12 – 6

There are two possibilities: that man is ignorant of what he possesses, or he is not; he has either stumbled into the seed of a magi's power or is one himself; either his luck is formidable, or he is. Fear stirs in Clarke's eyes. Her mouth pulls flat, and she digs her nails into my arm. I lean close, lips brushing the stray hairs at her temple, and whisper, “Do you know him?”

She shakes her head, bumping my nose. “No,” she answers. There's surprise in her quiet word. Something else, too. “I – no, I don't. I... I thought I was the only one here.”

Is it fear? I think it might be. She's not lying, so it can't be about the man himself. He's tall and broad. So is Juliana. He's mean and haughty, looking down his nose and sneering at Flint, at his fellows trapped with him behind the closed gate, and at us in the hiding fog. That's reason for disdain, not fear.

Whoever he is, his patience seems to run out. He interrupts Flint, who's been explaining once again that he cannot open the gate from our side. “Enough of this!” he shouts, spit flecking into his gray-threaded beard. He strikes the iron bars, palms slamming into metal. “I said – ENOUGH – !”

The word strikes like thunder. The people closest to him recoil, clapping their hands over their ears and crying out in shocked pain. It ripples through the crowd, followed by a still and uneasy silence. Clarke's nails bite deeper. She hisses Zira into my ear, and needs say nothing more. I saw it, too: a spark of light from the small, pale gems set in a ring's silver band, flaring just as he hit the gate.

A magi, then. From beneath his brow, he fixes a glare onto Flint. It flickers behind him, to us, then returns to the Knight-Scout. Flint's fingers twitch, then curl into a loose fist. Into that silence, the magi breathes, “I think you're lying, Dary Flint.”

“I'm not.” Flint growls, “Said so yourself, whoever you are.”

This stops the magi in his place for a moment, before he waves it aside and begins to pace. “That's not what I mean!” The people nearest him melt from his path, crowding away in growing fear of this stranger they thought they knew. “You say you're a knight, and that the Morrow woman's here. Fine. It's – them – you're lying about!” He jabs a finger over Flint's shoulder. “Local children? Out visiting friends?” he scoffs, “You can't befriend anyone of those people! Thieves and wastrels, to a one!”

I don't realize I'm moving forward until Clarke pulls my arm to stop me. He'll take it back. He will, with every finger on that pointing hand broken! He dares say that, when it's his people that hurt mine; that beat and bleed us at every opportunity, then spin lies from air to escape consequence!

Leda was shopping, bringing trade to this stink-swamp town, and a bare half-hour passed before they came for her! They came because she was beautiful, because she was alone, because she was Royah! I whirl on Clarke, rage burning in my blood. “Let me go,” I hiss. Bilous, envenomed words pool on my tongue. She shakes her head, plea in her eyes: don't. Please, don't. My voice rises high, “Damn you, let me go!”

Too high.

“What was that?” The magi asks, oily joy in his voice, “'Let me go', was it? Take a few prisoners, knight-scout? A killer?” he suggests, gleeful and falsely calm, “Two, even?”

“Nope,” Flint drawls, “just some kids. Sore after they were caught sneakin' out.”

There's a moment's pause. Then, almost soft, “Their parents must be worried. Who knows, they might even be here! Bring them forward, let's see them home. Unless,” he suggests, sly, “They've some reason to stay hidden?”

“Been here already, haven't we?” Flint sounds bored, “Probably they're scared, especially now they know you're a magi. Which I'm guessin' no one else did since, well...”

I look over my shoulder, blood-fire banked. The magi's eyes dart amongst the nearby faces of his peers. None of them knew, from their look. A secret hidden well, revealed at what may very well be the exact wrong time. He shrugs, filling the gesture with false calm, and dismisses, “Is a man not entitled to his privacy?”

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Flint tilts his head, “Sure,” he agrees, “But kids aren't?” Then, as if the notion's just come to him. “You know, there's not a lot of evidence about who killed those poor people. It's as if the whole scene was just...” he passes his hand in front of him, “wiped clean. Like magic, almost.”

The idea spreads like wildfire. Fear and desperation make for perfect kindling. Whispers start, growing louder by the moment. Panic, in the magi's eyes. “Shut up!” he snaps, “All of you, shut up!”

They don't. In fact, they start to look at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Almost cruelly, Flint offers, “It makes more sense to me this way, is all. Why you care so much about a couple of kids. You're lookin' for a scapegoat.”

“I am not!” the magi protests. The whispers are now murmurs. Suspicion and anger in people's eyes.

“You are,” Flint says, “'cause – you're – the one. You killed those people, an' now you're tryin' to get away.”

- - -

The magi scoffs. Then, as if in utter disbelief, laughs. It's over-loud and flat. Forced, like his calm. He laughs alone. From the way it stutters into silence, it would seem he'd thought otherwise. He'd thought the people he'd scared, whose trust he'd betrayed, would laugh along at such absurdity.

Him, a murderer?

Outrageous! Impossible!

Except it isn't. In deafening silence, they jostle and crowd and shove away from him. In the blend of torch-light and gate-shadow, their seams blur; fade, until many becomes one. He's left alone, trapped between them and the gate. I watch his calm waver, his panic slip free and freer still of his grip. His eyes dart. His mouth works. He says nothing. Used his clever words already, I should think, to speak ill of my people.

A pity, but of course he must try. He turns his back to the gate, to Flint and us behind it, and spreads his arms. Begging and beseeching, he tries. “Come – Come now, my friends! Haven't we been neighbors for years? Helped each other, through the hard times? Don't we trust each other? Don't we – know – each other?”

From how he goes still, he realizes his mistake the moment he makes it. My lips twitch, a smile failing to catch, as a voice from within the crowd shouts, “We don't know you!”

Then another, “You killed them!”

“No!” he cries, “Listen, I am – I didn't –!”

And another, “Murderer!”

And another, “Lock him up!”

Then one last. A woman, her voice metal-hollow and deep. The rolling threat of a nearby thunderhead. Juliana's voice, booming, “What's going on here?!” Unlike the magi, she doesn't need a piece of ice to make herself heard. Her distant figure stands a head above everyone, her helm and armor lending her a grim, unforgiving look. The crowd parts for her, the wave to her ship's prow, and she comes to tower over the magi. He still has his arms spread. They fall limp as he looks up at her. She looks past him to Flint and barks, “Well?!”

“Seems someone closed the gate, ma'am,” Flint reports. “These fine people got trapped when they were trying to leave.”

Juliana says nothing, breath misting from beneath her helm. Her gaze turns to the magi, who shrinks back from it. He'd called her an ugly brute, as I recall. “And this?” she asks.

Flint's answer comes with a kind of glee. “He's a magi, ma'am. Hid it from everyone for years, it seems. His peers have named his a suspect in the recent killings.”

She hums, folding her arms. “Well,” she says, “that sounds like something to look into, doesn't it, Flint?”

Flint nods, “It sure does.”

“But I didn't –!” The magi's protests fall silent as Juliana's hand lands on his shoulder. Squeezes.

“You should come quietly,” she advises, “it'll go better for you.”

Something changes in him then, as if some threshold has been breached. His throat works and his jaw takes an ugly set. “Fine,” he says, and his eyes are as flat as his forced laughter. “Fine,” He lifts his ring-bearing hand, the pale gems sparking with pale light. Clarke pulls a sharp breath between her bared teeth, her free hand flying to her throat's hollow. An icy star blooms in the fog.

“Juliana!” she screams.

“Fine!” the magi snarls, and the air around him flexes.

Coda

Things go to shit with impressive speed. Whatever Graham does dents the gate, sends the Captain flying. Magi girl catches her somehow, makes it so she doesn't hit the wall as hard. Crowd loses its damned mind, like Graham had tried and failed to get it to. People screaming and getting trampled, horses panicking and kicking out. Total chaos. Graham turns to the gate, starts to lift it with his magic. Stops, because the ground starts to eat him.

Flint looks behind him, sees the kids. There's the tall one, the prickly Royah girl. She's got the magi girl's hand in a death grip. Magi girl's got her arm out, hand clawing at the air like it pissed her off. All this blue light swirling around it. Huh. Didn't know she could do that.

Back to Graham. Man's up to his knees in hungry dirt. Forgotten about the whole 'getting away' thing, by the looks of it. Clawing at the ground like he's forgotten he can do magic, too. Makes sense. Hard to remember things when you're panicking, and he surely is.

Captain's climbing back to her feet, pissed as all hell. Graham doesn't see her coming, 'cause he's up to his hips in the ground, so there's nothing stopping her from kicking him in the side of the head, hard as she can. He doesn't die, so maybe it's not as hard as she can, but it's enough to properly scramble his egg. Ground stops eating him then. Magi girl must've figured the Captain's got it under control, and she does.

This part.

That crowd, though? That mob barreling down on her? Not so much. Flint's got no idea how he and her are supposed to get them settled. Especially 'cause he's on the wrong side of the damned gate.