The Crimson Crown (23 page)

Hallie had a little girl perched on her hip—a three-year, maybe, with the same stubborn chin and gray eyes as Hallie’s. The child had a fistful of Hallie’s uniform tunic, looking like she never meant to let go.

“Is there a way through?” Hallie gasped. Her face was smudged with soot, her uniform tunic scorched. “Did the queen send you?”

“The queen?” Han’s heart slammed into the wall of his chest. “Why? Where is she?

“Last I saw her, she was down to Southbridge Temple, fighting the fire.”

“You mean—she’s
in
this?”

Hallie nodded. “Captain Byrne is there, too.”

No, Han thought, his mouth bone-dry. This can’t be happening. Why would Raisa be down in Southbridge instead of safe inside the stone walls of Fellsmarch Castle?

Maybe Bayar knew just where Raisa would be. Maybe that was why he’d scheduled it now—it was perfect timing, from a Bayar point of view.

Fury rose up in Han’s throat like bile.
If anything happens to her, I’ll—

“We’re trying to get back to the river,” Hallie said, breaking into Han’s thoughts. “But the fire’s coming at us from all directions.”

It was planned that way, Han thought. Hallie knew Ragmarket about as well as Han. If she couldn’t find a way, there likely wasn’t one. Han envisioned hundreds of people trapped and burning to death. “Bring them into the temple,” he said. “Take them down into the crypts. I’ll put up magical barricades to keep the worst of it away.”

“Into the temple,” Hallie roared. “Families with children first. Don’t lose anybody. Move it, we an’t got all day! Lord Alister’s going to turn the fire.”

Han was both touched and guilted by her faith in him. What if it goes wrong, he thought, trying to push away the memory of Mam and Mari.

They poured into the sanctuary—ragpickers, slide-handers, fancies in their glittery silks, rushers, launderers, the merchants from the markets—all the layers of Ragmarket crowding in together as the flames roared toward them.

While Pearlie and Hallie settled everyone inside, Mick and Talia manned the pump at the well in the courtyard, sloshing water into buckets, wetting down the outside of the temple, dumping water over themselves when their clothes began to smolder, too.

Han ushered them toward the doors. “Better get inside, yourselves. Hopefully it will burn through and be done.”

“What about you?” Talia asked.

“I have to get to the river,” Han said. Raisa would be in the thick of it. He had to try and keep his fearless queen from getting herself killed.

“But there’s no way through,” Mick protested.

“There is for me,” Han said. “Didn’t anybody tell you? I’m a rum wizard.”

Talia dragged his face down and kissed him hard, on the lips. “For luck,” she said. When he blinked at her, she added, “I’m only looking out for Queen Raisa. She deserves a little happiness. If you get yourself killed, Her Majesty will turn into a bitter old woman, and I will plant rue and thistle on your grave.”

“I never believed you was a murderer,” Mick said, patting Han’s shoulder. “Just so you know.”

“What?” Han blinked at him, but Mick turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark temple, pulling the door shut behind him.

Han surveyed the situation. The temple was timber and stone. It might turn an ordinary fire, but not this. The timber was already smoldering, the lead framing the windows melting, running down, the pavers in the courtyard shimmering with radiant heat. If Han failed, everyone would perish.

He walked around the perimeter of the temple, batting sparks from his clothes, shaking cinders from his hair, his hand on his amulet. He sent arcs of magic spiraling over the roofs, weaving a barrier to turn the flames.

Han suddenly realized he was still wearing his council clothes—his finest coat, now charred in places, the Waterlow ravens draped over his shoulders like the scorched remains of his ambitious plans.

When the temple was enclosed in a veil of shimmering charms, Han finished his work with a lacing of magic over the door. It looked like a fairy-tale castle—if you could overlook the ravenous flames all around it.

The barrier seemed to be holding.

He worked until he couldn’t stand the stench of his hair burning, then began constructing his own shroud, weaving tendrils of magic over his back and shoulders, armoring up as Crow had taught him, nearly a year ago. Would it work against wizard flame? He’d find out.

He turned west, toward the river, zigzagging around flaming buildings where he could. Somebody’s home. Somebody’s business. Somebody’s livelihood. Anger choked him. Grimly, he forced it away. He had no time to be angry right now.

Ahead lay a solid wall of flame, topped by greasy black smoke. He’d come up on the slaughterhouses, where beef and pork fat and offal fed the flames. Brick walls rose on either side, blocking the way around. Taking a deep breath, knowing his lungs were not protected, Han squeezed his eyes shut and plunged into the inferno. It roared in his ears, sizzled away any drop of moisture on him. Orange and purple blazed behind his eyelids. His flame-tempered skin seemed likely to crack open.

And then he was through, sucking in smoke instead of flame, racing headlong, in order to get as far ahead of it as possible, knowing that if he lost the protection of his magical armor, he’d be little more than fuel. When he finally looked back, he saw nothing but flame and smoke. It seemed unlikely that anything could survive. He sent up a prayer for all the families penned up in the temple.

By now he couldn’t be that far from the river. Down on the right was Pilfer Alley and the tiny kingdom Han had built—his sanctuary, housing Dancer’s metalshop. He resisted the temptation to turn aside and try to save what he could. It was a building. Buildings could be replaced.

And suddenly he was there, at the edge of the river, surrounded by grim-faced firefighters. Dedicates, fancies, bluejackets, and even some Highlander soldiers—clearing away shacks and Ragmarket rubble, trying to make a firebreak, wetting down buildings, struggling to hold back the flames.

Two large pumps were set up on the riverbank, raising the Dyrnnewater so the crews could fill buckets and barrels. One even had a leather hose attached, spewing water out the end and into the flames. It was a trickle, though, against an inferno; like spitting on it.

Han searched through the firefighters for Raisa. Here was Speaker Jemson looking like a tall blackened crow, striding up and down the riverbank, directing dedicates and ’prentices at their work. Han heard Captain Byrne, his voice hoarse from shouting. He looked well roasted already.

There were even a handful of Demonai, Night Bird included, whose talismans offered them some protection. They moved like spirits through the smoke and flame.

He spotted Micah, posted prominently on the riverbank, driving back the encroaching flames with blasts of power, setting competing fire lines with carefully placed wizard flame. How had Micah made it there before him? Did he know some kind of a shortcut?

He didn’t see Raisa.

As Han watched, Micah put his shoulder to the wheeled pump, helping four others move it to a better location. As Micah stepped back from the pump, he turned and spotted Han. It was as if he’d been watching out for him. He strode toward him, visibly agitated, and Han instinctively took hold of his amulet.

“Where have
you
been?” Micah hissed. “Waiting for the entire town to burn down before you made an appearance?” He was smudged over with soot, his finely tailored clothes scorched and burned through in places.

Han could only stare at him.

“No doubt you can’t wait to tell the queen that this is my fault,” Micah said, all but shedding sparks himself.

“It
is
your fault,” Han said, cocking up his chin. “How can you say it’s not? And that’s exactly what I’m going to say.”

Micah clenched his fists. “I’d never do anything to hurt Raisa. I had nothing to do with this, and I’m not taking the blame for it, you can trust me on that.”

“I don’t trust you on anything,” Han shot back. “Where is she? Where’s the queen? You’d better hope she’s all right.”

“Do you really expect me to tell you?” Micah turned away, back to the fire line.

Furious, Han scanned the riverbank, then stopped a passing bluejacket, who pointed across the bridge. “I think she’s over to Southbridge Temple,” he said. “Something about medical supplies.”

The temple close was cool and shady after the intense heat on the other side of the river. Was it just a few years ago that Han had been there as a student, before the siren call of the streets had lured him away?

Just inside the doors, he saw her. For a long moment, Han stood frozen, drinking her in, helpless with relief. She was wearing her fancy temple clothes, but she’d ripped the skirt off above her knees to allow more freedom of movement.

She knelt on the stone floor stuffing bandages into a carry bag, while a young dedicate waited, shifting from foot to foot. When the bag was full, she thrust it into his arms.

“The infirmary is set up in the sanctuary,” she said. “They’ll be wanting these now.”

The boy tore away as if she’d lit a fire under him.

And then Raisa looked up and saw Han.

“Han! Thank the Lady!” She sprinted toward him, barreling into him with the force of a much larger person, flinging her arms around him and all but knocking him over.

He could only pull her close and feel her warmth against him, and reassure himself that she still breathed and the Bayars hadn’t managed to take her from him—not yet, anyway.

Raisa looked up at Han, her green eyes brilliant in a very dirty face. Her cheekbone was purple and swollen, and she smelt of wood smoke.

“I was scared to death when you didn’t come,” she said. “The flames were so thick, and Micah said the meeting ended hours ago. He thought you’d be right behind him.”

It hasn’t been
that
long since the meeting ended, Han thought. “You’re hurt,” he whispered, gently touching her cheek, his throat hoarse from smoke and shouting.

“The pump handle caught me right in the face,” Raisa said. Her eyes pooled with tears. “This is nothing. We don’t know how many dead there are, but we’ve got some serious injuries on our hands, and I don’t know where these people are going to live.” Her voice trembled.

Mastering herself, she took a step back, keeping hold of his hands. “Where’s Dancer? I thought he’d be with you.”

Han shook his head. “We split up. He’s on his way here, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to make it through. I haven’t seen Cat, either. I’d think she’d be in the thick of this.”

Raisa shook her head. “I don’t know where she’s gone. She was here earlier. And Hallie, Talia, and some others went into Ragmarket an hour ago and haven’t returned.”

“I just saw them,” Han said. “They’re holed up in the old Market Temple with a couple hundred people. I think they’re safe for now.”

“You should tell Amon. He’s beating up on himself for letting them go in there.”

“I will.” Han hesitated. “Did Micah say anything about the council meeting?”

Raisa shook her head. “There hasn’t been time. We’ve been fighting for every inch of ground.” She paused. “Why?”

“There’s something you need to know,” Han said.

“Go on,” Raisa said, taking her hands back and folding her arms.

“At the meeting, Lord Bayar promised to teach Ragmarket and Southbridge a lesson they’d never forget. He referred to the residents as ‘rats,’ and said that in order to exterminate them, we’d need to flush them from their dens.” Han did his best to smother his anger, to stick to the facts.

“Really? He said that in open council?”

Han nodded. “The council gave him the go-ahead. Then we come back to town, and Ragmarket is on fire.”

Raisa’s eyes narrowed. “Could it be a coincidence? How could he manage that so quickly?”

“He knew how the vote would go before he ever took it.”

“Didn’t anyone vote against it?”

“I did,” Han said. Then added, reluctantly, “And Micah.”

Raisa searched his face. “Really? Micah voted against it?” She frowned, studying on it. “I know there’s more,” she said finally, “but I should get back. They’ll be looking for me.”

Han knew she was right, but he didn’t want to let her go. Reaching out, he fished a cinder from her hair, and she stood up on tiptoes and suddenly they were kissing, long and sweet, something there hadn’t been nearly enough of lately.

His heart hammered. He knew they should stop—this was too public a place—but he couldn’t help himself. He held her tightly, thinking, I’m a fool to say no to her when I always seem to be this close to dying, and wouldn’t
that
be a shame.

Someone cleared his throat behind Han.

He and Raisa spun apart, gasping. Raisa looked over Han’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. Han swiveled, and there was Speaker Jemson with an armload of linen.

“Hanson,” he said, nodding gravely. “Good to see you’re still alive.” He looked at Raisa. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to interrupt, but there’s a jurisdictional dispute between clan healers and Lord Vega that needs your wise intervention.”

“Thank you, Jemson,” Raisa said, cheeks flaming. “We’ll talk later, Han, all right?”

“I’ll go find Captain Byrne,” Han said.

When Han told Captain Byrne what he knew about Hallie and the others, Byrne nodded brusquely, his tense face softening somewhat.

“What can I do?” Han asked.

The captain kept Han on the run for the next hour, driving back flames, barricading and protecting buildings that dated back to the Breaking. Once, he propped up a building that threatened to topple onto a handful of firefighters.

They were fighting a losing battle. Between the resistance of the wizard flame and the east wind, whenever they managed to quench the fire in one place, it gained ground somewhere else. Even with the two pumps going, they couldn’t pour enough water on the flames to put them out or stop their relentless advance.

Han envisioned Ragmarket after the fire, a burned-over wasteland dotted with a few stone heaps, like shrines to the vagaries of the gods.

He could put up a barrier, but he’d never be able to build one quickly enough to protect Southbridge, since the fire line was so long. If the wind kept up, they’d be lucky if they could stop the fire at the river. And if the bridge burned, there wouldn’t be an easy way to cross for a long way up or down the river. He racked his brain for a solution.