Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  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.”

  “No,” Sartori said, his voice hard with anger. “No, the people of Lean-to attacked me this afternoon because they are common criminals, sent here to work off their punishments in New Andover, but who are ungrateful, degenerate slobs who want everything handed to them or fed to them, who don’t even appreciate the opportunity they have been given.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve given us nothing.”

  “I’ve left you alone in Lean-to,” Sartori said, taking a step forward, voice rising, “when I have every right to send the Armory up onto that hill and clear you all out. And after the attack today, I have every intention of doing just that.”

  “You can’t.”

  Sartori snorted. “I most certainly can. I am the sole arbiter of the Carrente Family lands in New Andover. I am the Proprietor of this little section of New Andover. And I now have evidence that Lean-to is nothing but a pit of political dissidents, sent here to undermine the Carrente Family and bring down its assets in the New World.”

  A growing sense of horror began filling Tom’s gut, spreading outward slowly. “We aren’t political dissidents! We’re guildmembers. We came here hoping to work for the guilds—”

  “No! You were sent by the Avezzano Family to stir up rebellion, to take down Portstown and Carrente’s hold on the coast!”

  Tom stepped back under the fury of Sartori’s statement, realization choking him, making it hard to breathe. “Shay.”

  “Yes, Shay Jones. Or should we call him by his real name, Vetralla, member of the Avezzano Family?”

  Tom tasted bile at the back of his throat, swallowed its bitterness. “We didn’t know. He told us . . . he told us he was a guildmember, a shipwright.”

  “He lied.”

  Tom reeled beneath the revelation. They’d invited Shay into their home, had drunk with him, had treated him as one of their own. But now . . .

  Now he saw him in a different light, and it changed nothing.

  He turned back to Sartori, tried to shove Shay aside. “Some of us have poured our heart and soul into that land, into those huts and tents. It’s all we have left. We aren’t dissidents, aren’t political rivals. We only wanted advancement in the guild. There’s nothing for us in Andover. We spent every last resource we had to get here.”

  Sartori placed his hands behind his back. “Then you have a problem, don’t you? Because I can no longer tolerate such a clearly disruptive element in or near Portstown. Not after today.”

  “Where do you expect us to go?”

  “Back to Andover. To Trent or Gillem. To any of the new ports springing up along New Andover’s coast, if you can get their Proprietors to accept you. I don’t care. But you can no longer remain in Portstown.”

  Tom felt himself harden. “We won’t go. We can’t. We don’t have the means anymore. You’ll have to remove us by force.”

  Sartori leaned forward slightly. “Then so be it.”

  Tom thought about the riot on the docks that afternoon, about those from Lean-to facing the Armory with knives, with stones, with their bare hands.

  If the Armory fell on Lean-to, it would be a slaughter, even if Shay’s cohorts joined them.

  The bitter anger turned to nausea as he stared at Sartori’s implacable face, as he realized that Sartori was serious, that he’d already made his decision, and nothing Tom could say or do would change it.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Neither Tom nor Sartori turned at the intruding voice, not until the word was repeated, with emphasis.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Sartori’s gaze broke first. “What is it, Signal Daverren?”

  Daverren shifted forward in his chair. “I believe I have a solution to both of your problems, one that does not require violence. If what Tom Harten says is true, and he has been unjustly judged.”

  “And that would be?” Sartori asked. His tone held a mild warning, but Daverren ignored it.

  “It goes back to the opportunity I spoke of before we were interrupted,” Daverren said. He reached down to retrieve a wooden cylindrical tube beside the seat. “Do you mind?”

  Sartori hesitated but motioned to the table.

  Shifting the tray with the tea and cups to one side, Daverren opened the silver end of the cylinder and removed a sheaf of papers, sorting through them until he found the one he was looking for. With a murmured, “Aha,” he pulled the parchment out and spread it out on the table, motioning Sartori and Tom forward.

  “This is a map of the known world,” he said. He pointed to the center of the map, to a large land mass that was divided into different regions using subtle shading. “This is Andover, with each of the Families represented by different colors. And this large stretch of blue is the Arduon Ocean.” He traced east from Andover, across the Arduon, until his fingers came to rest on a new coast, the details of the land behind it empty, as if someone had forgotten to draw in the rest of the map. A few towns littered the new coast, represented by dots and scrawled names, the edges of the land itself shaded in colors that matched those used for individual Families from Andover. “New Andover,” Daverren said, although it was obvious. “And right here is Portstown.” He glanced upward, to Tom, “And Lean-to, of course.”

  Sartori grunted.

  “You’ll notice that the coast is shaded to represent the division of the land to the Families as decided by the Court once the new continent was discovered and the first settlements, such as Portstown, were seen to be successful. However, you’ll notice t
hat the land behind the coast,” he motioned toward the empty area, “has not yet been claimed. Not officially. Proposals were drawn up as to how this land was to be divided, once it was explored, but those proposals have fallen by the wayside in the wake of the discovery of the Rose and its potential.”

  “Those proposals haven’t been forgotten,” Sartori said.

  Daverren smiled. “No, they have not. But look at what happened with the settlements along the coast. The Court was forced to respect the claims of the towns that had already made a start. If a Family backed a particular group, and that group successfully began a colony on the coast before the Court became involved, the Court ceded the land surrounding that colony to the respective Family. Carrente owns the land around Portstown because your father established the town here, and it thrived.”

  Sartori leaned back from the map. “You want to lay claim to the inland, while the Families are distracted by the Feud.”

  “Exactly. The respective Family Trading Companies are already at war. We’ve been at war since the Companies were first founded. The Rose is a political affair—potentially a religious affair if what I’ve heard of the powers of the Rose are true—one that the Companies will profit from, true, but at its heart it is not a commercial endeavor. Establishing an early presence in the heartland of New Andover is.” Daverren’s eyes narrowed. “The West Wind Trading Company wants to stake its claim as early as possible, before any of Carrente’s rivals have the chance. And we know that other Companies are interested. The Southern Isles have already gathered an expeditionary force, although it had not yet sailed at the time of my departure.”

  Sartori held Daverren’s gaze for a long moment. “An expedition is dangerous. And expensive. I’ve already sent groups out into the plains, at significant cost to myself and the Carrente Family. None of those expeditions have returned. None that have traveled a significant distance from the coast. And in order to stake a legitimate claim, the group would have to travel relatively far.”