The sound of bells spread across the city as more wardens spotted the Skallgrim fleet. With the fires raging on the docks, most people were still tearing in and out of the gate to help, but some stopped to point and gawp in horror. The volume of traffic made the gate warden’s work impossible and to the sniffer on duty Cillian’s magic had to have been like staring into the sun, so it wasn’t a surprise he didn’t notice a filthy barefoot scumbag like me slipping through the gate.
Once Cillian was out of sight I felt able to breathe again, but I picked up my pace and resisted the urge to continually glance behind me. As soon as I entered the market I felt the crowd’s panic, and I didn’t need to be a magus to sense the riot birthing.
Blood stained the stones underfoot and food stalls had already been picked bare and overturned. A wild-eyed old man with long straggly hair, dressed in nothing more than rags, deftly dodged the two armoured wardens pursuing him and clambered up onto one of the stalls so he could be seen by all. “The Skallgrim are coming,” he screamed, pointing towards the sea. Then he spun to hiss up the hill at the gods’ towers. “An end to the leeches that grow fat on our blood and toil. Rise up and put an end to the corruption of vile magic at our heart!”
The wardens caught him, one hauling him kicking and biting from his podium while the other hefted a club and bashed the old man’s head. He flopped down unconscious, blood matting his hair. The wardens didn’t check to see if he was alive or dead, and probably didn’t care, instead hastily dragging him off with the angry crowd edging after them. Then the whispers started rippling through the crowd – High Houses – the Arcanum – gold – war – vile corruption – fat leeches – eat while we starve – our blood and toil…
More than swords and magic, words held real power. Regimes the world over had risen with a few whispered words in the right ears. And they’d also fallen to a few well-chosen words said to big crowds of scared people. People were like that in groups, a herd instinct sweeping them along in a flood of anger instead of fear, like cornered rats turning on a cat. I pushed in next to a gaunt woman wrapped in a ragged shawl, a refugee from Ironport by the cut of her cloth.
Setharis was ready to explode, and that old man had just flung in an oil lantern. I opened up my Gift – finding it oddly pain-free, if strained – and scanned the crowd, locating two other agitators without too much difficulty: they were the calm ones filled with a purpose verging on the fanatic. I skimmed the surface and tasted their thoughts, felt their disdain and disgust for the depraved cityfolk they found themselves surrounded by. They were not from Setharis, though they’d spent years here. They were Skallgrim infiltrators. Who had ever heard of subtlety from the Skallgrim? They preferred to fight each other over long-held feuds rather than looking to war with anybody else. Or they had done – times were apparently changing. The men were readying to fling more words into the crowd – more torches to help start the fire.
The tension was building to its peak. Somebody picked up a piece of horse dung and flung it at the retreating wardens. It splattered against one man’s helmet and he turned, still holding his bloodied club. It had to be now. I placed my hand on the refugee’s arm. She twitched as I entered her mind, then stilled.
“I’m from Ironport,” she shouted. “And Skallgrim beasts skinned my daughter alive.” For some reason I’d found that daughters usually had a more emotive effect. The crowd turned to stare. “Sacrificed for their sick, heathen blood sorcery,” she continued. The crowd needed a reminder of the distinction between our magic and their sorcery. Even the crudest peasant knew dozens of dark tales about blood sorcery.
“No, the Skallgrim will save us,” one of the agitators started up as the warning bells on the walls tolled louder, more urgent. “They bring all Kaladon a purity that was lost, and they offer Setharis, the Free Cities, and even the heathen Clanholds a life free from the yoke of magic.”
Time to break out the emotional blackmail. Tears started rolling down the refugee’s face. “Skinned her alive as I watched,” she sobbed. “Just like the monster that’s been killing people here.” Eyes widened in the crowd as those words sunk in. Skinned alive by Skallgrim beasts. The Skinner.
“Lies!” the agitator shouted, drawing the eyes to him. “It is those leeches up in their palaces that caused this. They are the problem. The Skinner is one of them. They don’t care if a few peasants die. We should march up there and take the wealth that should be ours.”
I let go of the woman, leaving her sobbing her heart out and with no idea what she had just said.
“Sounds like he’s in league with the Skinner and the Skallgrim to me,” I shouted. “He’s a traitor. The Skallgrim want to skin us alive and drain our blood. Everybody knows the Arcanum hunt and kill all blood sorcerers.”
All it took was giving the man in front of me a shove with a shout of “Get him!” A few members of the crowd took a step forward, more followed, and then the whole crowd surged as one, grabbing at the Skallgrim infiltrator. All that fear and anger they’d been building exploded in his face. The mob took hold of the screaming man and started tearing him to pieces. Never before had I exerted such power over the hearts and minds of people on such a grand scale. Their emotions were in the palm of my hand. I could make them dance like a puppeteer’s painted dolls and I found that I liked it.
A person could be clever, but crowds of people were stupid and easily manipulated. The problem was that once you built it up to a fever pitch, then somebody with just the right words could redirect it. Once a riot started they were difficult to control, but that wasn’t my problem. I just didn’t want dozens of innocent people incinerated by the defensive magics guarding the Old Town. I felt giddy with my own power, the Worm of Magic purring happily in the depths of my mind. I held a truly fearful power, and it was harder than ever to resist the delicious temptation to meddle, to dominate and direct, to rule. Letting my magic loose in the Boneyards had changed me, brought me closer to the mindset that the Worm – or worse, myself – desired. How could I cope without Lynas? He had always been my conscience, the hand on my moral rudder steering me back into safer waters. Even during my years of exile he had always been a presence in the back of my mind, mentally chastising me when I contemplated going too far.
Nauseated, I tore myself away from temptation and struggled against the tide of people, trying to avoid all the boots stepping on my bare feet as I followed the second agitator fleeing down a side street. He was the clever one, the one who had known when to shut his mouth and leave it well alone, which meant he was more dangerous than his fellows. He might know what Harailt’s end game was. I followed him as he skirted the centre of the Warrens and headed towards Westford.
He stopped at an intersection and looked back. I slowed, made myself look exhausted, hanging my head and dragging bare feet through street filth. His gaze slid straight past me. Looking at the ragged state of me nobody would expect I was anything other than a deranged beggar, and Setharis had no shortage of those. He slunk down an alley and out of sight. I tailed him further west. He paused at a crossroads and I ducked into the shadows of a doorway as he carefully looked in all directions before heading right. I sidled up to the wall and carefully peered around the corner. He stood a mere pace away, dagger in hand. I lurched back as the point darted for my eye. A door thumped open behind me and I spun to see two heavy-set men emerge.
I backed away, holding up filthy hands. “I don’t want no trouble. Just some food if you got any?”