VI

“Did they see you?”

Gracian shook his head. “I don’t think so. They don’t know we’re here.”

“Let’s go look,” Arlian said, moving past Gracian and Jorrissiana. The man they had tied up earlier looked at him.

“You have to let me go.”

“Be silent!” Arlian commanded, still walking toward the exit. If there were a lot of Schuarists in the parks—

“I’ll—I’ll call for help!”

Arlian had chosen to ignore the man, but now that he was making threats, turned around. The man was sweating, his mop of blonde hair almost in his eyes. He flinched, scrabbled back against the smooth cave wall.

“I said be quiet.” He said the words just as his fist came into contact with the side of the man’s face, knocking him unconscious. He’d be awake soon, but Arlian didn’t care, so long as he stayed quiet, knowing the treatment he would get if he didn’t obey.

Shaking his head, Arlian thought the man seemed fearful enough to think they would kill him here in this cave, as if the other side—the Prince Kandron supporters—were blood thirsty killers who all hated magic, wanted to see the world suffer. Stamping on the necks those weaker than them into the dirt.

Putting the man from his mind, he exited the cave behind the white marble Kiryndaro statue.

Arlian crouched low, turned and motioned for Gracian to do the same. He jerked down quickly, as if he had been making a mistake—and he was, but not an arduous one. Inching up to get a view of the parks, Arlian said, “They’re making a lot of noise.”

“Yes. Something is about.”

Arlian sighed.

If they could get the council woman down the rope—

The rope!

Arlian glanced about for it and finding it, he hauled it up as quickly as possible. “Gods,” Gracian said. “I forgot it.”

“We forgot it,” Arlian corrected.

Now coiled beside them, the rope wouldn’t expose their hiding spot to any Schuarists who came wandering by. But to contrast that thought, he said, “If one of them knows this cave is up here, more may follow. We don’t have a lot of time.”

He peered out from behind the statue. Very few would think to look up here, especially in these times, so they were very unlikely to be spotted, even though there were a lot of Schuarists pouring into the parks from what looked like the north side of the city.

“What’s that?” Gracian said, pointing over Arlian’s shoulder.

There was a commotion of a sort, but it was out of view. There were twenty or thirty Schuarists intermixed with general mal contents, their beakers swinging this way and that as they yelled, swung clubs and threatened, but it was impossible to see.

“They’re shouting.”

“Indeed. I think it’s Brakso and Captain Lech, returned with some help.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” Arlian said, and he couldn’t see through the trees to make sure. “Who else would these fools be clashing with? They’ve come—to meet us where I said.”

Gracian nodded.

“There’s too many of them.”

“My thoughts as well,” Gracian said.

“We have no choice. We have to get the council woman down from here and back to safety.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

They both turned and found Lady Jorrissiana standing over them. “It will be dangerous.”

“I was in danger at my house, if you’ll remember?”

She had a good point. These malcontents down here didn’t know who she was—did they? Was it possible that they were that well organized?

Being the case or not, it was time to make their move. The Schuarists were distracted right now.

Arlian stood up and tossed the coiled rope over Kiryndaro’s shoulder, then he picked up the rope and wrapped it around his leg.

Looking at Councilor Jorrissiana, he didn’t quite know how this would work. “Get on my back.”

She snorted. “No, no,” she said, waving him over. “Wrap the rope around my body.” She raised her arms. “Under to support my weight. I’m far too old to hold on to your back like a leech crab.”

Arlian nodded, feeling a bit sheepish. He was the commander of the City Watch, a lord and a swordsman. What did he know about climbing?

After a few moments he did as he was told and the council woman was ready to be lowered to the ground. Twenty paces wasn’t high, but if there was an accident, surely she would be killed.

“Hurry,” Gracian said quietly, though Arlian heard the note of worry in his tone.

The ruckus with the Schuarists was beginning to spill out into the park. If they were spotted, there was no telling what could happen to them.

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“After I lower you, I’ll come down,” Arlian said. “Gracian—you last.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding deferentially.

“Lady Councilor?”

“I’m ready,” she said, taking a sitting position with her legs hanging over the statue. I must look quite good up here—sitting on the old king’s shoulder. A guardian spirit. “ She signed. “I almost feel a young woman again.” She touched a hand to her breast. “The excitement!”

“We’ll soon be done of it, I assure you,” Arlian said.

Together, Arlian and Gracian lowered Councilor Jorrissiana down the side of the statue, slowly, one forearm’s length at a time. Working together, the woman didn’t seem very heavy, but Arlian still braced his feet against the statue’s upper back.

Suddenly the ruckus seemed to erupt. It was quickly getting louder and more intense than it had been just moments before.

“I don’t like this,” Gracian said.

“Lower faster,” Arlian said, worried that the Schuarists were getting close. He felt a strong need to scratch an itch on his back in this festering heat, the rope clammy in his hands. When the rope became slack, Gracian bolted to the statue’s shoulder to look down at his mistress.

“Arlian! Quickly!”

Getting up and leaning over, he saw what Gracian was so worried about. Schuarists. All over. Some were running away, but more were pouring into the park, ready to fight for their friends.

And then he saw a watchman in his blue and white tabard, gleaming plate glinting darkly in the receding darkness.

The sky was now a dark purple. Light to see by was becoming scarce.

Arlian tuned about, slid off the statue’s shoulder and would have burned the skin off his hands had it not been for his gloves. The tips of his fingers still burned, but not so bad that he wouldn’t be able to hold his sword should he need it.

When he hit the ground, he fell and rolled into the pathway. Jorrissiana pulled her hands back as if Arlian’s fall had been her fault. “Oh deer,” she said. “Are you all right.”

Getting up, he nodded, his eyes coming into contact with the Watchman. He was staggering, his hand on his forehead, blood—enough of it to drip onto his tabard, causing dark maroon blotches.

Arlian jumped in front of Jorrissiana, took in his surroundings to make sure they wouldn’t be flanked. Right now they seemed all right, as most of the Schuarists were concentrated about a hundred paces away.

It seemed they were holding a bridge against the other Watchmen, though there were men crossing the stream to flank the Schuarists, which may cause them to disperse. None of their weapons were drawn. Instead, they used shields and clubs wrapped in cloth to pad the blows so as not to kill—unlike these malcontents, who seemed to be looking for excuses to kill Watchmen and then claim accident.

In this climate, holding these people was a bad idea, even if the trumped up charges were only apparent due to the incessant politicking between princes Kandrion and Balthazar.

So long as it wasn’t with a blade, they could call any and all deaths simply an accident, the fault of the Watch for tangling with them—oppressing them—and forcing them to resist.

“Are you all right, man?” Arlian asked, taking the watchman by the shoulders.

He looked into Arlian’s face, but he seemed somewhat dazed. This man needed bed rest and tonics immediately. Hopefully he didn’t need any magical attention, though the Schuarists would probably be all too happy to provide it, giving the impression that their magicks were savers of anyone and everyone. It made their cause look good.

Arlian would pay that price, if it came to that, though he didn’t want to bolster their cause—he would if it meant saving one of his men.

“Can you walk?”

The man nodded. “I’ll be all right, my lord.”

Gracian dropped down to the path behind them.

“All right, everyone stay close. We need to get to safety—back to Headquarters preferably.”

“The Schuarists are coming from the north, and we can’t cross the bridge,” the bloodied watchman said.

“What is your name?” Arlian asked.

“It’s Jorlyn, my lord.”

“Very well, Jorlyn. Let’s get your cuirass off.”

“My lord?”

“You’re not fit. The weight is too much for you to bear.”

He nodded thickly and together Gracian and Arlian cut the man’s tabard off, then removed his armor plating.

“Do we really have time for this?”

Yes they did. Arlian wasn’t going to leave his man here while they ran off. “No matter, Council Woman. Let’s be off.”

Together the small group took the path leading to the right side of Kiryndaro’s statue at a brisk trot. Surprisingly the council woman was able to keep up, being seventy and three.

The ornamental shrubs kept them mostly concealed from the Schuarists on the bridge, but still more were flocking into the gardens from their from the north side of outer Aevalin.

Fortunately, during these uncertain times, the parks were not being cared for as they normally wood, and so the lanterns lighting the pathways and pavilions spread out about the meadows and forests were mostly dark.

They came into one of the open pavilions.

“Wait,” Gracian said, gasping along with Jorlyn, who was leaning over the servant’s shoulder. “Just one moment.”

“Surely you’re not tired already, man?”

“Apologies, my lady.”

Jorlyn gasped for air, moving to seat himself on the bench, and crying out from what was clearly intense pain in his skull. “I’m—I’m sorry. Leave me.”

“What is this?” Arlian demanded, taking a step forward. He wasn’t angry because the man needed to rest—he was angry because he was giving up.

“I’m slowing… you down, my lord.” Each word came out laborious and slow.

“We’re not leaving you—“

“Shh!” Gracian hissed. “Someone’s coming!”

Voices came from the incline behind the pavilion—at least half a dozen of them. They were so close, Arlian could hear their footsteps on the grass, their voices, fevered, angry—some of them laughing, the malcontents bastards having a reckless night out in the city among tens of thousands more just like him—some of which were far worse.

And now they were surrounded.

“Hey!” a startled voice called from the doorway behind Arlian.

He spun, spotted a silhouette of a hooded man. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing out here?”

Wearing a beaker, and at this hour, the man looked like a follower of the demonic arts for a certainty.

“We’re—“ Arlian said, but broke off, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t accustomed to lying, or making up stories on short notice.

“We found this watchman,” Jorrissiana said, gesturing to Jorlyn. “We were trying to assist him.”

Damn woman. Why did she say that?

The other men piled into the pavilion. There were five of them inside, at least five more out, looking over the shoulders of their beaker-faced friends.

“And why would you wan’ a do that?” the man in the other doorway—the one they had come in from—said.

“Well…” Jorrissiana said, trailing off. “We don’t want them dead—isn’t that right?”

“Oh, I don’ know ‘bout that,” one of the men who was unable to enter the pavilion said. He was taller than his fellows inside. “Some of these magic-haters quite deserve it, is my thinkin’.”

“And you,” yet another voice called. This man was also in the pavilion, but behind his friend who was blocking their forward escape. “It seems to me that you are in fact, wearing some armor yourself, sir.”

Shit.

The words, the tone of voice, and the carefulness in not clipping his speech told Arlian that this man was upper class. Aristocracy, even.

He turned, looked at the man, but of course saw nothing through his demonic-looking beaker, except his was pure white.

Definitely a noble of some sort.

There was nothing he could say to get out of this. The man knew exactly what he was. “Do you hear that?” he asked, cupping a hand to the side of his head. He wasn’t hooded, though he did wear the robes of the Schuarists—his were of a dark maroon color. “That will be the sound of our fellows—getting cracked and beaten into the dirt by your friends, watchman.”

No one said anything to that.

Except for the sounds of the distant commotion and errant voices out in the meadows, one would be able to hear a drop of sweat hit the marbled floors of the pavilion they were standing in.

“Perhaps,” Arlian suggested, “such close proximity is not wise... the plague, you see.”

Without another word, the man in the white beaker turned and strode out, said, in a completely casual tone of voice, “Kill them.”

Jorrissiana gasped sharply.

Arlian reacted.