probably not the way you're thinking.”
Merti laughed brightly, then nodded to Flint's leg. “You're limping. Does it hurt very much, dear heart?”
Flint hesitated, then shrugged. “It did at first. A little. But it's almost better now.”
“Good,” Merti said with a nod, before she turned to Stonewall. “You'll take care of them, won't you, serla? And yourself too, of course.”
He bowed. “Yes, ser.”
“All of you, so polite,” she said, sighing. “Almost makes me wish the Circle–”
“Mert.”
She snapped her jaw shut and regarded the sentinels again, though this time Stonewall thought she looked sad. “Thank you,” she said, seriously. “Truly. Thank you all.”
Flint glanced around. “We saw a few folks giving you the stink eye, but we gave it right back. But still… I'd not linger here, if I were you.”
“We'll leave as soon as we can,” Ged said, offering the sack to Stonewall. “It's early. Lower tiers like us can slip out the main gates for some hours, yet.” He glanced at his wife. “I guess it's Fash for us, then?”
Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2) Page 21