"O-ho, what do we have here?" said Khem, peering at the bound diplomats. His scarred face crinkled into a smile.
"Oh, Mischief Master, sir, we be humble folkses, we does," drawled "Damir." "Does that not be right, mates?" He craned his neck to look at the rest of the councilmen, grinning. They mumbled appropriate responses.
"Humble folkses, eh?" mused Khem, drumming his fingers against his chin. "Hmmm. Here, catch!" And he threw his Rod of Ridicule at Damir.
The blue-and-red painted staff caught Kyle's temple. The actor gasped, then pretended to swoon.
"This'll bring him around!" another man cried, pouring his beer in Kyle's face. "Damir" merely opened his mouth and swallowed the amber liquid. Another point scored; the crowd applauded. Deveren had to admit, the actor was handling his audience perfectly.
"But is it not a crime to drink an' pass out in the streets?" queried a young woman that Deveren recognized as one of the barmaids at Jankiss's tavern. Her words brought a wave of laughter, for if they had been true, approximately two-thirds of Braedon's population would presently be in the stocks.
"Why, so it is!" Khem exclaimed. He whirled and pointed directly at a surprised Captain Jaranis. "Place that miscreant in the stocks!"
Jaranis seemed totally taken aback. Then he winced, as from some inner twinge of pain, and stepped over to Kyle. "In you go, you lawbreaker you!"
Deveren suddenly found it hard to breathe. Not Telian…
He noticed a trace of worry on Damir's — Kyle's-face, and winked, hoping desperately the performer would see him. The last thing Deveren needed right now was for Kyle to panic, even though Deveren was beginning to think that there was a damn good reason for panic. The stocks bound a criminal's hands and feet. For a short time, it wouldn't hurt, but after a while it became agony. And there was something terribly frightening, at least to Deveren, about being so helpless.
Allika's tug on his hand almost made Deveren stumble. He bent a third time. She stood on her toes, made a cup of her hands, and said into his ear, "Vervain says she's got enough tincture to distribute! What would you like me to do?"
Deveren did not reply at once. He watched two of Jaranis's men untie Kyle's hands and lead him to the stocks, located on a raised dais in the middle of the street. He had just opened his mouth to answer the girl when a piece of rotting fruit sailed through the air and splattered in Kyle's face.
Deveren tensed. That had never happened before.
There was a stunned silence, then someone guffawed. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd, and as more fruit and vegetables followed, it relaxed into more comfortable mirth. Khem scampered onto the scaffolding, turning a cartwheel that went awry as he got tangled up in his long robes.
"Master of Mischief!" came a cry from the crowd. "Rhyme us! Rhyme us!"
A swell of approval greeted this suggestion. The Rhyme was a pivotal part of the festival, where the Master had to make up nonsensical verses on the spot. The Hound grinned.
"Hmm, hmm…" And then he smiled, put his hands behind him, and cleared his throat.
An honorable fellow is Deveren,
Lord Larath is always endeavorin'
To clean up the street
Which would be quite the feat
Save his own neck he seems to be severin'.
The crowd murmured, confused. They didn't get the joke, but some of them laughed a little anyway. Khem stared right at Deveren, his lips curved in a knowing smile. It was a threat, plain and simple, and Deveren stared back. Almost, it seemed, he could count the minutes left to him. He leaned down with unnatural calmness and said to Allika, "Go find Pedric. We'll need his help."
She nodded, then slipped away, vanishing amid the sea of legs. Meanwhile, Khem had found another victim for his wit. He turned back to Jaranis, pointed at him, and intoned:
Of guardsmen, Jaranis is master. Wrong-doers are fast, but he's faster. But who harks to rules
When they run with the fools? Tonight could bring utter disaster.
There was no laughter this time. Something was definitely going on. With a little jump, the Master of Mischief turned to the imprisoned actor:
A diplomat of great renown, Damir finds his world upside down! Here bound in the stocks,
He's a target for rocks,
And aid shall not come from this town!
He executed a flip, and disappeared into the crowd. Then, to Deveren's horror, a fist-sized stone slammed against the stocks.
"No!" he shrieked. He headed at once toward the dais. Almost immediately a shower of stones pelted the trapped Kyle. The actor cried out, clenching his fists reflexively and trying to duck his head. Deveren had never known so many people could be in one place. Wherever he tried to push through, he seemed to meet with resistance. And then, his horror escalating, he realized he wasn't imagining it. People were deliberately moving in his way, preventing him from reaching "Damir." Growling angrily, Deveren began to punch his way through.
One rock shattered Kyle's nose, and blood cascaded down. Another caught him in the eye. Deveren wasn't even aware of his own voice screaming out futile protests.
Suddenly he hit the earth hard. A heavyset, obviously poor older man pummelled him violently. "Filthy bastard!" he cried. "Damn rich nobles like you take it all…" The man was hauled off of Deveren by a guardsman, who in turn had to defend himself as the man attacked him, crying, "You're supposed to protect us… damn city isn't safe…"
Deveren struggled to his feet, almost falling as bodies slammed into him. It had become a fullfledged riot now. He stumbled and fell again. Fear shot through him as he clawed his way upright. If he fell again, he might not get up.
He could hear Kyle's sobbing. At last he was there. Fighting the press of bodies all around him, Deveren struggled onto the platform, getting first one leg up and then the other. He struggled to his feet and lowered his head, ramming the guardsman who challenged him. With an "oof!" the man stumbled backward, falling into the maddened crowd and disappearing from Deveren's view-but not before Deveren had managed to seize the key ring from the man's pouch.
Blocking the rain of stones with his own body, he hurried to free Kyle. The actor's face was like so much raw meat now. Blood streamed freely and there were huge, almost fist-sized lumps on his head. Deveren could even see shards of broken bone. He gasped as a stone landed squarely on his spine, sending waves of pain quivering through his body. He inserted the key, turned it, and pushed up the stocks that bound the actor's arms. Deveren gathered the limp form in his arms.
He feared he was too late. One eye stared up at him sightlessly; the other was swollen shut by an enormous purple bruise. If the actor survived, Deveren suspected he would be blind. Then Kyle's chest hitched, slightly. He was still alive. Deveren had to get him to Vervain.
Biting back his anger, and aware that the stones had stopped being hurled at him, Deveren stood up. Lost in their own vented rage, the rioters had forgotten about him and "Damir." Their targets now were one another. Deveren scanned the crowd for a possible friendly face and a chance to escape.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vandaris struggling toward him. Compassion and caring was on the old man's face, not in the least obscured by the ridiculous painted grin. Deveren was moved. Suddenly, as if Vandaris's feet had been cut out from underneath him, he fell, to be swallowed up by the manic crowd. The last thing Deveren saw of him was horror as his hands reached to clutch his abdomen, as if he were in terrible pain.
No! mourned Deveren. Not Vandaris, too…
"Dev!" The word was shouted, but even so, Deveren barely heard it over the shrieks of the maddened revelers. Pedric, with Allika perched on his shoulders out of the way of trampling feet, stood at the foot of the dais. "I've got about four dozen doses of the tincture with me right now. Is Damir all right?"