Free Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate Page B

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