The protector’s words hung in the air, like the echoing toll of a bell. Sarnd looked away, though no direction offered him a chance to escape.
Some of the casualties were being borne away on stretchers. One had a blanket pulled up over their face, its green and white stripes shocking in their ordinariness among the carnage and disorder.
That must be Haveld. Sarnd had met the man on several occasions. With special responsibility to oversee the school where Sarnd taught, the councillor had been a frequent visitor, and his talent for putting people at ease had been just what Sarnd needed.
While people passed away from old age all the time, deaths caused by injury or illness were uncommon. Many towns had a resident custodian who was also trained as a physician for more complicated problems, though the healers took care of most ailments, armed with a variety of herbs and other treatments that could be administered without using the Lifespring. The fact that Naerun’s current custodian had a reputation for being next to useless made little difference; the healers more than made up for any shortfall.
With or without the Lifespring, it was too late for poor Haveld. It should be no surprise someone had received fatal injuries—the explosion had ripped apart the platform with inexorable violence. Sarnd was thankful it had not been Betharad. But still, the demise of someone he had spoken to and liked made it more personal, more devastating.
Sarnd rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the disorientating dizziness starting to build up in his head. What other awful events would take place?
The explosion of the platform kept replaying in his mind. It was still unbelievable. Had there been any sign beforehand to indicate what was about to happen? A spark, a wisp of smoke? He wished he could be sure one way or the other.
He’d been trying to work out what could have caused it when Oreno’s announcement about Haveld had come as a slap in the face. The news was followed soon after by the cancellation of the ceremony.
And now a murder? Serious crime was rare in Naerun, not like in the big cities. The most they had to worry about was theft, fighting when too much wine or ale was consumed, and the occasional attempt to sell goods without a license. Kavilas’s force of Town Protectors was more than capable of dealing with those.
Kavilas summoned a healer and went off to inspect the scene in the alley. Elian watched them go with her arms crossed and a distracted expression, but she was rarely the person who Sarnd went to for comfort. He was grateful when Betharad put an arm around his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I know this is hard to take in. But we’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise. Kavilas is very capable.”
“He’s done a great job of protecting us so far.” He felt his face go hot, and swallowed. “Sorry, that was unfair... It’s…”
She took his hand, a gesture familiar from their shared childhood. Betharad was only a few years older than the twins, but sometimes she tried too hard to make up for the absence of their parents. Even now, when they were all adults.
“...it feels like everything’s falling apart,” Sarnd finished with an effort.
“I know. Today has been far more traumatic than we could ever have expected. But we will get through this. Our parents faced far worse when they defeated the Enjeb, and they were ordinary people, who rose above their circumstances and did what they needed to do. The same as we will.”
Was Betharad trying to convince herself as well as him? Sarnd wasn’t sure, but he stayed silent and hoped she would move on to another topic. The idea their parents had been as ordinary as him was too difficult to contemplate. He’d been less than a year old when they died, and his only memories of them were handed down from Elian and the few fragments Betharad could recall. Veric and Maenna were the heroes of the Deliverance speech, and they needed to remain that way. They were a constant reminder the town was safe, and he had no need to be afraid.
After today, Sarnd was no longer sure if that was true, and he yearned for reassurance more than ever.
“I know you find comfort in the ceremony,” Betharad went on. “So do I. But it’s no more than that—a ceremony, a symbol. We can hold it on another day.”
She was right, but also wrong. The familiar ritual was more important than ever.
Before long, Kavilas returned. His eyes blazed with anger and a frown creased his forehead, which unsettled Sarnd further. The marshal was usually as good at maintaining his composure as Betharad.
“It does appear to be murder,” he said to Betharad in a low voice. Sarnd would have been quite happy to miss all the gory details, but Betharad still held his hand.
“Who is it?” Elian asked. She was clutching Betharad’s other arm now.
Kavilas ran a palm over his head, making his short hair stand up in all sorts of angles. “One of the dock workers. He was struck over the head, and has burn marks on his hands and face, though it was the blow that killed him. The healer believes he would have died instantly, which I suppose is a small comfort to his family.”
At least it doesn’t sound like anyone I know, Sarnd thought.
“Could it have something to do with those strangers who were seen earlier?” Betharad asked.
“It’s possible, but we need to find more evidence before we can draw any firm conclusions. The healer believes he died several hours ago, which would have been before the platform caught fire. I’m beginning to believe the explosion was no accident, although we have no evidence to confirm that.”
Sarnd’s dizziness turned into a ringing in his ears which blotted out the rest of the conversation. What in Orydneth’s name was going on?
He pulled his hand away from Betharad’s and fled, slumping down in a quiet corner of the plaza, head in his hands. His mind kept circling between his imagination and the reality around him, but neither was preferable.
He lost track of how long he sat there, but his headache did retreat. When he was strong enough to look up again, some of the townspeople had taken the advice of the protectors and returned home. He could do the same, but he needed to be surrounded by people more than ever. And his sisters or grandmother might want him, though he had trouble imagining what use he would be.
Sarnd stood and began to wander with no real aim. A long queue of people led up to the food tent, an even longer one where the drinks were served. Despite all the momentous dramas of the day, people weren’t going to pass up a free meal and as much wine or beer as they wanted. Though they were unusually quiet as they waited. He caught a glimpse of Jessa behind the counter in the food tent before the gap closed again.
More people lingered in the plaza than he expected to see. Perhaps they stayed in case something more exciting, more macabre, popped up. That was the last thing Sarnd wanted.
He drifted around, caught in strange and disturbing eddies, unable to find a safe haven. In spite of the heat that spilled down from the swollen sun and radiated up from the baking ground, a shadow of foreboding chilled him to the core.
A hand on his arm made him jump.
“Oh! Sorry—you look startled. How are you feeling?” Jessa asked. She was unsure of the reception she would get from him, her voice meek for once.
He shook his head, trying to pull a suitable response from his stupor. “It’s all very...”
“Yes, I agree. It’s hard to believe, though I saw it with my own eyes—nothing like this ever happens in Naerun! Who could have done it? And how did they do it, with us all watching? It seems incredible. And now I’m worried about Betha...”
Sarnd only realised he’d begun to tune out when the mention of Betharad made him stare at his twin. “Why?”
“You know how much she’s been looking forward to being sworn in as steward.” He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he nodded anyway. “She believes it’s going to help her get things done, give her the full authority she needs, and she’s probably correct. But now...”
“She told you all this?”
“No, but it’s obvious.”
“Oh.” Sarnd was so tangled up in his own reactions that he’d become oblivious to how other people were coping.
“I should get back to the food,” Jessa went on. “It’s bedlam there. You’d think some of the servers have forgotten their brains.”
He could not understand why anyone could be hungry, with this sick feeling inside.
“Sarnd, are you listening to me? Go home.”
The idea of being alone made his chest tighten, but he took a deep breath and tried to smile. His twin seemed to accept this as his answer, and she nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. The gesture was so out of character, Sarnd’s mind went blank.
Then she was gone. A sensation of floating came over him, and nausea burned his throat. It lasted no more than a minute or two, probably a sign that Fissuring headache was coming back. He needed someone who could help keep his mind off the images that kept spinning through it.
Betharad was deep in conversation with Kavilas, Pavena and a few of the councillors, no doubt discussing important matters. His grandmother Elian was nowhere to be seen, probably helping treat the injured. He was not in the mood to be told off by her anyway.
So Sarnd drifted once more, hoping to chance upon a suitable diversion—earlier, he’d caught sight of a troupe of paltaen players, and he usually enjoyed their boisterous and amusing puppet shows. But all the day’s planned entertainments had been cancelled.
Without making a conscious decision, he found himself near the ruins of the platform. He’d never been to the coast, but it reminded him of a picture he once saw of a ship wrecked on rocks. To one side, a healer dabbed salve on the forehead of Councillor Ferran, the last to be treated. Sarnd was torn between a desire to be far away from here, and guilt he’d not helped in the aftermath. Everyone else had stepped in with little instruction, while he would have done the wrong thing, or gotten in the way. And nobody had asked him.
“Typical!” a voice hissed behind him. “They think they can shut us up with free food and drink.”
Sarnd dared not turn in case he attracted their attention. They sounded bitter, angry.
“If they’d done their jobs in the first place, none of this would have happened.” This person made no attempt to whisper. “I don’t know why we bothered voting, we only end up with useless people telling us how to live our lives.”
A third voice joined in. “This new steward will be just the same, you’ll see I’m right. Full of pretty promises, but I doubt she’s anywhere near as good as her parents were. And she never laughs or smiles.”
“Same as the rest of her family—parading around the town thinking they’re better than us.”
“I’m disappointed in the marshal, though. He usually does a decent job, but he’s let us down.”
“He’s well under her spell, if you ask me...”
The last thing Sarnd wanted was to reveal who he was, or challenge their words. But he did want to know who they were, to make sure he avoided them in future. He angled his body a little more in their direction, trying to make it appear he was no more than casually surveying the plaza. He half-recognised the woman, but not the two men. They all had glowers that mixed fear and belligerence. Without intending to, Sarnd locked eyes with one of the men, who glared back. He was taller than Kavilas, and Sarnd felt every missing inch of his own height. He looked away, heart beating a mad staccato. At least the man didn’t seem to have identified him as Betharad’s brother.
“All the burning,” said the woman, sounding more worried now. “Reminds me of the Enjeb.”
One of the men scoffed. “That’s stupid! They were all killed, weren’t they?”
“Were they? I don’t know if that’s right.”
“If they were still around, we would have seen or heard of them since,” the other man said.
“Maybe... You were too young then, but I remember it well, though I was only a girl. They loved setting fire to things.”
The man grunted. “Could be anyone with a grudge—maybe someone who lives in Naerun, even.”
Sarnd walked away. Home was becoming more and more the place he wanted to be, but he’d only taken about twenty paces when he bumped into Menodin. The man was usually light-hearted company over a drink at the Trader’s Rest.
“Sarnd! Good to see you!” Menodin was his usual hearty self, so at odds with the day.
He forced himself to smile. “Meno, ah, what… how are you?”
The big man shrugged. “As good as anyone, I guess. We were supposed to be performing soon, but that’s not going to happen now.”
“I think they’re planning to hold it all again, on a different day.” Sarnd was unable to think of a more sympathetic rejoinder; Menodin often said he needed to make music the same way other people needed to breathe.
“I suppose we’ll have to wait until then. Have they worked out who did it?”
Since Betharad had become a councillor a few years earlier, Menodin believed Sarnd was privy to every single thing that happened around the town. Now his sister had been elected as steward, Menodin’s relentless but good natured interrogations would only get worse.
“Nobody knows yet,” Sarnd replied. “I think it’s going to take a while.”
“I’d love to know how someone managed to set fire to the platform without any of us seeing them. The question is, who would want to do that?”
Sarnd would prefer to avoid such speculation, but at least his friend wasn’t bringing up the murder as well.
“Ah! There’s your sister. Do you think she could be persuaded to join me for a drink?”
Sarnd was saved from having to ask which sister by a swirl of music striking up. He breathed a sigh of relief that those in charge had recognised the crowd needed entertainment more than ever.
“Finally!” said Menodin, a wide smile appearing with the first notes. “Sorry, I’d better go and find out if we’ll be playing after all. See you at the Trader’s!”
In the quiet Menodin left in his wake, Sarnd’s ears picked up more murmurs of discontent. Reinstating the entertainment might not be sufficient to stop the atmosphere becoming unforgiving, ready to point fingers without a scrap of evidence. Naerun was turning into a town he hardly recognised, and it left him feeling sick and exhausted.
Sarnd spotted the paltaen players again as they began to perform on their miniature stage. But even that failed to take the edge off the heavy cloak of bleakness that had settled on him. Today, the traditional puppets with their elongated limbs and thinly disguised morality tales had none of their whimsy, instead contributing to the unsettling atmosphere.
He threaded his way to the edge of the plaza, eager to get away from the pressure of the crowd all around him. He found himself near Oven Lane, a narrow cut-through behind the town’s two bakeries, and let out a shaking breath of relief.
He paused at the entrance. The lane was deserted, full of deep shadows where anything and anyone could be lurking. The sensible thing would be to turn back, to remain in the safety of the jostling crowd.
His ears caught the sound of a familiar voice. “Sarnd? Are you leaving?”
It was Larya, of course. Even the events of the day had failed to prevent her from seeking him out. He had the impression she was interested in some sort of romantic entanglement—though she’d never told him so, and he had done his utmost to avoid having to ask.
Her imminent arrival helped make his mind up, and he slipped into the lane.
He was almost at the sharp bend to the right when he saw a movement up ahead of him. It was probably just his imagination, fired up from all the drama that today was throwing around, but they looked like they were being furtive. From this angle, all he knew was that it was most definitely not Larya, she was still behind him. He would have been happy for her to follow him now.
Whoever it was, the person ahead spared him no attention and disappeared around the bend. It was just one of the bakers, stopping in to pick up some more bread for the hungry masses, or check on tomorrow’s dough. Their work never stopped, not even for the Deliverance Ceremony.
Sarnd took a few breaths to slow his jittering heart and started up the lane again. He turned the corner, and at last saw the other end of the lane. Home was only a few streets from there. How ridiculous to be scared of a place he knew so well.
When he reached the private darkness of their house, he poured himself a large cup of wine, taking a long drink before he slipped off his sweat-drenched sun-cloak. He sank into his usual chair in the courtyard, welcoming the cool shade of their starwood tree and muted yellow-brown of the walls.
On some occasions when his turbulent fears got the better of him, Sarnd was able to exorcise them through drawing pictures. He’d been told he had talent as an artist, but the idea of turning it into anything more public made his insides knot up. Recreating images and emotions on paper was a way of reducing the space they occupied in his head, before he locked them away or burned them to nothing.
He jumped up and took paper and charcoal from the cupboard, and started to make lines and curves with a feverish energy that would have impressed his twin sister. But all of today’s events were too fresh, throbbing so vividly in his mind that it was impossible to distil their essence down to flat images. He shook his head and dropped the charcoal on the table.
Up on a shelf was one of his old puzzles. It was carved in the shape of a large leaf, its edges rounded from the many times he had pulled the pieces apart and put them back together. He could solve this without thinking now, but the familiar movements, and the texture of the wood grain under his fingers, calmed him like nothing else.
A second cup of wine helped, too.