Well of Sorrows (5 page)

No one moved; Sam and Paul sat with stunned looks on their faces, cards held before them. Thunder rumbled.

Then Ana set her butchering knife down and wiped her hands on an already bloody cloth. “Well,” she said. “I’d say Shay’s a little . . . angry.”

“He’s not the only one,” Sam said, tossing his cards into the center of the table.

Ana hesitated at the warning in Sam’s voice, then moved toward the entrance to the hut to replace the shutter.

“A large group of people in Lean-to have gotten tired of waiting,” Colin’s father said.

“Some of them have already left,” Sam added. “The Havensworths gave up and returned to Andover. They used the last of their money for passage. The Colts and the Ferruses both took ship to other settlements along the coast.”

“The Wrights packed up and headed inland, to settle their own land,” Ana said with a huff.

“And the Wrights haven’t been heard from since,” Colin’s father said meaningfully, watching his mother’s back. “I’m not a farmer, Ana. I’m a carpenter. I don’t think we’d survive long if I simply packed you and Colin up and headed off into the plains alone. And we don’t have any funds left to get passage back to Andover or even down the coast.”

After a moment, his father shifted, gaze dropping back to Sam and Paul. “But Shay is right. Sartori is doing everything he can to push us out, to force us to leave, and I’m tired of it. Tired of the restrictions, of the pressure. Of the threats that are becoming more and more overt, like the presence of the Armory. Something needs to change. Soon. If it doesn’t . . .”

Paul snorted. “Shay isn’t one to waste words when action will do. And he’s got plenty of followers. He’s been recruiting from the dissidents in Lean-to, the criminals who opted for the New World rather than the Armor y in Andover, and there’s a lot more of them here than honest folk. There’s what? Thirty guildsmen here in Lean-to? There are four times as many of them. It could get ugly.”

Ana frowned as she returned, her eyes going to Colin. She hugged him from behind and murmured, “I don’t want you going into town, Colin. Not for the next few days.”

Colin pulled out of her embrace. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what Shay might do.” When Colin rolled his eyes, she added, “And because I said so! Now, go take this bucket of innards to Nate. He’ll make good use of it.”

“But it’s raining!”

“I don’t care,” his mother said, voice black, and she held out the bucket. “Now go! And stick to this area of Lean-to, where the craftsmen are!”

Colin sighed in exasperation, but he took the bucket. Because of the warning in his mother’s voice and the look he got from his father.

But he didn’t intend to stay out of Portstown.

The next day, Colin told his mother he was going hunting, but as soon as he left the outskirts of Lean-to, he cut around the edge of the shacks and tents and headed toward the town. He carried his satchel, hung over one shoulder, and his sling was tied to his forearm, the straps and pouch for the stone bundled up in his hand. He’d worn a long-sleeve shirt, so that the crisscrossed ties of the sling would be hidden, the cuff rolled back slightly so that it wouldn’t interfere with his throw. He wanted to be ready.

He entered the town from the north, a flutter of nervousness tightening in his gut as he passed through the outermost houses. Low stone fences surrounded the town now, separating the ramshackle Lean-to on the rise above from the land Sartori had given to some of the more influential members of the port. The stone walls—fieldstone mostly, although some had used the water-worn stone from the shore—marked the boundaries of the different estates. As Colin came upon a dirt lane, he peered over the low walls, curious, and tried not to scowl. These were the houses of the nobility, the tradesmen and lesser nobles, or those that fancied themselves nobles here in New Andover. The stone walls were broken by iron gates, and carriage houses and stables hid behind the main houses, even though there were only two carriages in all of Portstown. Ornamental gardens had been planted inside the walls, the trees young, barely twice Colin’s height, the hedges trimmed, the rose bushes pruned. Colin saw stable hands cleaning out the stables, a servant’s face appearing briefly in one window before vanishing, but no one else. Not here. Most of the regular people in Portstown would be down at the docks, or in the market in the center of town.

The lanes between the estates ended at the beginning of Water Street and the docks. Colin slowed as soon as he stepped onto the new planking of the wharf, his eyes immediately drawn to the Armory guardsmen that stood at the end of the first dock. Dressed in leather armor, white shirts with the Carrente Family crest, breeches, and a metal helm with points to the front and back, they stood out from the rest of the men that lined the wharf. Two of them carried swords, sheathed; the third carried a pike. One of the swordsmen grimaced as Colin moved forward onto the wharf, pointing with his pipe before puffing on it and blowing smoke in Colin’s direction. Colin frowned, and the guardsman snickered before turning away.

The docks weren’t empty, but they weren’t crowded either. A few men were toting crates from a stack at the end of the wharf, a boy younger than Colin sitting watch. Another group moved barrels marked with the Carrente Family sigil onto the back of a wagon, grunting and cursing. On the second dock, workers were readying for the arrival of another ship, although when Colin shaded his eyes and stared out at the dark waves of the ocean he couldn’t see anything on the horizon. No ships were berthed in Portstown, but numerous boats were out in the channel between Portstown and the outer banks of the Strand, the stretch of sand that protected the coast from the worst of the storms that came from the sea.

Colin hesitated at the end of the dock, watching the preparations long enough that the Armory guardsmen finally shifted and began drifting in his direction. Before they’d made it halfway to his position, he stepped off the wooden planks of the wharf back onto the dirt road and headed deeper into town.

The buildings closest to the docks were taverns and the mercantiles of the trading companies, with stables or small warehouses in back for storing supplies over short periods of time. Behind these lay the wide town square, the Proprietor’s estate on the far side surrounded by another stone wall, higher than those of the lesser nobles. Diermani’s church sat to one side, a graveyard in the back. There were more people here: townspeople, women walking in pairs, headed toward the mercantiles, children with dogs in tow, a few men. Colin wove through them, trying not to be seen, ignoring the occasional look of disdain, the furrowed brows, the sniffs and huffs of the women. He’d intended to pass through the square quickly, there and then gone—

But he slowed before the church, halted. He stared up at the steeple and the tilted cross against the clouds and sky, and hesitated.

“It always calms me, even in the worst of times.”

Colin ripped his gaze away from Diermani’s cross and spun toward the voice, his heart thudding hard in his chest. His hand tightened on the sling, then relaxed as he spotted the priest standing a few steps behind him, watching him solemnly. About the same age as his father, the priest’s eyes were dark, his face tanned, but his hair was fair, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Dust from the marketplace coated the bottom of his black robe, but the white length of cloth draped over his shoulders was pristine and vibrant in the sun.

Wrinkles creased the priest’s brow as he regarded Colin a moment, then cleared. “You’re from Lean-to,” he said. “That’s why I don’t recognize you.” He hesitated, half turned toward the Proprietor’s manse, then halted. Irritation flashed across his face, as if he were angry at himself, and then he smiled. “Would you like to see inside?”

Colin frowned in suspicion, but his heart quickened. Everyone in the guild back in Andover had spoken of the great churches, of the work they’d been commissioned to do inside them, some of the finest that the guild had to offer. No one but a master could take on such an endeavor. His father had been awestruck for weeks after gaining journeyman and being allowed entrance into the cathedral in Trent. “Yes, Patris.”

The priest’s eyes widened slightly. “So you know a little of the church.” He stepped forward, one hand guiding Colin toward the steps and the entrance. “I am a Patris, yes, but here in New Andover we aren’t as formal. You can call me Brindisi.”

They’d reached the main wooden doors, built of heavy oak. Brindisi opened one side, motioning Colin through, then followed, swinging the door closed behind him. Brindisi stepped forward, but he paused partway into the sanctuary and turned when Colin did not move to follow him. “What’s wrong?”

Colin didn’t answer. He breathed in the scent of newly worked wood thickened with the heavy taint of oil and some type of incense. A wooden lattice, intricate in detail, separated the entrance from the main sanctuary, where pews formed neat ranks between high, arched windows and heavy banners, all beneath a vaulted ceiling. A huge cross filled the recess behind the altar on the far side of the room, draped with thick folds of white and red cloth, the central beam tall and straight, the crossbeam tilted downward. Below, a long, narrow basin of water gleamed beneath the light of dozens of candles, separated from the pews by another carved railing of wood. Everything had the mark of the carpenter’s guild on it, intricate and fine, the pews solid, all of it worked with fine oils to a polished sheen, even the recesses of the windows.

And his father hadn’t had anything to do with it. Because his father belonged to the Bontari Family.

Brindisi took a step toward him. “You can enter the sanctuary. Diermani accepts everyone.”

He turned a harsh glare on Brindisi. “Even a Bontari?”

Then he turned and fled the heady scent of worked wood, a scent he thought he’d forgotten on the three-month voyage to the New World and the time they’d spent here. He heard Brindisi call for him to wait, but he ignored him, shoving through the door into the bright outer sunlight. He stumbled down the steps, stood blinking as his eyes adjusted, his hand squeezed tight on the sling as anger assailed him. An anger tinged with doubt, with guilt.

He wondered what his mother would think of what he intended to do. His mother, who wore Diermani’s tilted cross on a chain around her neck.

He shoved the doubt aside, shot a glare toward Sartori’s estate, thought about the Armory on the wharf, of his father’s face every time he returned from town with nothing. The scent of wood filled his nostrils. Then he turned and headed farther south, toward the warehouses, toward the end of Water Street.

Toward where he knew Walter and his gang would be.

He saw Walter, Brunt, Gregor, and Rick before they saw him. Even then, fear tingled through his skin, setting the hairs on the backs of his arms on end and settling with an all too familiar queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. One hand clutching unconsciously to the satchel at his side, he ducked out of sight behind another warehouse. Breath coming fast and harsh, he fought the urge to run, to flee back to Lean-to, back to the quiet of the plains. He thought of how they’d beaten him until he’d pissed his pants, thought about how they’d humiliated him, how they’d driven him from the town too many times since then to count . . . and when his breath had slowed enough that he was no longer panting, when the fear had abated enough that he could loosen the fist that clenched the sling, he shifted to the corner and peered around it to watch.

“Move faster, you slackers!” Walter bellowed, leaning against a cask set to the side of the warehouse door. Behind him, his cronies snickered where they lounged among a stack of empty crates and barrels. “My father wants this cart unloaded and back to the wharf before the next ship arrives.”

The leader of the work crew cast Walter a dark glare, but he said, “You heard the little whore’s son. Let’s get this cart finished, lads.”

Walter bristled, face going a stark red, the leader of the crew barely containing a smile as Walter’s gang burst out in laughter. One of the crew snorted, then heaved and swung one of the heavy sacks up onto his shoulder with a grunt.