“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!”
Sasha didn't like the look on his face. Errollyn had been distracted lately. Withdrawn, almost moody. His argument with Rhillian sat heavy on his mind. Sometimes, he seemed lost. “I'm going,” Sasha said determinedly.
“No!” He shouted at her. “Look, Bret, keep her here, you can't afford to lose Kessligh's uma on some pointless risk. Sit on her if you have to.”
“Oh sure, easy,” said Bret, and took a firm hold of her shoulder. Sasha threw his hand off, spinning on him, but then Errollyn was gone, racing out across the street. Sasha spun back to watch him, clutching against the stone alley side, heart in her mouth as stones hurtled past him and pelted off the road cobbles. Then he was gone, up the side alley beside the house, before any shots could be fired.
She exhaled hard and slumped a little against the wall. Bret was looking at her, an eyebrow raised. “What?” she snapped.
Errollyn seemed to be gone a while, though in reality, Sasha knew it was probably not so long. The rioters settled into a steady rhythm of chants and sporadic stone throwing. Occasionally Sasha fancied she could hear more yells and fighting from further upslope. Probably there were rioters trying to attack the rear of Gesheldin House. Ten talmaad, equally skilled in archery and svaalverd, could easily hold off an untrained, poorly armed rabble like these.
Finally Errollyn reappeared, only this time, he was walking. Immediately the cries went up and stones flew. Errollyn ran several steps, paused as the stones flew wide, smoothly drew his bow and fired a shot. Then ran again as more stones pelted down. He reached the alley mouth unscathed, as calm as if he'd strolled to the markets.
“What was that?” Bret asked, meaning his unorthodox retreat.
“They had a crossbowman waiting against a wall where Daerlerin's people could not hit him. Safer to kill him first.”