The Crimson Crown

  “I will.” Han hesitated. “Did Micah say anything about the council meeting?”

  Raisa shook her head. “There hasn’t been time. We’ve been fighting for every inch of ground.” She paused. “Why?”

  “There’s something you need to know,” Han said.

  “Go on,” Raisa said, taking her hands back and folding her arms.

  “At the meeting, Lord Bayar promised to teach Ragmarket and Southbridge a lesson they’d never forget. He referred to the residents as ‘rats,’ and said that in order to exterminate them, we’d need to flush them from their dens.” Han did his best to smother his anger, to stick to the facts.

  “Really? He said that in open council?”

  Han nodded. “The council gave him the go-ahead. Then we come back to town, and Ragmarket is on fire.”

  Raisa’s eyes narrowed. “Could it be a coincidence? How could he manage that so quickly?”

  “He knew how the vote would go before he ever took it.”

  “Didn’t anyone vote against it?”

  “I did,” Han said. Then added, reluctantly, “And Micah.”

  Raisa searched his face. “Really? Micah voted against it?” She frowned, studying on it. “I know there’s more,” she said finally, “but I should get back. They’ll be looking for me.”

  Han knew she was right, but he didn’t want to let her go. Reaching out, he fished a cinder from her hair, and she stood up on tiptoes and suddenly they were kissing, long and sweet, something there hadn’t been nearly enough of lately.

  His heart hammered. He knew they should stop—this was too public a place—but he couldn’t help himself. He held her tightly, thinking, I’m a fool to say no to her when I always seem to be this close to dying, and wouldn’t that be a shame.

  Someone cleared his throat behind Han.

  He and Raisa spun apart, gasping. Raisa looked over Han’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. Han swiveled, and there was Speaker Jemson with an armload of linen.

  “Hanson,” he said, nodding gravely. “Good to see you’re still alive.” He looked at Raisa. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to interrupt, but there’s a jurisdictional dispute between clan healers and Lord Vega that needs your wise intervention.”

  “Thank you, Jemson,” Raisa said, cheeks flaming. “We’ll talk later, Han, all right?”

  “I’ll go find Captain Byrne,” Han said.

  When Han told Captain Byrne what he knew about Hallie and the others, Byrne nodded brusquely, his tense face softening somewhat.

  “What can I do?” Han asked.

  The captain kept Han on the run for the next hour, driving back flames, barricading and protecting buildings that dated back to the Breaking. Once, he propped up a building that threatened to topple onto a handful of firefighters.

  They were fighting a losing battle. Between the resistance of the wizard flame and the east wind, whenever they managed to quench the fire in one place, it gained ground somewhere else. Even with the two pumps going, they couldn’t pour enough water on the flames to put them out or stop their relentless advance.

  Han envisioned Ragmarket after the fire, a burned-over wasteland dotted with a few stone heaps, like shrines to the vagaries of the gods.

  He could put up a barrier, but he’d never be able to build one quickly enough to protect Southbridge, since the fire line was so long. If the wind kept up, they’d be lucky if they could stop the fire at the river. And if the bridge burned, there wouldn’t be an easy way to cross for a long way up or down the river. He racked his brain for a solution.

  A shout went up among those on the front lines as Cat and Dancer emerged from the smoke like spirits, huddled tightly together, webbed over with a coverlet of magic.

  Han jogged toward them. “Where did you come from?” he demanded. “How did you get through?”

  “Cat came and got me,” Dancer said. “I guess she didn’t think I would find my way through Ragmarket on my own.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Cat said, scrubbing a smudge from her nose and brushing at her arms like she had the itches. “Let me tell you, I don’t like being caged up with magic like that.”

  “Ragmarket’s gone,” Dancer said. “Except—” He glanced at Cat, and she shook her head. “Well, with a few exceptions. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re going to lose Southbridge, too,” Han said, allowing despair to creep into his voice. “If only this infernal wind would die down, we’d have a chance.” He pushed at it a bit with his magic, but it was like setting a fan against a gale.

  Dancer stared at the Briar Rose banners rippling and snapping over Southbridge Temple. “Is there a green place here?” he asked abruptly, kicking at a broken paver. “Somewhere I can get at the ground?”

  “There’s the temple gardens,” Cat said. “They run right down to the river, just on the other side.” She tugged at his arm. “I can show you.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Han asked, his hopes rekindling.

  “I’m going to see if I can turn the wind,” Dancer said. “No promises, but…”

  “Turn the wind?” Han’s hopes shriveled and died. “I just don’t know if…” He bit his lip to keep the rest of his doubts from pouring out.

  Dancer looked back at him, his blue eyes as serene as a deep forest lake. “Let me try anyway.”

  He and Cat ran for the bridge.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E

  EARTH MAGIC

  Han wasn’t optimistic about Dancer’s chances. Wizards hadn’t succeeded in controlling the weather since the Breaking. Theoretically, it could be done, but it consumed tremendous power just to stir up a bit of fog. Amulets these days couldn’t handle the job.

  “Where’s Dancer going?” Raisa’s voice startled Han, practically in his ear. Micah, of course, was right beside her.

  “He and Cat are heading for the temple garden,” Han said.

  “The temple?” Raisa drew her brows together. “He’s needed out here. If the fire crosses the river, Southbridge is done for.”

  Han hesitated. He didn’t really want to get into it with Micah right there. “He’s going to try to stop the wind.”

  “How?” Micah said derisively. “By praying?”

  Han turned his back on Micah and looked across the river. Dancer and Cat were already scrambling down the slope to the water’s edge, where the gardens surrounded the temple docks. Choosing a spot nearly in the shadow of the bridge, Dancer sat cross-legged in the dirt. He took hold of his amulet with both hands and closed his eyes.

  The stench of burning wool alerted Han that his coat was on fire again. Batting at his sleeve, he swung around. Sparks and cinders from flaming buildings in Ragmarket fountained down all around them. Citizens, soldiers, clan—the brigade clung to the edge of the river, fighting for every inch of ground. Han squinted against the scorching wind, trying to see where his flash would do the most good.

  “Across the bridge!” Byrne roared. “Go! Go! Go! Everyone—right now!”

  Han turned to see that the guard tower on the west end of the bridge had caught fire behind them, throwing embers down onto the bridge decking and the wooden timbers supporting it. If they didn’t go now they’d be trapped between the river and the flames. They’d have to leap into the Dyrnnewater to escape, and many city dwellers couldn’t swim.

  Panicked firefighters poured across the bridge. Byrne scooped up Raisa and carried her to the other side to keep her from being trampled in the mob.

  Han brought up the rear, but stopped midway across and turned to face the flames. Raising his hands, he drove the inferno back with a blast of flash, putting all of his fury into it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Micah line up beside him and launch his own attack. Side by side, they pushed it back, back. Han’s entire front was roasted, his skin crisp like the cracklings Mam had drug out of the coals.

  For a few minutes, the flames hung on a knife’s edge, and Han hoped they were winning. Then the flame reared up like a curling wave, driven toward them by
the relentless wind. Up, up, up, blotting out the sky, a stooping dragon ready to crash down on top of them. The crowd on the other side of the river screamed out a warning.

  Realizing the danger, Han threw up shields, suddenly aware of his depleted supply of flash.

  And then, as if by magic, the flames slid backward, collapsing onto the eastern shore in an explosion of sparks.

  The wind had died.

  It took a moment for the workers on the Southbridge side of the river to notice. They lifted their heads, looked west, and then east. Swiped sweat from their faces. Waited for the wind to spring up again. It did, after a moment, but from the west this time, a friendly breeze that freshened into a gale as it drove the fire back on itself.

  Han turned and looked for Dancer. Still embedded in the garden, he shone, brilliant as a lantern in a dark alley, lighting the entire temple close. Cat stood guard over him like a dedicate at a shrine.

  Seeing the flames stall and then retreat, the firefighters along the river cheered and redoubled their efforts.

  The light changed as clouds rolled down from the Spirits, driven by Dancer’s winds, heavy and black and pregnant with rain. Their undersides glittered with lightning, thunder boomers announcing their arrival. They stacked up over the city, piling higher and higher.

  A large raindrop splattered on the pier next to Han. And then another and another, sizzling as they hit the hot stones. At first they evaporated immediately, but they came thick and fast, coagulating into rivers, reverberating on rooftops, and soaking Han to the skin.

  Rain! Sweet Lady of Grace, it was raining.

  On the Southbridge side, Raisa was tugging a resisting Amon Byrne around in an impromptu dance, her feet in their silly blue-blood slippers splashing through puddles.

  And the others joined in—giddy, grimy, scorched celebrants, like blackened scarecrows in a macabre graveyard dance.

  The leading edge of the flames dwindled and died, leaving a soggy wasteland studded with pockets of green-and-orange flame where buildings still burned. The fire brigade stormed back to the Ragmarket side, attacking the hot spots with renewed vigor.

  Han crossed against traffic to Southbridge, slipping and sliding down the muddy slope to the riverside garden. Dancer slumped against Cat, eyes closed, his brilliance faded to a dull glow.

  “He’s done in,” Cat said, raking back his wet braids and peering anxiously into his face.

  Han sat down next to them, taking hold of Dancer’s amulet and feeding it a little power from his depleted supply.

  Dancer opened his eyes, feeling the rush of flash.

  “That was amazing, what you did,” Han said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Dancer smiled. “You jinxflingers always underestimate the power of earth magic,” he whispered. “The focus is narrow, but within that range…”

  “It’s earth magic and high magic together,” Han said. “It just shows what we could do if we’d quit snarling at each other.”

  The rain was finally letting up, though water puddled everywhere. And here came Raisa and Speaker Jemson descending toward them. Jemson carried a basket in one hand.

  Raisa skidded to a stop in front of Dancer and Cat, a kelpie of a queen in sodden finery. “Fire Dancer,” she said. “I must admit, I had doubts, but you have exploded them. You saved Southbridge and maybe the rest of the city.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Dancer said. He nodded toward Jemson and Han and Cat. “It wasn’t only me.”

  “Thank you, all of you!” Raisa said, gripping Dancer’s hands, then Han’s, then Cat’s, then Jemson’s.

  Jemson unloaded his basket, handing out bread and cheese and a jug of cider to Dancer.

  But Han couldn’t eat—not with his stomach roiled with worry. “Cat. Could you come with me to the old temple? Hallie, Talia, and a bunch of people were holed up in there. They may need help.”

  Cat looked at Dancer. “Go,” he urged. “I’m feeling better. I just need to eat and rest some.”

  “I’ll see that he’s well cared for,” Raisa said. She touched Han’s arm. “Take some guards with you. And be careful.”

  Han and Cat led a half dozen bluejackets into the smoldering ruins, snaking around obstacles. They headed away from the river, toward the Market Temple. Along the way, they smothered flames and directed survivors toward the bridge. Han hoped his magic had held, and he’d managed to salvage something out of all this.

  They passed through a charred wasteland, fuming smoke. Han’s optimism diminished, drained away by devastation. Cat pointed out one landmark after another—all gone. Many were sites of past crimes and street fights.

  “Ferkin’s is gone!” she moaned. “They used to make the best sweet cakes. ’Course it was old Ferkin that give me to the bluejackets when I first took to the streets. I couldn’t have been but three or four year. I got badged then and been badged ever since.” She held up her hands, displaying the thief marks on the backs. “Still, he didn’t deserve to be burned out.”

  Nerves always made Cat run on like an overwound clock.

  The market was gone, a smoldering, soggy ruin. Taz Mackney’s old shop—where Han had confronted Lord Bayar, had stabbed him and won his lifelong enmity—was collapsed in on itself, only a few timbers and heaps of stones signifying where Han had once done so much business.

  Here were the ruins of the butcher shop where last summer Han had soaked rags in blood, faking his own death to get the bluejackets off his back. He could still tell where Cobble Street had been because of the cobbled pavement, but the ramshackle wooden structures that lined it were gone. He kicked at the ruins of the blacksmith forge where he’d once hid the Waterlow amulet.

  Bayar finished the job he started, Han thought. It’s as if I never existed. He’s rubbed me right out, like a black mark.

  Fine, he thought. Now I can be whoever or whatever I want.

  Ahead was Pilfer Alley, where Han’s crib and Dancer’s metal shop had stood. To Han’s amazement, the alley was nearly intact, running between two devastated blocks. He rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing what he was seeing. “How could Pilfer Alley have survived?” he muttered.

  Cat touched Han’s shoulder, searching his face. “When Dancer and I came by here on our way to the river, we saw that the fire took a turn around the warehouse. We guessed you’d put up a magical fence around it, something to turn the flames.”

  Han shook his head, bewildered. “Wasn’t me.” Who would have done that? He couldn’t think of any wizard who would come down into Ragmarket to save something that belonged to Han Alister.

  The truth slammed into Han like a runaway cart. The buildings of Pilfer Alley stood out like an accusing finger amidst ruin. He recalled Micah’s words. I’m not taking the blame for it.

  He didn’t know exactly how, but the Bayars meant to blame the fire on him. Which meant they must know about his hideout. Once again, he felt the jaws of the law closing in on him, and there was no place left to go.

  Well, he couldn’t worry about that now. He walked past Pilfer Alley toward the temple square.

  So much was burnt down in between that Han could see Market Temple poking up into the murkish night sky. So it was standing, though it might be burnt over and still stand, being built of stone. It looked glittery, oddly brilliant against a gloom of smoke and cloud. As they got closer, Han realized what it was—his shroud of magic still wrapped the temple like a name-day present.

  They came up under the huge double doors, looking up at the bell tower. As Han watched, a small girlie appeared in the window. Hallie’s girl—what was her name? She poked her hand out the window, trying to grab hold of the magical shroud, before Hallie yanked her back.

  “Asha! Don’t you touch that!” Hallie scolded, as her daughter wailed in frustration. “Lord Alister put that there to keep us safe. Anyway, I told you to stay put with the others. How’d you ever get up here?”

  Joy kindled within Han. “Hallie!” he shouted. “Hallie! The fire’s b
urnt out. It’s safe to come out!”

  Hallie stared out at him, flashed a grin, then disappeared.

  Han gripped the petticoats of the magical coverlet and ripped it free, away from the door, and Cat swung the great doors wide. Talia and Pearlie blinked out at them. They embraced Han and Cat, and then each other. Then went to help Mick drag the stone from atop the stairs down to the crypt.

  People poured out of the crypt, flowed the length of the nave and through the double doors. Men and women with babies in arms or towing small children by the hand. Many froze on the plaza, staring around at the remains of the world they knew.

  Han stood by, thinking, I didn’t do enough. It wasn’t enough. What good is a life with nowhere to live it? Nowhere to make a living. Would they rather have died in a fire, or die of starvation later on?

  It’s my fault, he thought. Bayar may claim he’s doing it to stop the wizard murders, but he aimed this bolt right at my heart. It’s my fault for drawing his attention here.

  Then a strange thing happened. Some of the survivors wept, overcome by their losses, but others smiled through their tears, amazed at their deliverance. They walked up to Han in twos and threes, bowing their heads, shyly reaching out to touch his garments, his sleeves, the charred stoles bearing the Waterlow mark, as if he were some kind of saint.

  “Thank you, Lord Alister,” they said. “Thank you for saving us.”

  “Thank you for saving my little ones. They’re all I got.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  A couple even threw themselves flat and tried to kiss the hem of his ruined trousers, but he put a stop to that.

  Han was embarrassed, mortified by their gratitude. He tried to deflect it, or share it. “Thank Hallie and Mick and the others—they led you here.” And “Hayden Fire Dancer changed the wind and stopped the fire from crossing the river.”

  But they would smile and nod and stroke the fabric of his jacket and offer to pay him back somehow.

  Need a bit o’ slide-hand done, Lord Alister, anything on the down-low, you know who to come to.