Sword of Fire (The Justice War #1) - Katharine Kerr Page 0,2

half-carried forward as the men behind her pressed forward toward the wall.

The screams turned horrible as agony and terror lashed the crowd. Cries and shouts told Alyssa that people were falling, being trampled. She bent her will to staying upright, staying on her feet. Someone slammed into her from the side as he tried to evade the oncoming horseman. Someone else screamed, slipped, clutched at her arm. She shook him off before he could take her down with him, then staggered forward only to stumble over something hard—she never did see what it was—and nearly fall. Strong hands grabbed her arm from behind and swung her around, hauled her back onto her feet. She found herself staring up at the dead-pale face of a young man. Nothing else about him registered, but that he was as frightened as she was.

“Hold on!” he yelled at her. “We’ll get out of this better as two.”

She linked her arm with his and pushed forward again. Buoyed up by his strength she could keep walking, keep her head up, too, and see where they were going. From the screams behind her she knew that she didn’t want to turn and see where she had been. At last they gained the wall, could sidle along it, could ease themselves in position for one last burst of speed and rush forward. They gained an alley at the beginning of the town proper and trotted down it, turned out into the Street of the Silversmiths and into a pool of lamplight.

Safe.

“Thank every god they hang those street lamps so high,” her rescuer said. “If one of them fell into the thatch . . .”

Alyssa felt suddenly sick and oddly cold. He caught her elbow and steadied her. For a few minutes they stood listening to the sounds—the screaming, the weeping, the neighing of frightened horses, and over it all the cracking of the whips and the cursing of troopers.

“This night will light a fire of a different kind,” Alyssa said at last. “His Grace will feel its heat soon enough.”

“Oho! So you’re one of the rabble-rousers, are you?”

“Is that how you see us? Rabble?” She pulled her arm free. “My thanks for your aid, but I’ve naught more to say to you.”

Alyssa turned on her heel and stalked off.

“Wait!” He was calling out, trotting after her. “I meant no insult, fair maid. Just a jest of sorts. Here, look, if anyone’s rabble, it’s me.”

Alyssa stopped in the next pool of lamplight. She could still hear the screaming and the horses, but faintly now, as if the noise had both lessened and moved far away. Was the troop following the mob down to the collegium? If so, she’d best wait to go back, but here she was, a woman alone on a darkening street. And what of Rhys and Mavva? Were they safe? Her rescuer hurried up and made her a bow.

“Forgive me?” he said. “I’m afeared I know naught of your town’s politics. I’m from Lughcarn.”

For the first time she looked at him with some attention. A tall man, broad in the shoulders and well-built, he had a tousled mane of sandy-brown hair and, as far as she could tell in the flickering light, his eyes were blue. He wore ordinary clothes, a pair of breeches and tall boots, a linen shirt with flowing sleeves and over it a leather waistcoat. At his belt he carried an elven finesword at one side and at the other, a knife with a silver handle. A silver dagger. She recognized the three little spheres on the dagger’s pommel. No wonder he’d called himself rabble.

“So, you guard the coach roads, do you?” she said.

“I do, and I’ve ridden a few barges, too.”

When he flashed her a smile, she realized that he was a handsome man in a rough sort of way.

“Cavan of Lughcarn’s my name.” He made her a bow. “At your service, my lady. May I escort you to the safety of your home?”

Alyssa hesitated, but he at least seemed gallant enough. Who knew what sort of man might be lurking in the riot-torn streets?

“My thanks to you, good sir. My name’s Alyssa vairc Sirra, and I’d be grateful for your company. I’m in residence at the collegium. At Lady Rhodda’s Hall.”

“Ah! One of our new lady scholars, then. And as beautiful as learning itself, from what I can see in this wretched lamplight, anyway.”

“You, sir, have a tongue as silver as your dagger, but I’m not the sort to