Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

The buildings closest to the docks were taverns and the mercantiles of the trading companies, with stables or small warehouses in back for storing supplies over short periods of time. Behind these lay the wide town square, the Proprietor’s estate on the far side surrounded by another stone wall, higher than those of the lesser nobles. Diermani’s church sat to one side, a graveyard in the back. There were more people here: townspeople, women walking in pairs, headed toward the mercantiles, children with dogs in tow, a few men. Colin wove through them, trying not to be seen, ignoring the occasional look of disdain, the furrowed brows, the sniffs and huffs of the women. He’d intended to pass through the square quickly, there and then gone But he slowed before the church, halted. He stared up at the steeple and the tilted cross against the clouds and sky, and hesitated.

“It always calms me, even in the worst of times.”

Colin ripped his gaze away from Diermani’s cross and spun toward the voice, his heart thudding hard in his chest. His hand tightened on the sling, then relaxed as he spotted the priest standing a few steps behind him, watching him solemnly. About the same age as his father, the priest’s eyes were dark, his face tanned, but his hair was fair, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Dust from the marketplace coated the bottom of his black robe, but the white length of cloth draped over his shoulders was pristine and vibrant in the sun.

Wrinkles creased the priest’s brow as he regarded Colin a moment, then cleared. “You’re from Lean-to,” he said. “That’s why I don’t recognize you.” He hesitated, half turned toward the Proprietor’s manse, then halted. Irritation flashed across his face, as if he were angry at himself, and then he smiled. “Would you like to see inside?”

Colin frowned in suspicion, but his heart quickened. Everyone in the guild back in Andover had spoken of the great churches, of the work they’d been commissioned to do inside them, some of the finest that the guild had to offer. No one but a master could take on such an endeavor. His father had been awestruck for weeks after gaining journeyman and being allowed entrance into the cathedral in Trent. “Yes, Patris.”

The priest’s eyes widened slightly. “So you know a little of the church.” He stepped forward, one hand guiding Colin toward the steps and the entrance. “I am a Patris, yes, but here in New Andover we aren’t as formal. You can call me Brindisi.”

They’d reached the main wooden doors, built of heavy oak. Brindisi opened one side, motioning Colin through, then followed, swinging the door closed behind him. Brindisi stepped forward, but he paused partway into the sanctuary and turned when Colin did not move to follow him. “What’s wrong?”

Colin didn’t answer. He breathed in the scent of newly worked wood thickened with the heavy taint of oil and some type of incense. A wooden lattice, intricate in detail, separated the entrance from the main sanctuary, where pews formed neat ranks between high, arched windows and heavy banners, all beneath a vaulted ceiling. A huge cross filled the recess behind the altar on the far side of the room, draped with thick folds of white and red cloth, the central beam tall and straight, the crossbeam tilted downward. Below, a long, narrow basin of water gleamed beneath the light of dozens of candles, separated from the pews by another carved railing of wood. Everything had the mark of the carpenter’s guild on it, intricate and fine, the pews solid, all of it worked with fine oils to a polished sheen, even the recesses of the windows.

And his father hadn’t had anything to do with it. Because his father belonged to the Bontari Family.

Brindisi took a step toward him. “You can enter the sanctuary. Diermani accepts everyone.”

He turned a harsh glare on Brindisi. “Even a Bontari?”

Then he turned and fled the heady scent of worked wood, a scent he thought he’d forgotten on the three- month voyage to the New World and the time they’d spent here. He heard Brindisi call for him to wait, but he ignored him, shoving through the door into the bright outer sunlight. He stumbled down the steps, stood blinking as his eyes adjusted, his hand squeezed tight on the sling as anger assailed him. An anger tinged with doubt, with guilt.

He wondered what his mother would think of what he intended to do. His mother, who wore Diermani’s tilted cross on a chain around her neck.

He shoved the doubt aside, shot a glare toward Sartori’s estate, thought about the Armory on the wharf, of his father’s face every time he returned from town with nothing. The scent of wood filled his nostrils. Then he turned and headed farther south, toward the warehouses, toward the end of Water Street.

Toward where he knew Walter and his gang would be.

He saw Walter, Brunt, Gregor, and Rick before they saw him. Even then, fear tingled through his skin, setting the hairs on the backs of his arms on end and settling with an all too familiar queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. One hand clutching unconsciously to the satchel at his side, he ducked out of sight behind another warehouse. Breath coming fast and harsh, he fought the urge to run, to flee back to Lean-to, back to the quiet of the plains. He thought of how they’d beaten him until he’d pissed his pants, thought about how they’d humiliated him, how they’d driven him from the town too many times since then to count… and when his breath had slowed enough that he was no longer panting, when the fear had abated enough that he could loosen the fist that clenched the sling, he shifted to the corner and peered around it to watch.

“Move faster, you slackers!” Walter bellowed, leaning against a cask set to the side of the warehouse door. Behind him, his cronies snickered where they lounged among a stack of empty crates and barrels. “My father wants this cart unloaded and back to the wharf before the next ship arrives.”

The leader of the work crew cast Walter a dark glare, but he said, “You heard the little whore’s son. Let’s get this cart finished, lads.”

Walter bristled, face going a stark red, the leader of the crew barely containing a smile as Walter’s gang burst out in laughter. One of the crew grinned, then heaved and swung one of the heavy sacks up onto his shoulder with a grunt.

Before he’d gone two steps, Walter shifted away from the cask and caught the man’s ankle with his foot.

The man staggered, tried to catch his balance, but Walter jerked his foot from underneath him, and he crashed to the street with a curse. The sack landed with the rip of burlap. Grain hissed from the rent in the sack, spreading across the ground in a smooth fan of gold.

The leader of the crew leaped forward and knelt beside his worker. “What in the seven hells happened?”

“His little royal pissant tripped me,” the man growled, wincing as he tried to move his shoulder.

The leader glared at Walter, the tolerant anger he’d shown before now slipping into rage.

“I did no such thing,” Walter said. “Your incompetent worker fell. Isn’t that right, Brunt?”

Walter’s heavy sidled up to Walter’s back. “Yup. He fell. Tripped over his own feet.”

“The sad sack can’t even carry a sack of grain,” Rick threw in from behind, then began to giggle.

Colin’s shoulders tensed, right between the shoulder blades, and he found himself breathing harder.

The leader stood slowly, the rest of the work crew halting and gathering behind him. He stepped over the fallen man’s body. Walter faced the man with confidence, his grin not faltering until the moment the leader’s hand snaked out, gripped Walter by the front of his shirt, and hauled him in close.

“I’ve had enough of your attitude,” he said, voice low, but carrying in the sudden deathly silence, “and of you throwing out orders like you’re the Proprietor himself. You’re nothing but the second son of a privileged landholder. A bastard son at that. You won’t amount to anything.”