“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!”
To 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.”
Sasha suddenly saw what Errollyn meant about shooting-to-wound being an excellent shot. A wounded man took two others to carry him away, robbing any momentum. It would also surely be disconcerting to a bunch of Verenthane fanatics that the evil demons refused to kill despite every provocation, and spared those lives with remarkable, if painful accuracy. Not that it would gain them any love from this crowd. Just a healthy dose of fearful superstition.
“I'm going to get in and speak to them,” said Errollyn, remounting the stairs.
“Me too,” said Sasha, following.
Errollyn turned on her. “No.”
“Why the hells not?”
“I'm faster. Your legs are short.”
“They are not! They're fast enough for short distances…”
“Sasha,” he said with a pained expression, “there's no one for you to kill between here and the house. All you'll make is another target, there's no point!”