Beyond the Shadows - Brent Weeks [122]
“Pray tell.”
The wetboy grinned. “The king his own self. Iff’n I was king, I’d just let ya go. Guess nobles don’t think like the rest of us. You coming?”
Damn you, Logan. Damn you for flinching. Kylar swallowed. “Staying.”
Scarred Wrable’s eyebrows lifted. Then he shrugged. “You oughta be a noble your own self. You’re a man in love with death, Night Angel. See you on the other side.”
54
They marched Kylar out of the Maw before dawn. His escort was fifty men. They bound his wrists with manacles behind his back, tied his elbows with hemp, and hobbled his feet. He was surprised when, instead of heading through the castle, the guards led him out the great double doors, up the black carven tongue, and out the throat of the Maw onto the rocky west side of Vos Island.
There was a barge waiting for them, and as soon as they chained Kylar to a post in the middle of it, they cast off, the men alert for threats from him or from any who might rescue him.
They had barely passed under West Kingsbridge when Kylar saw new construction on the Plith. Deep pilings had been sunk into the river bed south of Vos Island to support a central platform, which rested on the surface of the river. The pilings extended high above the platform and three spokes radiated from the center, supporting temporary spans to Vos Island, the Warrens, and the east side. The three-way bridge was temporary now, and low to the water, but the size and placement of the pilings told Kylar of the project’s ambition. It would be a symbol of Logan’s reign, a bridge that bound the city’s sides and its government together. As they came closer, Kylar saw that what he had thought was merely the thickness of the temporary bridge’s surface was something else.
Every one of the temporary spans—west to the Warrens, north to the castle, and east—was filled with people. The sun was barely lighting the sky, and there were thousands gathered. Everyone in the city had come. Even Lantano Garuwashi’s soldiers had come.
As the barge came within sight, a cry went up, and it wasn’t kind. These people loved Logan, Kylar knew instantly, and any traitor must be vile. From the safety of the mob, any fear they might have had for the Sa’kagé’s avatar had vanished. Indeed, that probably made him more hated still. His disavowals in the courtroom made no difference; only the verdict mattered. The barge came closer and the yells were deafening. Looking on faces filled with hatred, Kylar supposed he was lucky the city had been starving—there was no rotten produce for people to throw.
Something splashed in the water twenty feet short of the barge.
“Shields up!” an officer barked.
The men crouched and raised their shields over their heads. Chained to the post in the middle, Kylar couldn’t move. Rocks rattled off the shields and splashed in the water, then Kylar watched one arc perfectly. He turned his head. The rock gouged a furrow in his scalp and he staggered against the post, blood spilling over his ear. Another rock glanced off his shoulder and a third hit him in the crotch. The crowd cheered as he slumped.
He stood again, though spots swam before his eyes, blinding him. As they got closer, the hail thickened. Most of the throws missed, but rocks hammered his sides, his legs. A stone a handspan across landed on his foot, shattering bones. He screamed.
It was bad timing. A rock that would have been too high caught him in the mouth, snapping teeth and driving others through his lip. Another cheer went up.
Finally, the barge bumped against the platform. “Enough!” a woman shouted. Kylar lifted his head and saw a young woman in full armor standing in the center of the platform with her hands raised, trying to still the crowd. Then a stone hit him in the eye.
“Enough!” the woman shouted, but Kylar lost her voice under the shrieking voice of pain. His face was hot, his chained hands couldn’t reach up to protect himself or feel the damage. Soldiers were jostling him, half carrying, half