“Where do we go?” Gaordin asked, anguished. “Where will be safe?”
“Dockside,” said Rhillian. “Take your family to Dockside. The Nasi-Keth prepare defences there. The lower slopes will resist with everything they have.”
“We have properties across southern Petrodor,” Kiel observed, eyeing the map. “Most of them will have little chance of reaching Dockside before the mobs arrive. Perhaps we should call in our debts with Patachi Maerler and see if his pledges of friendship are anything more than just words.”
“Can you run some more?” Rhillian asked Aisha.
Aisha nodded. “I'll be quick.” She'd always been a good runner, preferring that even to horseback on her parents’ farm. The cold, rain-wet stones of Petrodor seemed suddenly a world away from that old life, and she wondered quite how she had managed to come from there to here. Serrin, an old saying went, never stopped travelling long enough to be homesick. Well, aside from her recent detour to Lenayin, Aisha had been in Petrodor for three years now. She had stopped travelling for long enough. She only hoped to live long enough to see Enora, and her family, once more. The column moving up the Backside slope had been enormous. She didn't like her chances.
Alythia rolled the broken old cart wheel down the Dockside lane, past running men with weapons both formidable and improvised, past mothers with anxious expressions ushering their children, past old folk watching from their doorways with grim, wary eyes. Others too were carrying old refuse, or dragging it, toward the edge of the flat ground, before the Petrodor Incline began to rise.
At the end of the lane, a barricade was forming. At its base was an old, lopsided cart, over which were stacked broken stones and bricks, old wooden beams, a disused fishing boat mast, broken furniture, and piles of old barrels and crates. Fishing nets had been draped to hold the debris in place, and those nets in turn were tied to neighbouring window frames. Alythia's wheel was quickly tossed on the barricade by a young boy. He wore a short blade on his back, as did two others, and an older man gave directions. All Nasi-Keth, and all local Dockside folk.
On the roofs above, a man with a bow watched the incline, a dark figure against the cold, grey sky. Further up the slope, Alythia could see smoke rising. Occasionally, she could hear distant cries and fighting. She thought of Gregan, and her knees threatened to shake. She could not go through that again. This was not what she was meant for. She was a princess of Lenayin, though little chance that anyone would recognise her for such with her plain dress and bruised face. She thought wildly of escape, of running along the dock to North Pier where the wealthy families guarded their warehouses and loaded their big ships…but Steiner ruled North Pier, and Steiner had killed Gregan.
Or she could head to Angel Bay where House Maerler and their southern allies ran a similar dock mostly out of sight behind Sharptooth…but there was no way around Sharptooth at sea level. She would have to climb, and that would take her straight into the mobs and the fighting. Perhaps she could grab a boat and sail out across the harbour…but that was crazy, she had no idea how to sail. If she had money, she could surely pay some sailors to take her, but she had not a single copper to her name.
Sasha had money, came the desperate, bitter thought. Sasha and Kessligh had money, stashed away somewhere. Not that they'd ever tell her where they kept it, nor let her have any if she asked. She was a prisoner here, amidst these rough, smelly common folk. Of course, she'd been a prisoner in Halmady Mansion, too, but at least those had been people of class and breeding.
A hand grabbed her arm, startling her. “You, girl.” She looked, and found a middle-aged woman with a worn yet strong face, and rough-curled hair streaked with grey. “Do you know medicines?”
“I…I can nurse,” Alythia said reluctantly. Even Lenay princesses had to learn to tend wounded men.
“Here,” said the woman, and handed her a small waterskin from the bundle she carried. Alythia saw that the woman wore a blade at her back and carried a broad leather satchel on one hip, opposite the waterskins. “I need strong young girls behind the barricades when the fighting starts, we'll have wounded men falling back and they'll need water. The older women are stocking cloth and medicines further back, but you'll need to help the wounded get to them. We won't have any men to spare once the fighting starts, do you understand?”
Alythia nodded mutely, accepting the skin, yet still thinking of escape. There were priests leading the mobs, it was said. Priests! Surely a priest would wish no harm to a Verenthane princess of Lenayin? But how would they know her for a princess? Surely it wouldn't matter? Surely a Verenthane mob would not kill Verenthanes? They were attacking and burning serrin properties upslope, after all…
The Nasi-Keth woman gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Don't be frightened, girl. I hear Yuan Kessligh himself has taken charge of our defences. Those Riverside idiots don't stand a chance.” She departed, with a final tap of the eight-pointed Verenthane star about Alythia's neck. The Nasi-Keth woman, Alythia saw, wore a similar star.
Verenthanes, it dawned on her, staring at the commotion of people around her. All were Verenthanes, including the Nasi-Keth. The mobs came to clear Petrodor of serrin, and reclaim the Shereldin Star from the Nasi-Keth of Dockside. But…didn't they know that the Docksiders were also Verenthanes? Didn't they care? What kind of Verenthanes were these, who would kill their own kind?
Beyond the barricade, midslope families were hurrying down the hill, frightened women clutching children, men carrying clubs or kitchen knives, or the occasional sword or spear. The Nasi-Keth man in charge of the barricade waved them through and asked for news of the mobs. Alythia heard only a little of the replies. She only heard the word “thousands,” repeated over and over.
She made her way back toward the Giana Family's residence, where Elra rested by the little courtyard. She'd barely gone ten steps when she saw one of the Giana daughters pointing her out to a tall man. He had long black hair, a bushy moustache and familiar-looking tattoos curling across his forehead. He wore a big sword at his hip, with a plain pommel and leather binding-big and brutal, with none of the decoration and lightness Gregan and his peers had preferred. Worst of all, he was now striding her way with something approaching glee in his eyes.
No…not worst of all. There was a small crowd following him, and Alythia realised in shock that they all seemed to be of a kind with the big, heathen man. For surely heathen he was, the tattoos gave him away, to say nothing of the sword and long hair. Highlanders, like herself. The sort of men whose company good, high born Verenthane women were supposed to avoid. There were perhaps fifty in all, and even strong Dockside men gave a wary sideways step to let them pass, for they looked fierce indeed as they came.
“Princess,” said the big man, halting before her with a bow. The other men did the same. “I am Tongren Deshai'in. I am a friend of your sister Sashandra. We here are men of the highlands, Cherrovan and Lenay alike, former enemies united to fight for a common cause. You are a princess, highland royalty. We bow to you and ask you to bless our banner, and to command us in our battle to come.”
Alythia gaped at him in absolute horror. “Me!” she nearly shrieked. “You…you…” She stared across the line of watching faces. There was no worship in their eyes as they regarded her, only a hard calculation. Alythia swallowed hard. “Master Tongren,” she said, in her most composed yet slightly trembling voice, “I fear you have me confused with my sister. I am no war leader. I cannot wield a sword, and I am quite certain that if I commanded you in battle, not one of you would survive to see tomorrow.”