Firebrand

Chapter 490: The Seed of Leadership

The Seed of Leadership

The days passed, seemingly without change. The quarantine continued with no sign of the disease lessening its grip upon the copper lanes; in the warehouse near the district, the apothecaries and alchemists toiled all waking hours, sometimes at night as well.

After one such late night, Martel slept soundly even after the sun rose in the morning. He only woke from the sound of terrible commotion that likewise drew the attention of everybody else in the warehouse. Many of them ran outside to find out what was happening.

"Nora, finish my work here," Mistress Rana told her apprentice, abandoning her alchemy to likewise seek out the source of the noise. Putting on his robe and tying his boots on, foregoing socks in his haste, Martel finally hurried outside as well.

The sounds came from down the street, where the temporary gate to the copper lanes lay. Looking in that direction, Martel saw a concerning sight. A crowd had gathered on the inside of the quarantined area, looking both angry and desperate. In between shouts and the occasional rock being thrown, the mob pushed up against the gate; being a temporary construction, it was not solid, but rather constructed of wooden beams much like a fence. It was locked by a heavy chain, which the protesters could not damage; but some of them had brought axes and began chopping on the construction, where it was hinged on either side. A handful of guards stood trying to prod their spears through to drive the crowd back, but they found themselves attacked by thrown rocks in return.

Already, Mistress Rana ran towards the brawl, and Martel followed as quickly as he could. Just as they reached the fight, the gate came crashing down. Even with better weapons, the few guards stood no chance against the scores of angry citizens.

A few steps ahead of Martel, Mistress Rana emptied a vial into her mouth. A moment later, a great burst of fire erupted from her lips as if she breathed flames. This sudden eruption of fire and magic had the expected effect; anger turned to terror as the people of the copper lanes began to push back, though the rows behind them made this difficult.

Next to Martel, a stone struck a soldier on his head; his helmet likely saved his life, but he fell to the ground with a groan and a line of blood across his forehead. Summoning his magical shield lest he suffered the same fate, Martel knew he had to act fast before the situation was hopelessly beyond control. These were ordinary people; he did not wish to kill anybody. But if they escaped, they might spread the pestilence to the rest of the city. Fortunately, he had the perfect spell for this occasion.

Taking advantage of Mistress Rana's efforts to hold back the crowd, Martel summoned his wall of flames in the empty space between the citizens and the guards. He made it tall and burning hot that none should be tempted to even go near; this also made it clearly visible to those further back in the mob as a sign that their attempt to flee was futile.

Slowly, Martel moved his wall forward until it fit into the gap where the gate had stood. It was not a permanent solution, but it would buy them time.

"Build a barricade!" Mistress Rana exclaimed to the soldiers. "Carts, crates, debris, whatever you can find! Pull up the cobbled stones if you must! I'll get more guards!" She ran down the street towards the temporary barracks used by the city guard.

"Sir! Are those our orders?" asked one of the soldiers.

To his surprise, Martel found all of them staring at him. "Of course! Get to it!"

The guards jumped into action, dispersing in every direction to find any kind of material that would serve. Even the wounded soldier by Martel's feet began to stir, trying to get back up. As he tried to do so, he almost fell back, and Martel had to grab him by the shoulder.

"Easy now. Sit back down," Martel told him. "You're in no condition to help."

"As you say, sir." Once more on the ground, the soldier carefully removed his helmet and tentatively placed a finger against his head wound.

Half of his attention dedicated to his active spell, Martel glanced around to see how the other guards fared with their task. "Hope they find something soon," he muttered. He could not maintain the wall forever. "Not sure why they bothered waiting for me to say something."

"Soldier's instinct," replied the guard sitting down, even if Martel had mostly been talking to himself. "We always look to a commanding officer for orders in situations like this, but we are so stretched thin, most days we don't even have an optio with us."

"I'm not a commander of any kind," Martel mumbled, his attention still on his spell and the other soldiers.

"You may not command a cohort, sir, but you still hold the rank of prefect. And in situations like this, we are glad to have you with us, sir."

Martel finally understood what the soldier meant. Thanks to his spell, they thought Martel was a battlemage attached to the legion, making him an officer and their superior. No reason to disabuse them of the notion until the current crisis had been averted, Martel figured, but it was a strange feeling to have men twice his age or older look to him for leadership. He did not particularly like the thought of such responsibility. Around him, the soldiers returned, hauling rocks, crates, bags of sand, and anything else near at hand.

***

Mistress Rana eventually returned with about thirty soldiers, not all of them in full uniform or looking particularly sharp-eyed; the need to patrol the entire perimeter around the copper lanes left the city guard as strained as the apothecaries and alchemists working ceaselessly in the warehouse. Swiftly, they helped strengthen the improvised barricade, and finally, Martel could let his spell dissipate.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Martel looked at Mistress Rana. "That could have gone badly."

"It could have. You did well."

"I'm shocked they tried to break the quarantine. Are things that bad inside the district?" Martel had not been inside the copper lanes, but the alchemist had gone several times now to oversee the treatments carried out by the monks and nuns administering to the sick.

"Many are ill, but I don't think it's fear of the disease that caused this desperate attempt," Mistress Rana considered. "I have heard more complaints about lack of food. It's difficult to bring in enough supplies every day for thousands of people, let alone get it properly distributed. It would not be difficult for unscrupulous thugs to rob it from others in this district, either for their own needs or to sell it back at exorbitant prices."

"But I thought the guards went inside with the deliveries of foods to prevent such a thing."

"They do, but they stay only briefly and generally leave it to the people themselves to oversee distribution. If the guards did more, they would have to get into close contact with the locals, running the risk of catching the disease. We already have dozens of guards isolated after being inside the district, just to be on the safe side, which barely leave them enough to maintain the necessary patrols elsewhere." Mistress Rana crossed her arms, looking in the direction of the copper lanes.

As much as the thought displeased him, Martel knew of the solution. "You need help from inside. From someone already in the district, who can provide the necessary organisation and manpower."

She gave him a look. "Something you can conjure up?"

"Not exactly, but I know who you must speak with. Her name is Kerra, and she owns a place called The Copper Drum. She has a host of people at her beck and call. Former legionaries, prize fighters, and all that sort. The kind who can help maintain order."

"And how exactly do you know of her and her underlings?"

"I used to run my own little apothecary in these lanes, if you recall." Close enough to the truth and the most innocent of Martel's possible explanations. "In a place where the guards never visit, you soon figure out who holds the power."

"I see." Despite her sceptical tone, Mistress Rana did not challenge his explanation. "And she can be trusted?"

"Not in the slightest, but she's pragmatic. Enlisting her help to ensure food supplies are orderly distributed will prevent trouble in her backyard. She'll no doubt skim some of it for her own needs, which I suppose will be a payment of sorts to her. But if she gets too greedy, or she doesn't get this done properly, tell her a battlemage will show up and burn down her tavern. If you say my name, she'll know it's not an idle threat."

The alchemist scrutinised the acolyte standing before her. "I'm half surprised you expect me to deal with her rather than simply run inside and negotiate yourself."

"She might not take kindly to the idea if it comes from me. I'm better used as a threat." This might even be true, though Martel's real reason was that he wanted nothing to do with that woman, nor did he wish to isolate for a fiveday after going into the district.

Mistress Rana slowly let out her breath. "Very well. Prepare the small house for my return, so I can keep working while I isolate."

Martel bowed his head. "Of course, mistress."