Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate Read Free Book Online Page B

Colin felt hope surge up into this throat, almost fell out of his hiding place behind the warehouse—
    But then someone muttered, “What’s going on here?”
    A man emerged from a cross street, accompanied by a contingent of Armory guardsmen dressed like those Colin had seen on the dock. The man was dressed in the fine silks of the nobility—white shirt with ruffles at the neck and down the front, loose sleeves, a blue vest over it with gold-painted buttons and gilt stitching. The tailored brown breeches were tucked into knee-high boots. He wore a powdered wig, the hair stark white in the sunlight, and a hat whose sides were folded up to form a rough triangle.
    Everyone in the work crew—and in Walter’s gang—froze. The leader of the crew lowered his fist and released Walter’s shirt with obvious reluctance before stepping back.
    “Nothing, Proprietor Sartori. We’ve simply had a . . . mishap.”
    Sartori held the leader’s gaze a moment, then shot a glance toward Walter. The lines around his eyes and mouth tightened. “Is this true, Walter? Was this an accident?”
    Walter tried to flatten the creases in his shirt as he answered. “Yes, sir. An accident.”
    Sartori drew in a deep breath. “I see. Accidents seem to happen on a regular basis in your vicinity.” Walter seemed about to protest, but his father cut him off. “I don’t recall sending you here to oversee this shipment.”
    “You didn’t. But I thought with my brother out at the new mill—”
    “That you could be helpful. Ah, yes. I understand. Since it appears that this shipment is almost unloaded, perhaps you could be helpful . . . elsewhere.”
    A black look crossed Walter’s face, but he hid it from his father by looking toward the ground. “Yes, sir.”
    Turning toward his gang, he motioned Brunt, Gregor, and Rick down the street, heading directly toward Colin. Behind them, the leader of the crew attempted to apologize, but Sartori waved him silent.
    “Clean this up as best you can,” the Proprietor said. “Then report to the docks. I’m expecting the arrival of the Tradewind today, along with . . . someone of significance to the West Wind Trading Company. I need you there.”
    And then Colin heard Walter mutter, “Look what I see, boys. A loiterer from Lean-to.”
    Colin’s gaze dropped from Sartori to Walter, now only twenty paces away.
    His heart leaped into his throat. Then he spat a curse and dodged behind the cover of the warehouse.
    He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, down the length of the warehouse, the tread of Walter’s gang close behind. As soon as they were out of sight of his father, Walter began calling out names, taunting Colin as he ran, joined by Brunt and Gregor and Rick. Pulse thudding in his neck, in his chest, Colin cut left at the end of the street, cut right again after that, slipping in the dry grit of the street as he took the corner too fast. Catching himself with his left arm, he rolled, hip hitting the hard-packed earth with a wrench, but he used the momentum to swing back up into a crouch and then leaped forward. It gave him a brief glance of Walter and his gang coming up from behind. But the older boys weren’t moving fast, had barely managed to close any distance at all, confident they would catch up.
    And after the incident with Sartori, blind and stupid enough to continue following him.
    Colin suppressed a grin, then sprinted for the far end of the street.
    When Walter and his gang finally rounded the last corner, they found Colin standing in the middle of the back street, feet spread, satchel on the ground to one side, waiting. All four of them ground to a halt, Brunt snorting in derision.
    “Looks like the Bontari squatter is begging for a bruising,” he muttered.
    Colin said nothing, which made Walter frown. He shifted to the front of the group, wary, Brunt to his immediate left, Gregor and Rick to his right, but a step behind. Only Gregor seemed to pick up on Walter’s