The Reaver

CHAPTER FOUR

Stedd peered about with fascination at humans, half-elves, halflings no taller than himself, and even the occasional brown-skinned, fair-haired gnome pushing past one another in the cobbled streets and at vendor’s carts, shops, tenements, towers, and flags and banners that, though soaked with rain and hanging lifeless, still lent splashes of color to another gray day. Westgate was plainly larger than Teziir, and that made it the biggest city Stedd had ever visited. He’d been born on a farm, and though he’d passed sizable towns on his journey south and east, the Moonstars had kept him clear of them as a way of keeping clear of the war.

As usual, the thought of the benefactors who had, for reasons they’d said involved some sort of prophecy, spirited him away from the camp and protected him thereafter brought a pang of mingled grief and guilt, the latter because he’d made friends with the very man responsible for their deaths. But he still needed someone to help him, and it seemed clear that, despite his past crimes, Captain Marivaldi was Lathander’s choice for the task. Stedd could only hope that, as they looked down on him from the afterlife, Questele and the others understood.

Anton interrupted his sad reflections by stopping abruptly. “What is it?” Stedd asked.

“Look,” the pirate answered, gesturing toward the block they were about to enter.

Stedd did and saw that many of the doors ahead had trident shapes chalked on them. Frowning, he said, “Those people must all worship Umberlee.”

“Or feel a need to placate those who do,” Anton said. “Either way, it’s a warning to stay alert.”

“Or turn around and go somewhere else,” Stedd suggested. Actually, the sight of the Bitch Queen’s emblem drawn over and over again made him want to denounce her lies and proclaim Lathander’s truth in their place. But there was sense in his companion’s view that it would be stupid to do so where it was likely to bring about his death.

Anton shook his head. “We assumed the waveservants would have a strong presence in Westgate; they had a decent-sized temple here even before their church started its climb to power. But in this town, there are ways to avoid the attention of those who wish you ill, and I guarantee I can finally get us a suitable boat.”

“Aren’t we more likely to have trouble with the Iron Jest-or some other pirate ship-if we travel by sea?”

Anton took a breath in the way that indicated he was making an effort not to grow impatient. “I’ve explained to you, I can avoid that, too.”

“On horses, we could make good time traveling overland. Couldn’t we?”

“With rivers in flood and trails washed out? Don’t count on it. Just trust me. Haven’t I kept you safe so far?”

That was true enough. Since leaving Aggie’s village, Anton had successfully dealt with hungry wolves and a trio of would-be adolescent bandits lying in ambush for whoever happened along.

“Yes,” Stedd said, “and I do trust you. Just tell me what to do.”

To his surprise, for just an instant, Anton’s mouth appeared to tighten ever so slightly, like he was sorry Stedd had conceded the argument. But that made no sense, and the flicker of expression vanished in an instant if it had ever even been present in the first place.

“Just stay close,” the Turmishan said, “keep your eyes open, and for weeping Ilmater’s sake, resist the urge to preach.”

Stedd sighed. “Don’t worry about that.”

He himself couldn’t help fretting, though, as he and his guardian prowled onward and additional signs of the Umberlant church’s tightening hold on the city came into view. Bakers, masons, and hatters, folk whose trades had nothing to do with the sea, wore seashell pendants or garments patterned with scales or dyed blue-green. Someone had broken into a potter’s establishment, the only shop on its block without a trident on its door, and smashed the crockery. Mostly distressingly of all, perhaps, a shrine to Sune, with caryatids depicting Lady Firehair bracing its crimson door, did have a trident scratched on the panel; apparently, even the heartwarders within were conceding the primacy of the Queen of the Depths.

It was wrong and had to stop! Stedd steadied himself with the thought that it would-somehow-when he reached Sapra.

The wet streets took him and Anton gradually downhill until they started catching glimpses of the harbor. According to the pirate, Westgate had once been the third busiest port on the Sea of Fallen Stars with the facilities one would expect of such a hub of trade. The harbor was still busy, but it was also a beleaguered improvisation. The waves surged through the ground floors of partially submerged buildings while, farther out, warning buoys marked the locations of structures the sea had swallowed entirely. The docks had a rickety look because they were temporary, designed to be dismantled, moved, and reassembled when that became necessary to keep them above water.

Eventually, Anton led Stedd down a street so narrow that the two of them nearly blocked it walking side by side. Even to a boy who knew little of city life, the shops had a shabby look to them. A fat man took a wary look around, pulled down his hat, and turned up the collar of his cloak before hurrying away from an apothecary’s doorway with a little bottle clutched in his hand. The bent-backed scribe in a cramped box of a shop reflexively hid the document he was working on behind his hand and forearm when Stedd glanced in at him.

Anton stopped in front of a door decorated with a picture of a golden helmet topped with a crimson plume. Or at least, the colors might have started out as vividly yellow and red. Now, the paint was so faded and flaking that it was difficult to be certain.

The pirate said, “Wait here. Keep your hood up and don’t talk to anyone. Understand?”

“You’re going inside?”

“To procure our transportation.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“It’s better if you stay put.” Anton squeezed Stedd’s shoulder, then turned and opened the door. Voices murmured from the dimness beyond until the Turmishan slipped inside and closed the door behind him. After that, there was nothing to hear but the rain drumming on rooftops and cobblestones.

Stedd took shelter under a pawnbroker’s eaves and leaned against a grimy brick wall. While trying not to be obvious about it, he watched the visitors to the various shops, the pedestrians who simply traversed the narrow street on the way to someplace else, and a skinny black cat that kept coming near, perhaps in the hope of a handout, but scrambled away whenever he bent down to pet it.

It passed the time until four men, all clad in shades of blue and green, turned down the street.

Stedd could tell they weren’t waveservants. They weren’t wearing vestments, just outfits thrown together from random garments approximating the proper color. Nor were the tridents they carried the consecrated weapons of the church of Umberlee. Rather, they were pitchforks or implements for fishing. Still, the foursome looked more dangerous than the common worshipers who contented themselves with a shark-tooth pendant or some other simple token of devotion, and such being the case, maybe they were on the lookout for Lathander’s boy prophet.

Swallowing away a sudden dryness in his mouth, Stedd told himself that couldn’t be the case, or they’d be rushing him already. Then it occurred to him that at a distance, on a disreputable street where children didn’t belong, they might take him for a grownup halfling instead of what he was.

Unfortunately, he doubted they’d remain confused if they saw him up close. Trying not to look like he was in a hurry, and praying there was nothing in the way he moved that would give him away, he ambled to the door with the crumbling painting and pulled it open.

As he’d suspected, the space on the other side was a tavern, with kegs and jugs on the sagging shelves behind the bar and outlines of human figures drawn on the walls. The gashes left by throwing knives mottled the targets like sores, especially in the vicinities of the hearts and eyes.

The room smelled of beer, smoke, and a sweaty crowd packed in tight, although that last stink was a sort of ghost of last night’s carousing. At the moment, only a handful of glum-looking, possibly hungover folk sat drinking at the mismatched tables. Intent on their own solitary thoughts or desultory conversations, none paid any attention to Stedd. If they noticed him at all, maybe they too thought he was a halfling.

Good. But he felt like a cornered animal until enough time passed that it was clear Umberlee’s followers weren’t going to follow him inside.

Once he judged he’d given them enough time to prowl on by, he wondered if he should go back outside. But even the tavernkeeper, a barrel-chested fellow with pouchy, bloodshot eyes who looked as morose and withdrawn as his patrons, didn’t seem interested in demanding that the newcomer buy a drink; he was busy pouring himself a cupful of clear spirits. So perhaps, Anton’s instructions notwithstanding, Stedd was better off biding where he was.

Thinking of the pirate made Stedd wonder where he was. Then he noticed a curtain that evidently shielded some sort of secondary room or alcove. It seemed likely Anton was on the other side conferring with his contact.

Stedd decided to take a seat close enough to the curtain to eavesdrop. After his brush with the Bitch Queen’s bravos, it might settle his jangled nerves to verify that he actually did know where his protector was and that arrangements for the boat were proceeding as they ought. With luck, he’d be able to tell when the palaver was drawing to a close and be back on the street before it did, and then Anton would never know he’d disobeyed him.

Making sure the legs didn’t scrape on the planks beneath the sawdust on the floor, Stedd pulled out a chair. He caught Anton’s voice: “… these years working together, you know I’m good for it.”

“Times are hard,” replied someone who sounded like a talking bullfrog.

“Surely not for a gang with ties to Jaundamicar Bleth,” Anton said.

In a colder tone, the bullfrog said, “We don’t talk about that.”

“Sorry. I was just looking for a way to remind you you’re not dealing with a simpleton.”

“Neither are you. Do you think it hasn’t even occurred to me to wonder why you need a boat? Where’s the Iron Jest?”

“Busy elsewhere with a chore that’s none of your concern.”

“All right. Fair enough. And I suppose that in light of our years of friendship, you can settle up after. The voyage will just cost a little more that way: one thousand gold in lions, nobles, or a mix.”

“One thousand doesn’t strike me as a notably friendly sum.”

“To sneak Anton Marivaldi safely to his destination despite all the port officials, navy men, and rival pirates who live for the chance to lay hands on him? You’re right, that’s not friendship, more like a brother’s love.”

“Fine, my gold-grubbing brother. I agree.”

“Understand, that’s payment due as soon as the voyage is over. You might think you can just scarper off and leave the captain holding out his hand like a fool. From what I know of you, you might even get away with it. But ask yourself if you want to be at feud with the Fire Knives forever after.”

“I already said I agree. What captain are we speaking of?”

“Do you know Helstag Deepdale?”

Anton snorted. “I know he doesn’t take that worm-eaten tub of his out of sight of shore. I believe it’s the only intelligent decision he ever made.”

“He’ll make the crossing to Pirate Isle if I tell him to.”

Stedd felt shocked, like someone had unexpectedly slapped him in the face.

But maybe things were really all right. Maybe Anton had only told the bullfrog he intended to go to Pirate Isle because that was what the other man would expect.

No. No matter how hard Stedd tried, he couldn’t make himself believe that. As a reaver, Anton ranged all around the Sea of Fallen Stars, so why would he need to claim that he was headed for Pirate Isle to avert some sort of suspicion? And why would he reject Helstag Deepdale’s coaster if his objective was Sapra? Stedd was scarcely an expert on the geography of the region, but the Moonstars had taught him enough to know that a person could reach Turmish by hugging the southern shore. In fact, that was pretty much the only way to do it if one actually wanted to avoid sailing close to the pirate stronghold.

Once again, Stedd remembered Anton killing Questele and her brothers-in-arms, then threatening to murder the captive villagers, and felt grinding shame at his own idiocy for ever trusting him. That feeling, though, immediately gave way to a stab of panic. He had to get away from the pirate, and this moment was likely his only chance.

He rose and hurried toward the door. His departure finally evoked a halfhearted “Hey!” from the tavernkeeper, but he ignored the call and kept going.

No ruffians with tridents were lying in wait on the street. That was a minor relief, but where was Stedd supposed to go in a city full of strangers, any one of whom, out of greed, piety, or fear, might see fit to hand him over to the agents of Umberlee? Perhaps if he found a safe place to pray, Lathander would help him figure it out, but for now, he needed to keep putting distance between Anton and himself.

Struggling against the urge to run outright, he strode past the pawnshop and onward. He turned right at the first corner and left at the next one.

“Or more likely drown me trying,” said Anton. “Please, tell me there’s another choice.”

Perched on the high stool he needed to sit at the table comfortably, Dalabrac Bramblefoot smiled. The halfling dressed decently but with a sober lack of ostentation, carried no visible weapons, and with his round, avuncular face, looked more like a modestly successful tradesman than an officer in Westgate’s most powerful criminal fraternity. Where externals were concerned, his one exceptional feature was the guttural voice that had no business issuing from such a small body.

“Helstag would be hurt,” he croaked, “that you don’t trust his seamanship. But have it your way. What about Falrinn Greatorm?”

Anton smiled. “Falrinn will do. Where and when do I board?”

“Don’t worry about that. Stay here, have another drink or two, and I’ll send word to him to make ready. Come evening, we’ll sneak you down to the harbor, and you and Falrinn can sail with the tide.”

Dalabrac smiled and picked up the brandy bottle. “For a thousand gold, I take good care of you.”

“Thanks,” Anton said, “but I need to attend to other business before I embark. I’ll meet Falrinn on the dock.”

In other circumstances, he would have been happy to let the Fire Knives hide him until it was time to sail. But he didn’t want them seeing Stedd before it was necessary lest they realize a prize worth far more than a thousand Cormyrean lions stood before them for the taking. It would be better to rendezvous with Falrinn after dark with the boy prophet disguised as well as was practical, board the smuggler’s vessel, and cast off before anyone had time to wonder about Stedd’s identity.

Dalabrac shrugged. “Suit yourself. He still ties up on the east end of the harbor, but of course, everything is different with the flooding. Look for a boat with gray sails and a blue light shining in the bow.”

“I remember him signaling with that blue lantern.” Anton lifted his dented pewter cup in salute to Dalabrac, drained it, rose, and pushed back through the curtain into the tavern’s common room.

As he strode toward the door, he told himself that the difficult part of his enterprise was over. Falrinn’s boat was nimble enough to evade the Iron Jest and any other seafaring hunters. At some point, Stedd might realize where they were truly headed, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it. If need be, Anton would tie him up to keep him out of mischief.

Although imagining that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He didn’t know why. A man did what was necessary to make his way; if he balked, some more enterprising soul would only knock him down, walk over him, and commit the selfsame act he’d been too squeamish to perform. With that truth held firmly in mind, he pulled open the door.

Stedd was gone.

Hoping that the rain and gloom had momentarily deceived him, Anton cast about. To his growing dismay, he still saw no sign of the boy. He paced along the narrow street and peered into the various shops. Stedd wasn’t inside any of them.

Had waveservants or other hunters recognized the child and snatched him away? Possibly. But wouldn’t Stedd have scurried into the Golden Helm in search of his protector if he saw trouble headed his way?

Not if he’d been taken by surprise. Not if someone struck him down before he had a chance to act. Anton imagined the little boy sprawled facedown with Umberlant priests standing over him, and the surge of rage the picture evoked surprised him. No doubt it was anger at the thought of someone else snatching his prize away from him.

Although he didn’t know for certain that was what had happened. Maybe Stedd finally realized his traveling companion remained what he’d always been, an enemy resolved to sell him for the bounty.

But if so, how? Anton was confident he’d given the boy no reason to suspect him. To the contrary; he played the part of a true guardian and friend. At first, the pretence had required effort, but as the days wore on, it had become habitual, perhaps, in some sense, even natural.

Still, maybe Stedd had discovered the truth with magic.

On their first morning together, Anton had deemed it prudent to prevent the boy from renewing his abilities. But it had proved impractical to do the same with each new sunrise, and so, although he’d kept interfering when circumstances provided a good excuse, the boy nonetheless possessed some magic. It might only be healing of the sort that had aided Anton aboard the Jest and sick folk they’d met along the trail. That was all the Turmishan had witnessed so far. But for all he knew, when turned to the purpose, it might also yield warnings and revelations.

With a jaw-clenching spasm of frustration, Anton decided there was no way to guess with any degree of confidence why Stedd had disappeared. There were too many ambiguities involved. In any case, what mattered was finding him, but how was a lone pirate, himself a fugitive, supposed to find a single missing child in the teeming sprawl that was Westgate?

Plainly, he couldn’t. But the Fire Knives had eyes throughout the city. He was just going to have to tell them the truth and cut them in for a full share of the bounty.

He strode back into the Golden Helm and ripped open the curtain screening the alcove. Startled, Dalabrac peered at him.

“I need your help with another problem,” Anton said.

“What?” the halfling asked, perhaps a shade too quickly, or with a bit too much concern. At any rate, something about his reaction gave Anton a twinge of unease. But that didn’t alter the fact that he needed help.

“I had a boy with me,” he said, “born and raised on Pirate Isle and unfortunately, unhappy there. He stowed away aboard a ship, and his father has posted a reward …”

Dalabrac grimaced. “Stop. I know you were traveling with a child. I also know who the child truly is.”

Anton blinked. “How?”

“I warned you I’m not a simpleton, and neither are the new leaders of your former crew. They’ve been in touch to tell me you absconded with the boy prophet that Evendur Highcastle wants and might turn up here to ask for help.”

“In which case,” Anton said, “they wanted the Fire Knives to return the two of us to their keeping instead.”

“Of course,” the halfling said, “I wouldn’t have turned an old friend over to be killed.”

“Of course not,” Anton said, making no effort to conceal his skepticism.

“But once the boy was actually standing in front of me, it’s possible I would have proposed that you and I renegotiate our arrangement. And that, I infer, is the problem. You wouldn’t even have told me there is a boy if you hadn’t just discovered that you’ve lost him.”

“Unfortunately, yes. He was right outside in the street, and now he’s disappeared. I need your help finding him.”

“But do I need your help?” Dalabrac replied. “The Fire Knives know Westgate far better than you ever could. At this point, what can you contribute to the enterprise?”

“The lad trusts me”-Anton hoped that was still true-“and I know how he thinks. I can also fight if need be. You may remember, I’m pretty good at it.”

Dalabrac hopped down from his stool. “I remember having to stab that Shou son of a troll in the arse and save your hide. But still, yes, you are. So, a new arrangement. One third of Evendur Highcastle’s bounty for you, two thirds for the Fire Knives, and no need to cut in your former crew. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Anton said.

“Then let’s get moving.”

Despite the rows of stalls, the marketplace, a plaza where three streets came together, felt relatively open, and despite the scarcity of goods and the high prices that periodically elicited cries of amazed disgust, a fair number of folk were shopping. It all made the skin between Stedd’s shoulder blades crawl like someone was about to stick a dagger there.

But on the trek from the Star Peaks to the Sea of Fallen Stars, Questele had told him that sometimes, the safest place to hide was in a crowd, and whether or not this was one of those occasions, he hadn’t figured out anywhere else to go. So he drifted from one vendor’s stand to the next and struggled not to constantly look around for signs of pursuit like the fugitive he was.

Hooves clattered and wheels rumbled and threw up water as four wagons rolled into the marketplace. Someone had painted a white hand clasping a blue rose on the side of each, and the men driving them or riding in the backs wore livery marked with the same symbol.

The wagons headed down one of the busier aisles, busier because, despite the paucity of harvests out in the countryside and the reluctance of farmers to send produce to market that they might end up needing to eat themselves, the grocers had some fruit and vegetables to sell. Some of their customers had to scurry out of the way of the draft horses with their jingling harness.

A thin man with a weak-chinned but keen face like a weasel’s hopped down from the bench of the lead wagon, and ignoring those who’d arrived ahead of him, started talking to a grocer. At the end of the exchange, he tossed her a purse and his associates loaded up her bushel baskets of cucumbers and ambercup squash, not stopping until they stripped her area clean.

By that time, the weasel had moved on to a second grocer. After another brief bit of haggling, he purchased all of that vendor’s wares, this time, radishes and pears.

The other shoppers-reduced to would-be shoppers now-were glowering and grumbling among themselves. The weasel ignored them and moved on to a stand selling sacks of flour. But before he could begin another transaction, a big woman in an apron with a wicker basket hanging on her arm grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

Stedd was too far away to hear the exchange that followed, but he could imagine it. The woman was saying it didn’t matter how rich or important the weasel’s master was; the nobleman or merchant had no right to buy all the food. And, sneering, the weasel was replying that what he was doing was entirely legal, and if she didn’t like it, that was her problem, not his.

The weasel attempted to end the altercation by turning back to engage the flour vendor. But the woman with the basket grabbed him and pulled him around more roughly than before.

The rich man’s factor jerked free of her grip, shouted, and waved his hand. Two men wearing the hand-and-rose emblem left off loading a wagon and strode in his direction with the obvious intent of forcing the woman to leave him alone.

But the woman had plenty of sympathizers among the onlookers, and several of them planted themselves in the way of the weasel’s subordinates. By calling for help, he’d only succeeded in creating a second confrontation.

Other servants moved to reinforce their beleaguered fellows. Their problem was that they couldn’t do that and look after the wagons, too, and a boy a year or two older than Stedd darted toward the one with the radishes and pears. His mother yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t.

Perhaps it was her cry that alerted the servant who lurched back around. He rushed the boy, tackled him just short of the wagon, and bore him down on the wet cobbles. The man’s fist swept up and down as he repeatedly punched the child in the face.

Someone shouted, “Get him!” and people rushed to drag the servant off the boy and beat him in his turn. They were so eager to vent their outrage that no one offered further aid to the child. In fact, his rescuers stepped on him as, dazed and bloodied, he tried to crawl away.

Stedd missed seeing where violence erupted next. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, it was everywhere.

People punched and tried to grab the servants in livery, who, outnumbered, fought back desperately. But there was more to the fracas than that. Following the thieving boy’s example, other folk shoved their way toward the wagons or overran the vendors’ stalls and battled one another for the spoils to be found there, overturning bins and baskets in their frenzy and tumbling onions and snap beans to the ground.

Horrified, Stedd realized his own precarious circumstances didn’t matter; this situation was bad enough that he felt compelled to intervene.

Ahead of him, an itinerant vendor simply abandoned his pushcart and ran before the spreading chaos could overtake him. Stedd dashed to the cart and climbed on top of it. Trinkets, including starfish on thongs, trident badges, and similar ornaments, snapped and crunched beneath his feet.

All right, now what? Stedd couldn’t just start preaching the way he had dozens of times before. With all the yelling and crashing going on, no one would even notice, let alone stop looting and brawling to pay attention.

He pictured a golden sunrise and reached out to the god enthroned at the heart of the light. And an idea came to him, although not in words. He’d never heard Lathander’s voice as such. It was more like the Morninglord’s grace quickened his own capacities to perceive and to plan.

He took a long breath and raised his hand to the sky. Flowing from east to west, a wave of light and warmth swept across the marketplace and the dozens of vicious scuffles in progress there.

The glow didn’t stop the rain, and the cloud cover walling away the sun remained unbroken. But it was still daylight brighter than the folk of the Inner Sea had experienced in a year. Startled, the brawlers stopped fighting to look around.

When they did, they beheld Stedd on his makeshift dais with his arm still dramatically upraised. He was no mountebank, but since coming south, he’d addressed enough crowds to learn a little showmanship, and as long as it helped him deliver Lathander’s message, he didn’t see any harm in it.

“Please,” he said, “for your own sakes, don’t fight one another, and don’t steal. It’s not who you are nor who you want to be.”

“Did you make the light?” called a woman with blood trickling from a split lip. She clutched a half-gobbled pear in her hand.

“Lathander made it,” Stedd replied. “He’s come back to tell us the Great Rain won’t last forever, and we don’t need to turn on each other to survive it. In fact, the way to make it through is to do the opposite: Stand together, and help folk in need.”

“That’s not what Umberlee teaches!” shouted one of the men wearing the blue-rose emblem. His eyes were so wide that white showed all around, and the whip he’d likely grabbed from one of the wagons trembled in his grip.

“Umberlee’s just one power among many,” Stedd replied, “and you can choose which one to follow, the same way people always have. She’ll never be supreme in Westgate or anywhere else unless people lift her up with their belief and their obedience.”

“That’s blasphemy,” declared the man with the whip, “and everyone who’s watched the sea rise knows it! Just like anybody who’s even heard the name knows Lathander’s dead. He died in our great-grandfathers’ time with a dozen other gods.”

As the servant offered his retort, the magical light faded. It did so simply because it had burned through all the power Stedd had channeled to make it shine, but the timing was unfortunate. The returning gloom felt like validation of the Umberlant’s assertion.

Mouths twisted and scowled as disappointment and disgust replaced the hope that had momentarily brightened haggard faces. A major port like Westgate no doubt saw too much magic to be easily impressed by it, and, deciding Stedd was simply a charlatan or deluded wretch with a mystical trick or two at his disposal, people went back to the grim business of snatching any food within reach, which sometimes devolved into playing tug of war with bins, baskets, and even individual pieces of produce. Subjected to such rough handling, a sack split and poured flour onto the pavement, depriving both contenders of the contents. A man cried out when, shying at all the commotion pressing in around it, a draft horse set its hoof down on his foot.

It was plain that renewed violence was only a breath or two away, and this time, some of it was likely to involve Stedd. The servant with the whip started toward him, and so did two other men. Either they’d heard something about a reward offered for a boy prophet or they simply meant to punish him for proclaiming a message they considered pernicious nonsense.

When Stedd reached out to Lathander, the contact clarified his thinking and buttressed his faith. But it didn’t turn him into a different person, and on the human level, he was as alarmed as any child would be at the prospect of three grown men pummeling him, flogging him, or worse. His heart pounded, and his mouth was dry. The fear made it hard to think about anything but running away. But that would mean leaving his work undone.

Should he lash out at his assailants with magic as the village waveservant had struck at Anton? It might be possible, but he didn’t know for sure. He’d never tried to use his gifts for fighting. From the beginning, he’d sensed that the Morninglord wanted him to give people help and hope, not punishment.

That, he decided, was what he still needed to do, and he thought he saw how. Once again, he fixed his inner eye on the dawn that flowered eternally if a person only knew where to look, and prayed for an infusion of its glory.

Lathander answered with such an abundance of power that for the first time, the channeling hurt. Stedd’s insides burned like fire. Only for a moment, though, and then the pain became ecstasy. That, however, made it no less imperative that he turn the force he’d received to a sacred purpose, and with a strangled cry and a flailing wave of his arm, he hurled it forth.

At the same instant, the whip curled through the air and lashed him across the chest. The stinging blow staggered him, and he fell off the pushcart onto the cobbles. The impact smashed the wind out of him.

He tried to scramble up. The lash cracked down across his shoulders, and the stroke knocked him back down onto his hands and knees. He lunged, and a hand caught hold of his cloak and threw him back to his starting position. Dazed, he cast about for a way past his tormentors but couldn’t spot one. The bullies’ legs and the pushcart had him surrounded.

The whip snapped down again. He jerked with pain and bit his tongue. That, however, was the last stroke. As the lingering burn of it subsided, excited babbling replaced the shrieks, grunts, curses, and pounding noises of the riot.

Stedd raised his head. Fruit and vegetables lay heaped here, there, and everywhere in such profusion as to bury whatever baskets remained intact. As he’d intended, the magic he’d cast across the plaza had multiplied the foodstuffs ten times over.

A few folk were frantically snatching all they could. But more simply goggled at the abundance, or turned in his direction with the same astonished wonder in their eyes.

Someone offered Stedd a hand. When he took it and clambered to his feet, he saw he’d accepted the help of the man with the whip.

“I’m sorry,” the servant said.

“It’s all right,” Stedd answered. Talking made his tongue hurt as much as the places the whip had struck, and his voice was thick. He tried to spit away the coppery taste of blood.

“I didn’t know,” the man persisted.

“Hardly anybody does. Spread the word. Tell people Lathander’s come back, and he’ll help us if we take care of each another, too.” Stedd stumbled as his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

The man with the whip caught him by the arm. “I did hurt you!”

“It’s not that,” said Stedd. He gave the man what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Praying that hard just pulled the strength out of me.”

“Sit.” The servant hoisted him onto the pushcart, and people gathered expectantly around.

That meant that much as he would have liked to, Stedd couldn’t just relax and recover. He needed to reiterate the Morninglord’s message now that they were ready to receive it. He even healed the folk worst injured in the brawl, although that drained every last iota of his mystical strength and attenuated his feeling of closeness to his god.

As it did, his anxiety returned. He supposed that Anton alone couldn’t snatch him from this crowd of well-wishers, but what if the pirate showed up at the head of a gang of toughs, or what if waveservants and their knavish-looking followers appeared? Could the ordinary folk who were Stedd’s new friends stand up to them, or would they simply get hurt or killed trying? He didn’t want to be the cause of that.

But he was also reluctant to scuttle off in an obvious display of fear that might undermine the hope he’d just kindled in their hearts. He was still trying to think of a graceful way to take his leave when five men-at-arms tramped into the marketplace. Each wore a blue surcoat embroidered with a yellow sun and carried a round shield bearing the same device. The maces in their gauntleted hands had blue-stained handles and yellow-enameled spiky heads.

Their leader was a tall man in his middle years with a dangling black moustache that reminded Stedd of a horseshoe. He smiled and nodded his thanks as he approached the pushcart and folk cleared a path for him and his men.

“My name is Niseus Zoporos,” he said, “and I serve the temple of Amaunator. The priests sent me because word reached them that a boy drew down the light of the sun to do something wonderful. Is that boy you, young Saer?”

“Yes,” said Stedd, thinking for an instant how odd it felt for someone to address him like he was the son of a nobleman. But of course, that bit of deference didn’t matter.

What did matter was that Amaunator, the Keeper of the Yellow Sun, and Lathander were the same deity, give or take. To the extent that Stedd understood it, Amaunator, the celestial timekeeper, was the role the god assumed when the universe required a force for stability above all else. Now that that era was passing, and the need for hope and new beginnings was paramount, he was becoming the Morninglord once more.

Given that they all served the same power, surely the sunlords would help Stedd on his way. They’d be true friends and allies, like the Moonstars.

“My master asks that you come to the House of the Sun,” Niseus said. “He says the two of you clearly have much to discuss. To that I would add that whether you know it or not, you aren’t safe on the streets, not even in the midst of these good people.”

“I do know it.” Stedd hopped down off the pushcart. His welts gave him another twinge, but at least he’d recovered enough of his physical vigor that nobody needed to hold him up. “Please, take me there.”