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3

OM HARTEN WATCHED FROM THE BACK OF THE CROWD of desperate men and women from Lean-to as Tradewind pulled into port with its sails whuffling in the wind from the ocean, his arms crossed over his chest. Men in the rigging and on the deck of the ship called to those on the docks as the trade ship dropped anchor in the bay. With a sharp command from Sartori’s men, boats were dispatched from the docks. The Tradewind’s hull was too deep for it to draw up to the docks themselves. Tom knew that Sartori intended for the bay to be dug eventually, deepened so that the ships with larger hulls could be berthed at the wharf, but for now, anything that sat too low in the water remained out in the channel between Portstown and the Strand.

At the thought of Sartori, Tom’s eyes skipped over the boats rowing out to meet the Tradewind and picked the pampered, primped, and vested Proprietor out of the throngs of dockworkers, tradesmen, and Armory that lined the wharf. He stood at the end of the longest dock, surrounded by his first son, Sedric, two of the more prominent merchantmen of Portstown, servants, and a few of the Armory guardsmen. Sartori spoke to the merchants, but they were far too distant for Tom to pick out any words, even without the gusting wind blowing in his face.

The rest of the Armory were arranged around the edges of the wharf and were even now casting black looks in the direction of Tom and the rest of those from Lean-to, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords or the handles of their pikes.

“There’s more Armory on guard today than usual,” Sam said as he and Paul sidled up to Tom on the right.

Without taking his eyes off the guardsmen, Tom answered, “This is more than just a trade ship bearing supplies. Something else is going on.”

“What?” Paul asked.

Tom shrugged. “If I knew, I’d have warned everyone to stay away from the wharf. The Armory doesn’t look like they’re in a forgiving mood.”

Sam shifted nervously, picking up on Tom’s unease. “What could warrant such a heavy guard?”

“I don’t think it’s a what, but a who.” Tom motioned toward Sartori with his chin. “Sartori is here in person, along with his son and two of the merchantmen. I think they’re waiting to meet someone.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “One of the nobility? One of the significant Family members, rather than the offshoots we’ve been getting around here all summer?”

“Perhaps.” The thought sent a chill through Tom’s skin and he shivered. “Where’s Shay?” he said suddenly, voice sharp.

“Over there, closer to the main dock.”

Tom craned his neck to peer over the restless crowd, catching sight of Shay. He was surrounded by other members of Lean-to . . . but not those from the guilds. These were men from the prison ships, the ruffians and troublemakers who hadn’t made an effort to fit into Portstown, their faces scarred, unshaven, their clothes worn and tattered. Shay watched the dock and the boats like a hawk, eyes narrowed, his expression black. Everyone around him fidgeted uneasily, glancing sharply left and right, taking in the guardsmen. Tom scanned the rest of the restless crowd and realized it was mostly composed of men like those near Shay. Angry men. Dangerous men.

Like Shay himself, he suddenly realized.

He frowned, turned to catch Paul and Sam’s gazes. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

Out in the bay, boats had been lowered from the Tradewind, men dropping down to where they rocked in the waves. They broke away, oars plying the waves, and passed the boats that Sartori had sent out for the cargo.

As the lead boat drew nearer, Tom’s eyes narrowed. Someone in a blood red vest and a white wig sat in the middle of the boat. Two much younger gentlemen sat beside him, in brown vests.

“Who is he?” Paul asked.

“One of the West Wind Trading Company’s men, based on the color of his vest. Not one of the nobility, but close enough to be within spitting distance.” He resisted the urge to actually spit to the side with difficulty. Ana had been after him about it lately. Colin had picked up the habit.

He couldn’t help a small smile. Then he nodded to the left. “Let’s move closer to the main dock. I want to see this trader.”

And he wanted to be closer to Shay and his men.

They stepped out of the main throng of people, now pushing forward as the boat carrying the Company representative reached the dock. Men helped him up from the boat itself, and hands were shaken, introductions made.

When they turned, Sartori motioning for the tradesman to accompany him down the dock, the people of Lean-to surged forward.

“Sartori! Proprietor! We need work! We need food!”

“Please, sir!” a woman cried. “I need to feed my children!”

“Let us help unload the ship!”

Sartori frowned but otherwise ignored everyone. As he neared the end of the dock, he motioned to the Armory men, who pushed forward, those gathered pushing back. As Tom, Paul, and Sam skirted the outer edges, coming up behind the group near Shay and his men, Tom realized he could smell the desperation of the crowd, rank like old sweat, and thicker than usual.

“Fall back!” one of the guardsmen bellowed. “Fall back and let the Proprietor through!”

When no one moved, when the group pushed forward even further instead, the guard growled, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. The rest of the Armory closed in, shoving the people back roughly. A woman cried out, and Tom tensed. More people began pressing in from behind, bodies crushing against him, pushing him forward. He fought back, struggled to keep room between himself and the men in front of him, to keep Shay in sight.

“You have no right!” a man bellowed—one of Shay’s men—his voice pleading, cracking with wildness, with an ugliness that began to infect the crowd. “We’re people of Andover, we’re from Families of the Court! You can’t do this to us!”

Sartori had reached the edge of the crowd. “Arten!”

The commander of the Armory unit, grappling with two men trying to push forward simultaneously, barked, “Yes, sir.”

“I want this wharf cleared. Now.”

“Very well, sir.” Broad of shoulder, with a face etched with three long visible scars, Arten shoved the men before him back, hard, the two stumbling into those behind them with startled outcries. They were caught by the crowd, but the Armory commander didn’t wait for the angry reaction that would follow.

He drew his sword, raised the blade above his head, and signaled the pikemen forward.

A cold dagger of fear sliced down into Tom’s core, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.

“Diermani’s balls,” Paul gasped. “ This is getting out of control.”

And then Sam’s hand latched onto Tom’s arm. “Tom! Shay and his men!”

Tom’s gaze snapped toward Shay, toward the large group of men who had shoved their way to the front of the crowd and were now standing at the edge of the wharf, directly in front of the leading Armory guardsmen. A wide swath of empty space stood between those from Lean-to and the cluster of Armory now surrounding Sartori, his son, and the tradesmen and assistants, a space defined by the pikemen and the reach of their pikes, the Armory tightening ranks. He saw Shay motion to men on the other side of Sartori, the Proprietor standing obliviously, arrogantly, behind Arten. He saw Shay’s men beginning to surge forward—

And he saw the knife Shay held in one hand, the blades all of his men wielded.

He leaped forward, roared, “No!” but his voice was drowned out in the sudden uproar from the mob. Women screamed, men bellowed in wordless defiance, and Arten and the Armory men shifted stance with a stamp of boots on the wooden planks of the wharf, forming a protective wall of metal and blades around Sartori and his entourage. Pikes were lowered, the hafts settling between the shoulders of the men carrying swords. Tom fought forward, fought toward Shay, everyone in the mob trying to move in a hundred different directions at once, half retreating, half rushing toward the dock, toward the guards. Someone’s elbow caught Tom in the ribs. Someone else jabbed him in the small of the back. Sam struggled to his right, the bulkier Paul beside him, his face suffused a startling red with anger.

Then the crowd heaved, like a swell on the ocean, everyone rolling to the side. Those in the front, including Shay’s men, staggered into the space between those from Lean-to and those from the Armory. One of Shay’s men, knife still at his side, stumbled—

And impaled himself on one of the pikes.

The man gasped, blood forming a bubble on his lips before it burst, speckling his chin, his shirt. A look of shock crossed over the pikeman’s face, over the two guardsmen on either side of him.

Arten’s face shuttered closed. Tom caught a flicker of horror, of regret, before all of that was smothered by a horrid resignation.

Tom stilled, breathed in the scent of blood mixed with the salt of the ocean, could almost taste it.

Shay’s man raised a shaking hand to the shaft jutting out of his chest, to the blood that had begun to soak into his shirt. He looked up at the guardsman who held the pike, eyes pleading, almost confused.

Then he sagged forward, the knife he held in his other hand dropping to the ground beside him, his knees giving way. He fell forward until his knees hit the ground, bearing the pike down with him, then halted, the pike itself holding him upright.

Except for the blood, for the blade jutting out from his back, he could have been praying.

Everyone stilled, breaths drawn and held. Tom used the moment of hesitation to grab the men in front of him by the shoulders and haul them back, stepping into the space between them, sliding forward to within a few paces of Shay, the man’s face red with rage.

Then the moment of stillness broke.

In a single heartbeat, the space between Shay’s men and the Armory closed, Shay bellowing, “For the Avezzano! For the Family!” Knives slashed downward; swords were raised. The pikeman kicked the dead man’s corpse off of the end of his pike with a jerk. Blades flashed, edges now slicked with blood, and Tom felt himself pulled forward with the tide, the men Shay had seeded throughout the crowd rushing the wharf in outrage, an outrage Tom could feel prickling on his skin, an outrage that sent terror into his gut as the mob overran Sartori and his entourage, guards and all. Screams split the afternoon sunlight, wordless bellows that sounded like battle cries as all of the tensions between those from Lean-to and Portstown finally exploded.

Tom tried to shove back, to retreat, but he was thrust forward. He stumbled into the man before him. The pommel of Arten’s sword slammed into the side of the man’s neck, and he dropped. Tom staggered into his place, falling to one knee, white-hot pain searing up into his hip as his kneecap dug hard into the dirt. He hissed and jerked backward—

And found Arten’s blade trained on his throat.

He froze, muscles locking. His heart halted in his chest for one breath, two, resumed with a shuddering pain. His gaze latched onto Arten’s. In their hazel depths, he saw cold, calculated death.

Tom raised both hands, palms outward, empty, and thought of Ana, of Colin.

“I came here for work,” he said, voice hoarse, tongue suddenly dry. He swallowed, his throat making a harsh clicking noise. “Nothing more.”

The sword didn’t waver. Something flickered in Arten’s eyes, there and gone.

Then the Armory commander took a single step back, sword still level with Tom’s throat, and turned.

Weakness washed down through Tom’s legs, trembled in his arms. He lowered his hands to his knee, the riot raging around him, the man Arten had knocked unconscious so casually slumped to the ground before him. Someone shouted a command, the Armory on all sides responding, boots pounding against the wharf, but the sounds were distant, removed.

Sam appeared, knelt down by Tom’s side. “Tom, are you all right?”

Tom nodded, still shaky. “I’m fine.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

He grabbed Tom under the shoulder and hauled him into a standing position, turned and reached behind him to catch Paul’s attention. Paul held a knife at the ready with one hand, defensively, the other clutching his upper arm, blood seeping out between his fingers.

“I’ve got him,” Sam said over the tumult around them. “Let’s go.”

Paul nodded as Sam threw Tom’s arm over his shoulder and began shoving out of the riot. When they saw the blood staining Paul’s arm, they cursed, the rage in their faces tightening.

They broke through the back of the crowd into the streets of Portstown, near one of the mercantiles. Sam dragged Tom over to the side of the building. They leaned against the wood, gasping, men and women running away from the riot around them, a few running toward it. Three Armory guardsmen pelted past, pikes before them; Paul hid his knife behind his back until they’d gone.

Sam wiped at the sweat on his forehead with one arm. “That turned into one cursed mess.” His breath still came in heaves, but he didn’t seem to be hurt.

Tom didn’t answer. There was no need.

He was just about to shove away from the wall and head back to Lean-to when he heard Ana shout, “Tom!”

He spun and saw Ana and Karen and a small group of others, mostly women, bearing down on him.

He thought instantly of Arten, of the sword leveled at his throat. “Ana, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, not now!”

“Oh, God, Tom.” Ana charged into him so hard he grunted. His arms closed around her, and he held her a moment, tight, too tight, realized she was trembling. But then she shoved back from him, and he saw the terror in her face, her eyes darting toward the sounds of fighting. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“A riot at the wharf, between the Armory and some of the people from Lean-to.”

“Who?”

“Shay and those from the prison ships, the ones who refused to work.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders straightening, but then the terror broke through even this.

“They’ve taken him,” Karen gasped from behind her, and for the first time Tom noticed the tears that shimmered in her eyes.

Tom shook his head in confusion. “Taken who?”

“Colin,” Ana said. She clutched at him, her hands cold as they caught his, her voice unnaturally calm. “Sartori’s men have taken Colin. They’ve arrested him.”

“What? What for?”

“They said he attacked Walter,” Karen said.

Tom’s eyebrows rose, and he couldn’t quell a slash of pride, lancing up through his back.

“It’s about time,” Sam murmured.

Ana shot him a dark look, her expression going defensive and hard, the emotion beneath uglier than anything Tom had ever seen in her before. Then she turned the look on Tom. “You get Colin back, Tom Harten.” The ugliness had seeped into her voice, beneath the roughness brought on by tears, by the effort to hold them back. “Get him back, and then by Diermani’s Hand you get us the hell out of here.”

Then she turned, halted when she saw Karen, saw her tearstreaked face. Placing an arm around the girl’s shoulders, she hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head, then tugged her toward Lean-to, the others who had followed her down from their tents and huts trailing behind her.

“We’ll make certain she’s safe,” Sam said, watching them retreat, and Paul nodded agreement, his hand twisting on his knife. They could still hear the clash of weapons near the docks, the sound of metal harsh and vibrant in the sunlight.

Tom didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. The shock, the anger, the fear of what they might do to Colin while they held him, too overwhelming.

As if he understood, Sam patted him on the back, then motioned to Paul.

Tom simply stood, staring after them. He had never intended things to end this way, never intended any of this. Portstown was supposed to have been a haven, an escape from the Feud, a new beginning. And now . . .

Now, all he could hear was the hardness in Ana’s voice, the harshness. It settled around his heart like a cold, heavy hand.

As if of its own volition, his hand rose to his chest, to the pendant that hung on a chain about his neck and rested against his skin beneath his shirt. The pendant that signified their vows, that held their mingled blood. He’d worn it so long, hidden from view as such a sacred vow should be, that he barely noticed it anymore. He’d worn it since the day he and Ana had wed in the little church in Trent, since the Patris had used Diermani’s power to bind them.

But today . . . today it felt cold.

When Sartori and his escort and Company guests finally emerged from the buildings near the docks, Tom had moved to the edge of the square, near the church. A group of Armory appeared at first, thrusting a few of the rougher members from Lean-to, including Shay, before them, their arms tied behind their backs. They led them toward the barracks. Another group emerged behind them. He watched as this group escorted Sartori and the Trade Company representative to the gates of Sartori’s estate, the Proprietor stalking through the plaza, head held high, back rigid, face suffused with fury. Sedric and the other merchants must have already broken away. Arten stood outside the gates until everyone had entered, eyes scanning the square. His gaze fell on Tom for a moment, hesitated there, a frown touching his expression, but then he motioned the soldiers in the rear—most of them wounded—toward the barracks, left a few outside on guard, and stepped through the gates. They closed behind him.

Tom felt a momentary surge of anger, but he calmed himself, his hand finding the pendant again. He couldn’t afford to do anything stupid, couldn’t afford to overreact.

Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and muttered a short prayer to Diermani, feeling the presence of the church at his back, soothing, comforting. His grip relaxed, and he sighed heavily, scrubbed at his face with one hand, and began to pace.

He waited another hour before approaching the gate. He would have waited longer, but the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, and with it his apprehension rose.

They had his son. His son.

The guards at the gate shifted before he came within twenty paces of the wall, pikes held ready. “Halt where you are,” one of them barked. “Don’t come any closer.”

Tom stopped in his tracks. He choked down the bitterness and anger in the back of his throat and said, “I need to speak with the Proprietor. I need to speak with Sartori.”

One of the guards rumbled, “That’s not likely today. Now get your ass back to Lean-to, where it belongs.”

Tom bristled. “I need to speak with Sartori,” he said again, the words hard, edged. “Today. Tonight. I won’t leave until I do.”

Neither guard said anything. The one on the left—hair peppered with gray, nose broken in at least two places—eyed Tom up and down, then shifted back. Keeping his attention on Tom, he motioned to someone on the other side of the gate, said something Tom couldn’t hear, and then settled in to wait.

A short while later, Arten appeared. His eyes narrowed. “Sartori will not be seeing anyone today. Go home.” His voice rumbled, deep in his chest, like distant thunder. He began to turn away.

“It’s not about the riot,” Tom said, taking an involuntary step forward. The two guardsmen outside the gate moved, pikes lowered so fast Tom never saw the adjustment in stance. But he ignored both weapons, ignored the men behind them, focused all of his attention on Arten’s retreating back. “It’s about my son!”

Arten halted. “Your son?”

“Yes, my son, Colin Harten. He was arrested this afternoon, in Lean-to, before the riot.”

Arten’s shoulders tightened. Then he turned.

“Do you know what your son did? What he was arrested for?”

“They said he attacked Walter.”

Arten took a step forward, a menacing step. “He attacked the Proprietor’s son and his friends with a sling. He knocked two of them unconscious.”

Tom felt the same thrill of fierce pride spread warmth through his chest, but he forced the emotion down, forced himself to focus on Arten. He took another step forward, raised his empty hands as the guards threatened him. “He was defending himself! He’s been attacked by Walter and his friends before. They must have chased him, cornered him, forced him to take action!”

One of the guardsmen snorted but grew still when Arten glared at him. When the commander of the Armory unit turned back to Tom, his expression was dark, but troubled. He held Tom’s gaze steadily, seemed about to dismiss him, to order him back to Lean-to as he’d done before—

But then he nodded. “Let him in.”

As those inside the gate began pulling the heavy iron bars inward, those outside fell back, pikes raised, their bases thudding into the ground. Arten motioned Tom forward and preceded him down the crushed stone walkway toward the porch of the Proprietor’s house. A small orchard stood off to one side, apples hanging heavy on the branches. A long arbor hung with wisteria and the fat leaves of grapes, a few bunches hanging down into the walkway beneath. Dogwoods spread their branches over the front of the house, their wide white blooms tinged pink as the sun began to set. The shadows of the trees and the wall were long and sharp, the clouds overhead burnished orange.

A stone porch led up to the double doors of the house itself, the pathway—wide enough for carriages—extending around the house to the carriage house and stable behind. As they drew up onto the porch, Tom noted the glass panes in the windows, the unlit oil lanterns that hung on either side of the doorway, and the two Armory guardsmen stationed outside. The doors were made of solid oak, inset with two small glass windows, decorated with subtle but intricate wrought iron hinges and handles. Arten opened one side without acknowledging the guardsmen and stepped aside so that Tom could enter.

Tom halted one step inside the door and drew in a sharp breath.

The interior smelled of wood, of pine and oak and mahogany, cured and stained. Everywhere he looked there were wooden accents: on the casings, on the stairs, on the moldings. Wainscoting banded the walls, and hardwood floors creaked beneath his feet. Wood-paneled doors that slid to the side instead of opening outward on hinges led to rooms to the left and right of the open foyer. Stairs ascended to the second floor straight ahead, another hall running toward the back of the house beneath them. The ceiling stretched above his head. Everything was constructed with simple lines, clean cuts; everything flowed together and melded with the sparse furniture, the simple decorations; and everything felt open and spacious.

Tom reached out to touch the wood, to run his hand along its smooth grain, to feel its texture. His hand trembled. He had not worked wood in so long, had not planed it, sanded it, smoothed it . . .

He felt Arten step up beside him, and his hand dropped back to his side.

“His father had a master brought here from Andover,” the commander said. He pointed with his chin toward the room on the left, where someone had lit a lantern against the dusk. “In there.”

When Tom entered, he heard someone saying, “—attention has been turned away from New Andover. The heads of the Families, the Doms, are all focused on the Rose, on seizing the land surrounding it, on obtaining it for themselves and learning to manipulate its powers. Whoever does so first will rule the Court. The Families are no longer interested in these lands except for their ability to provide them with resources for the Feud. They want material—ore, wood, food—not land.”

“For the moment,” Sartori muttered. He stood beside a stone fireplace, the hearth empty. The last of the sunlight filtered in through the windows to the west.

The man in the red vest from the West Wind Trading Company sat in one of the great chairs that littered the sitting room, a teacup and saucer in one hand. He watched Sartori’s expression intently as he took a sip from the cup. His face was narrow, his eyes a dark blue, his skin tanned and slightly windburned, most likely from his passage across the Arduon. Tom had seen men from the Companies before, had spoken to them, had dealt with them as a member of the carpenter’s guild, and most had been arrogant and effeminate, especially while wearing the powdered white wigs.

This man wasn’t. This man reeked of cold, calculated power, even without the four telltale gold buttons across the shoulder of his vest indicating he held Signal rank within the Company.

“Precisely,” the Company man said. His cup clinked against the saucer as he set it on the table before him. “Which is why the West Wind Trading Company feels that this is an auspicious time to turn our attention here. We feel there is an opportunity, one not to be missed.”

“And that opportunity is?”

“The land of course.”

Sartori stilled.

Before he could respond to the Signal’s statement, Arten cleared his throat. Sartori glanced his way, noted Tom standing beside him. Anger flashed in his eyes. “What is it? I have business to attend to.”

Arten bowed stiffly. “One of the residents of Lean-to has asked to speak to you, on behalf of his son.”

Sartori’s brow creased in irritation, and he drew breath to spit out a nasty reply, but caught himself, glancing toward his guest. “This can wait until morning.”

“Considering the riot this afternoon and that this case concerns your own son, it might be wise to deal with it now, sir.”

“This concerns Sedric?”

“No, sir. Walter.”

“Ah.” A pained expression crossed Sartori’s face, and he sighed, waving an impatient hand. “Very well. What has Walter done now?”

Arten straightened, his tone taking on a formal note. “This afternoon, Walter Carrente reported to the Armory that he and his cohorts had been maliciously hunted down and attacked near the warehouses in Portstown by this man’s son, Colin Harten.” Sartori grunted, but motioned for Arten to continue. “By his report, Colin Harten used a sling to fell two of those in Walter Carrente’s group, then used it to stun Walter himself, before viciously punching and kicking him unconscious and fleeing.”

Sartori’s eyes had grown dark. “And were there witnesses to this attack?”

“Rick Swallow fled the scene at the start of the attack but claims to have watched its conclusion from a distance. He verifies your son’s account. He claims they were caught by surprise.”

“I see. And what does this man’s son say?”

Arten shifted. “I haven’t spoken to the boy yet. He was apprehended in Lean-to just before the arrival of the Tradewind and is being held in the barracks, awaiting your judgment.”

Sartori considered for a moment, turning toward Tom. “And what do you say in your son’s defense?”

Tom’s stomach clenched, but he held Sartori’s gaze. He saw nothing there. No compassion, no warmth. Only annoyance. “My son would never hunt down and beat someone. Not unless he felt trapped. Not unless he were cornered. He was raised beneath Diermani’s Hand.”

“And my son wasn’t?” Sartori snarled.

Tom flinched, then felt his chest tighten with indignation, with a sudden and pure hatred. Of Sartori. Of everything he had made those from Lean-to suffer since their arrival in Portstown.

“My son,” he said, voice like flint, “has returned from Portstown over a dozen times bruised and beaten, attacked because he resides in Lean-to, because he is not Carrente, not one of the Family’s allies. And the reason he comes from Lean-to—the only reason—is because you cannot see fit to allow members of rival Families into your guilds here in New Andover. Guildmembers in good standing, with papers to prove it! Even when it’s obvious that you want to expand Portstown as quickly as possible, and that we could help! I gave him that sling to defend himself, to protect himself from the people of Portstown. He shouldn’t have needed it. He should have been protected by the Armory, by the people of this town, by the Carrente Family and the Court. But the Carrente Family has abandoned us. That’s why my son attacked your son. And that is why the people of Lean-to attacked you on the docks this afternoon.”

“No,” Sartori said, his voice hard with anger. “No, the people of Lean-to attacked me this afternoon because they are common criminals, sent here to work off their punishments in New Andover, but who are ungrateful, degenerate slobs who want everything handed to them or fed to them, who don’t even appreciate the opportunity they have been given.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve given us nothing.”

“I’ve left you alone in Lean-to,” Sartori said, taking a step forward, voice rising, “when I have every right to send the Armory up onto that hill and clear you all out. And after the attack today, I have every intention of doing just that.”

“You can’t.”

Sartori snorted. “I most certainly can. I am the sole arbiter of the Carrente Family lands in New Andover. I am the Proprietor of this little section of New Andover. And I now have evidence that Lean-to is nothing but a pit of political dissidents, sent here to undermine the Carrente Family and bring down its assets in the New World.”

A growing sense of horror began filling Tom’s gut, spreading outward slowly. “We aren’t political dissidents! We’re guildmembers. We came here hoping to work for the guilds—”

“No! You were sent by the Avezzano Family to stir up rebellion, to take down Portstown and Carrente’s hold on the coast!”

Tom stepped back under the fury of Sartori’s statement, realization choking him, making it hard to breathe. “Shay.”

“Yes, Shay Jones. Or should we call him by his real name, Vetralla, member of the Avezzano Family.”

Tom tasted bile at the back of his throat, swallowed its bitterness. “We didn’t know. He told us . . . he told us he was a guildmember, a shipwright.”

“He lied.”

Tom reeled beneath the revelation. They’d invited Shay into their home, had drunk with him, had treated him as one of their own. But now . . .

Now he saw him in a different light, and it changed nothing. He turned back to Sartori, tried to shove Shay aside. “Some of us have poured our heart and soul into that land, into those huts and tents. It’s all we have left. We aren’t dissidents, aren’t political rivals. We only wanted advancement in the guild. There’s nothing for us in Andover. We spent every last resource we had to get here.”

Sartori placed his hands behind his back. “Then you have a problem, don’t you? Because I can no longer tolerate such a clearly disruptive element in or near Portstown. Not after today.”

“Where do you expect us to go?”

“Back to Andover. To Trent or Gillem. To any of the new ports springing up along New Andover’s coast, if you can get their Proprietors to accept you. I don’t care. But you can no longer remain in Portstown.”

Tom felt himself harden. “We won’t go. We can’t. We don’t have the means anymore. You’ll have to remove us by force.”

Sartori leaned forward slightly. “Then so be it.”

Tom thought about the riot on the docks that afternoon, about those from Lean-to facing the Armory with knives, with stones, with their bare hands.

If the Armory fell on Lean-to, it would be a slaughter, even if Shay’s cohorts joined them.

The bitter anger turned to nausea as he stared at Sartori’s implacable face, as he realized that Sartori was serious, that he’d already made his decision, and nothing Tom could say or do would change it.

“Gentlemen.”

Neither Tom nor Sartori turned at the intruding voice, not until the word was repeated, with emphasis.

“Gentlemen.”

Sartori’s gaze broke first. “What is it, Signal Daverren?”

Daverren shifted forward in his chair. “I believe I have a solution to both of your problems, one that does not require violence. If what Tom Harten says is true, and he has been unjustly judged.”

“And that would be?” Sartori asked. His tone held a mild warning, but Daverren ignored it.

“It goes back to the opportunity I spoke of before we were interrupted,” Daverren said. He reached down to retrieve a wooden cylindrical tube beside the seat. “Do you mind?”

Sartori hesitated but motioned to the table.

Shifting the tray with the tea and cups to one side, Daverren opened the silver end of the cylinder and removed a sheaf of papers, sorting through them until he found the one he was looking for. With a murmured, “Aha,” he pulled the parchment out and spread it out on the table, motioning Sartori and Tom forward.

“This is a map of the known world,” he said. He pointed to the center of the map, to a large land mass that was divided into different regions using subtle shading. “This is Andover, with each of the Families represented by different colors. And this large stretch of blue is the Arduon Ocean.” He traced east from Andover, across the Arduon, until his fingers came to rest on a new coast, the details of the land behind it empty, as if someone had forgotten to draw in the rest of the map. A few towns littered the new coast, represented by dots and scrawled names, the edges of the land itself shaded in colors that matched those used for individual Families from Andover. “New Andover,” Daverren said, although it was obvious. “And right here is Portstown.” He glanced upward, to Tom, “And Lean-to, of course.” Sartori grunted.

“You’ll notice that the coast is shaded to represent the division of the land to the Families as decided by the Court once the new continent was discovered and the first settlements, such as Portstown, were seen to be successful. However, you’ll notice that the land behind the coast,” he motioned toward the empty area, “has not yet been claimed. Not officially. Proposals were drawn up as to how this land was to be divided, once it was explored, but those proposals have fallen by the wayside in the wake of the discovery of the Rose and its potential.”

“Those proposals haven’t been forgotten,” Sartori said. Daverren smiled. “No, they have not. But look at what happened with the settlements along the coast. The Court was forced to respect the claims of the towns that had already made a start. If a Family backed a particular group, and that group successfully began a colony on the coast before the Court became involved, the Court ceded the land surrounding that colony to the respective Family. Carrente owns the land around Portstown because your father established the town here, and it thrived.”

Sartori leaned back from the map. “You want to lay claim to the inland, while the Families are distracted by the Feud.”

“Exactly. The respective Family Trading Companies are already at war. We’ve been at war since the Companies were first founded. The Rose is a political affair—potentially a religious affair if what I’ve heard of the powers of the Rose are true—one that the Companies will profit from, true, but at its heart it is not a commercial endeavor. Establishing an early presence in the heartland of New Andover is.” Daverren’s eyes narrowed. “The West Wind Trading Company wants to stake its claim as early as possible, before any of Carrente’s rivals have the chance. And we know that other Companies are interested. The Southern Isles have already gathered an expeditionary force, although it had not yet sailed at the time of my departure.”

Sartori held Daverren’s gaze for a long moment. “An expedition is dangerous. And expensive. I’ve already sent groups out into the plains, at significant cost to myself and the Carrente Family. None of those expeditions have returned. None that have traveled a significant distance from the coast. And in order to stake a legitimate claim, the group would have to travel relatively far.”

“The West Wind Trading Company is prepared to underwrite the cost of the venture. In fact, I’ve brought the majority of the necessary resources for an expedition with me, on the Tradewind. Wagons, horses, supplies for the establishment of a settlement, a town. My only concern was finding someone to lead the expedition and the people willing to risk it.” He turned to Tom. “That’s where you come into play, Tom Harten. You and those in Lean-to who are not associated with Vetralla or the Avezzano Family.”

“I’m not a farmer,” Tom said warily. “I know nothing about settling a town.”

“No, but you are a craftsman. And I’m willing to bet that there are others in Lean-to with the requisite skills to start a settlement. A successful settlement. The only question is whether you and the others would be willing to risk the open plains, and whatever they hold.”

Tom hesitated. He thought about Ana, about Sam and Paul and all of the rest of the guildsmen huddled in Lean-to. “What would we gain from doing this? What are you offering us?”

“Other than survival?” Daverran said, then smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “I’m certain that the Carrente Family would be willing to cede a percentage of the land to the settlers and the guilds. Thirty percent seems reasonable. You’d become landowners, beholden to the Carrente Family, of course, but you’d be free.”

Sartori stirred at this, frowning. “There would have to be a Carrente presence in the group, a contingent of Armory.” He glared at Tom. “I must protect the Family interests after all.”

“Then what’s our guarantee that the land would be ours, that the Carrentes won’t seize it back after we’ve established the town?” Tom protested.

“What’s my guarantee that you won’t seize the land and claim it for your own Family!”

“Gentlemen, please.” When neither Tom nor Sartori backed down or spoke, Daverran’s eyes flashed. He addressed Tom first. “An expedition of this nature cannot be undertaken without Family approval. The Company would need an official charter, issued by Sartori Carrente, giving us the right to embark on the journey, the right to claim the land we settle in the Carrente Family name. The charter can be written in such a way as to legally cede the land to the guildmembers and the guild.”

Before Tom could respond, the Signal shifted his attention to Sartori. “And I believe, given the . . . misunderstanding that occurred because of your association with ‘Shay Jones,’ that Sartori could be persuaded to decrease the Carrente Armory’s presence in the expedition. As a sign of renewed trust and good faith?”

Sartori bristled, then caught and held Daverran’s gaze. “And what rights would the Company receive from this . . . venture?”

Daverren smiled. “The trade rights, of course. With exclusive claim to the town and its immediate vicinity for use by the West Wind Trading Company, under the Carrente Family name.”

“A percentage of the trade to be extended to the Family.”

“Of course.”

But Sartori still hesitated.

Daverren shifted closer and lowered his voice. “There is little risk to you or the Family. The risk falls on the Company. And it has the advantage that it will resolve your problem with those in Lean-to without disgracing the Family name. Forcibly removing— or killing—that many guildsmen can only hurt your endeavors in the Court, and at a time such as this . . .”

Sartori winced and turned away, moving toward the fireplace. He stared down into its depths, lamplight flickering on either side of him.

“If the expedition is to go forward,” he said grudgingly, “there would have to be a Carrente Family representative in the group, in addition to a . . . minimal Armory contingent.”

Daverren relaxed, tension draining from his shoulders. “The Company will have a presence as well. You’ll have the appropriate papers drawn up?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Daverren began rolling up the map. “We can discuss the particulars later.”

“I’ll have to discuss it with those in Lean-to,” Tom said suddenly. “Those that I can trust. They may not all agree.”

“Of course,” Daverren said. “But I think you’ll find you have little choice.”

The Signal made ready to leave, Sartori still deep in thought. When it became clear that the Proprietor had forgotten him, Tom stepped forward, catching Sartori’s attention.

“You haven’t made a decision about my son.”

“Ah, yes, your son.” He glanced toward Arten, who stood silently in the background, then frowned. “Is your son of age?”

“Yes, sir. He turned twelve this summer.”

“Then I’m sorry. An example needs to be made, to those in Lean-to who may not be as honest as you, to their Families. All of those arrested and currently in confinement will be sentenced tomorrow morning.”

“But he wasn’t part of the riot!”

Sartori’s eyes narrowed. “Nevertheless, he attacked my son, a member of the Carrente Family. He will be punished.”

With a sharp gesture, he motioned for Arten to escort Tom out, the Armory commander grabbing him by the upper arm. Tom clenched his jaw, but he didn’t resist. Arten didn’t release him until they stood outside the gates of the estate. Night had fallen, but two lanterns had been lit on the top of the wall above the gates.

“You should accept the offer,” Arten said as he let Tom go. “There’s nothing for you here in Portstown. There never will be. Not while Sartori is Proprietor.”

Without waiting for a response, the commander stepped back through the gates, slipping from the lantern light into the darkness of the yard beyond.

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Framed