Cold Steel (Spiritwalker 3)

e other side, the fences were crowded with men shoulder to shoulder on the rails and in the pens. They had the unwashed look of men who haven’t the coin to pay for a tub of water in which to bathe. A few shawled and cloaked women moved through the outskirts of the crowd, selling food or, judging by the furtive movement in the shadow of a half-hidden alley, their own bodies.

The heat of so many people had churned the frozen dirt into a mire. Yet despite the crush, and the occasional bark of a dog, the crowd seethed in a remarkable silence. All stared at a barrel on which a petite young woman stood giving an impassioned speech.

Bee had raised her voice in the cry for revolution.

28

As I reached for the latch, Brennan caught my arm.

“Don’t get out. The ghana has spies in the crowd.”

He pulled down the glass in the window so I could hear. Bee’s voice carried easily, for she certainly never had any trouble making herself heard. She spoke in clear schoolroom Latin meant to be widely understood.

“Our demands for new laws will not cede to the demands of blood and birth. We dispute the arbitrary distribution of power and wealth which is claimed as the natural order. We know it is not natural. It is artificially created and sustained by ancient privileges. Why should those privileges be reserved to only a few communities? By what judgment do the patricians claim they stand above the rest? It is on our backs and our labor and our blood and our children that they rise. We need not stand bent beneath. We can stand straight and say—”

“Kiss me, sweetheart!” shouted some wag in the crowd. “That’s what we say. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen in an age.”

Raucous laughter followed this sally. I glanced anxiously across the crowd. Brennan pointed to two trolls stationed intimidatingly behind Bee: Chartji and Caith.

“Kiss you!” Bee exclaimed without losing a beat. “Why would I kiss you when a Roman legate begged me to become his favored one and yet I turned him down? Do you think you are as much of a man as a Roman legate?”

“More a man than any legate, as I can show you!” the fellow called to shouts of laughter.

“Thus you prove my point. If you wish me to look upon you as the amatory equal of a Roman legate, then you must surely believe that justice is no different from love. You cannot chain one community into clientage and call that justice while you let another community enrich its coffers and feed its children off the blood and toil of the first. The blood of a poor laborer flows as red as the blood of a prince. Death hunts them both equally, for a corpse knows no rank. It is only those who survive the dead man who dedicate themselves to making such distinctions. There should be one law that treats all communities in equal part, so every person has honor and dignity.”

“She’s quite remarkable,” said Brennan, keeping his face in shadow as he gazed out the window. “A natural orator. I’ve never seen a heckler get the better of her, and they do try.”

“I had no idea she would ever be giving speeches!” I stared in rapt admiration at the way she exhorted the crowd to consider how unjust laws and antiquated customs were the means by which the many were sacrificed to exalt the few. Yet it was not Bee’s bold voice I had doubted but the idea that people like us would ever get a chance to speak at all.

“We do not need nor do we desire their false generosity or their dishonest counsel! We seek only the honor and dignity that by right fall upon every person. The law must unchain all communities from clientage, from indenture, from slavery. That is what we ask you to consider.”

A rumble stirred the air. A troop of soldiers swung into view at the far end of the livestock yards. Their flowing tunics and feathered caps gave them an imposing presence.

“Consider wisely!” cried Bee with a glance at the approaching cavalry. “Your ghana wishes to enforce my silence and compel your obedience.” She jumped down from the barrel.

A voice rang out. “There’s a reward for the man who hands seditionists over to the ghana!”

Brennan rapped on the ceiling, and the carriage began rolling.

“I’m not leaving her out there in that!” I grabbed the latch.

He slammed me back against the seat. “Stop! You’ll never find her in this crowd and will only make things more difficult by going in search of her.”

I twisted, trying to get free, but he knew the same dirty fighting tricks I did. “Ow! You’re reckless to let her go into a crowd like that!”

“I am reckless with my own life, but never with the cause. Stop fighting me, and look!”

As the men began to run, dissolving into a din of fright and panic, the trolls blocked the lanes down which the soldiers rode. Their heads swayed as they scanned the formation. There was something uncanny in the way the trolls bent forward from their usual upright stance, bodies lowering. The riders slowed. I sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the window.

A gun went off. Spears lowered and swords flashed as the soldiers rode down the unarmed trolls. If trolls could ever be said to be unarmed.

They scattered. Whistles shrilled. A cascading melody lilted like a pretty aria, yet its spill of notes made me shudder down to the bone. Some charged, while others easily overleaped the fences and bounded to circle in from the side. I had never seen anything like it. They were so quick that the frontmost simply dodged the thrust of spears. The movement and scent of the trolls panicked the horses, and the lead mounts bolted, throwing their riders or slamming into the pens on either side in an effort to get away. A sword flashed, cutting into a feathered hide.

Was that blood I smelled, hot and dark?

A shriek tore the air. The clamor of men was drowned under a cacophony of whistles so loud I clapped my hands over my ears. A troll ducked under the belly of a horse and slashed upward. As the horse screamed, its guts spilled.

Brennan shut the window as the carriage lurched around a corner. “That’s torn it!”