Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

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 her, “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 said 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.

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 said softly, “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.

T OM HARTEN WATCHED FROM THE BACK OF THE CROWD of desperate men and women from Lean-to as the Tradewind pulled into port with its sails whuffling in the wind from the ocean, his arms crossed over his chest. Men in the rigging and on the deck of the ship called to those on the docks as the trade ship dropped anchor in the bay. With a sharp command from Sartori’s men, boats were dispatched from the docks. The Tradewind ’s hull was too deep for it to draw up to the docks themselves. Tom knew that Sartori intended for the bay to be dug eventually, deepened so that the ships with larger hulls could be berthed at the wharf, but for now, anything that sat too low in the water remained out in the channel between Portstown and the Strand.

At the thought of Sartori, Tom’s eyes skipped over the boats rowing out to meet the Tradewind and picked the pampered, primped, and vested Proprietor out of the throngs of dockworkers, tradesmen, and Armory that lined the wharf. He stood at the end of the longest dock, surrounded by his first son, Sedric, two of the more prominent merchantmen of Portstown, servants, and a few of the Armory guardsmen. Sartori spoke to the merchants, but they were far too distant for Tom to pick out any words, even without the gusting wind blowing in his face.

The rest of the Armory were arranged around the edges of the wharf and were even now casting black looks in the direction of Tom and the rest of those from Lean-to, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords or the handles of their pikes.

“There’s more Armory on guard today than usual,” Sam said as he and Paul sidled up to Tom on the right.

Without taking his eyes off the guardsmen, Tom answered, “This is more than just a trade ship bearing supplies. Something else is going on.”

“What?” Paul asked.

Tom shrugged. “If I knew, I’d have warned everyone to stay away from the wharf. The Armory doesn’t look like they’re in a forgiving mood.”

Sam shifted nervously, picking up on Tom’s unease. “What could warrant such a heavy guard?”

“I don’t think it’s a what, but a who.” Tom motioned toward Sartori with his chin. “Sartori is here in person, along with his son and two of the merchantmen. I think they’re waiting to meet someone.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “One of the nobility? One of the significant Family members, rather than the offshoots we’ve been getting around here all summer?”

“Perhaps.” The thought sent a chill through Tom’s skin and he shivered. “Where’s Shay?” he said suddenly, voice sharp.

“Over there, closer to the main dock.”

Tom craned his neck to peer over the restless crowd, catching sight of Shay. He was surrounded by other members of Lean-to… but not those from the guilds. These were men from the prison ships, the ruffians and troublemakers who hadn’t made an effort to fit into Portstown, their faces scarred, unshaven, their clothes worn and tattered. Shay watched the dock and the boats like a hawk, eyes narrowed, his expression black. Everyone around him fidgeted uneasily, glancing sharply left and right, taking in the guardsmen. Tom scanned the rest of the restless crowd and realized it was mostly composed of men like those near Shay. Angry men. Dangerous men.

Like Shay himself, he suddenly realized.

He frowned, turned to catch Paul and Sam’s gazes. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

Out in the bay, boats had been lowered from the Tradewind, men dropping down to where they rocked in the waves. They broke away, oars plying the waves, and passed the boats that Sartori had sent out for the cargo.

As the lead boat drew nearer, Tom’s eyes narrowed. Someone in a blood red vest and a white wig sat in the middle of the boat. Two much younger gentlemen sat beside him, in brown vests.

“Who is he?” Paul asked.

“One of the West Wind Trading Company’s men, based on the color of his vest. Not one of the nobility, but close enough to be within spitting distance.” He resisted the urge to actually spit to the side with difficulty. Ana had been after him about it lately. Colin had picked up the habit.

He couldn’t help a small smile. Then he nodded to the left. “Let’s move closer to the main dock. I want to see this trader.”

And he wanted to be closer to Shay and his men.

They stepped out of the main throng of people, now pushing forward as the boat carrying the Company representative reached the dock. Men helped him up from the boat itself, and hands were shaken, introductions made.

When they turned, Sartori motioning for the tradesman to accompany him down the dock, the people of Lean-to surged forward.

“Sartori! Proprietor! We need work! We need food!”

“Please, sir!” a woman cried. “I need to feed my children!”

“Let us help unload the ship!”

Sartori frowned but otherwise ignored everyone. As he neared the end of the dock, he motioned to the Armory men, who pushed forward, those gathered pushing back. As Tom, Paul, and Sam skirted the outer edges, coming up behind the group near Shay and his men, Tom realized he could smell the desperation of the crowd, rank like old sweat, and thicker than usual.