Free Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate Page A

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 tear-streaked 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.