The Viscount stood in his stirrups and shouted, “Everyone stay where you are!” He did not draw his sword. His men had pulled back into a ring around him, and Captain Turro was already dismounting to check the body of the assassin. The Viscount ignored the corpse and scanned the crowd. He saw no other strangers, nothing threatening. But somehow he did not think that the enemy who had planned this attack would have trusted it all to a single man with a dagger.

  His sister turned her horse and came back to his side. “You are unhurt, Mercutio?”

  He spared a glance for her and saw she was not looking at him either, but scanning the crowd and the rooftops just as he was. “Mercifully yes,” he answered.

  “We should return to the palace,” she said. “There may be others.”

  “There may. But we must go on.”

  “Why must we? Because to stop would wound your vanity?”

  He smiled. “No, Bernicia, my vanity would be flattered if the whole festival were called off for my safety. It is my manly pride that would be wounded.”

  Captain Turro rose from the corpse. “The knife is poisoned, My Lord. Did it scratch you?”

  “No, it did not. Send it to Malamphoro,” said the Viscount. “See if his alchemy can tell us anything of our enemies. And meanwhile get the procession moving again.”

  Bernicia did not argue with her brother but gave her horse a gentle kick and made her way back to her place. She noticed that her mother seemed lost in thought. “He is unhurt, mother,” she said.

  Her mother nodded but gave no other response.

  Bernicia was puzzled and annoyed. “Have you no concern for your son, and our ruler?”

  “None,” answered her mother. “It is not his day to die. The stars speak clearly on that.”

  “Did they mention an assassin with a poisoned blade?”

  “No. So we know he is nothing, of no consequence.”

  “He came within an inch of killing Mercutio.”

  “And so he is nothing. Another inch, and he might have been something after all. But then the stars would have warned me.”

  No rumors seemed to have raced before them. So far as Bernicia could tell, most in the crowd had no clue that anything had happened. That seemed odd, but then it had happened so quickly, and few could have seen the attack. She could not relax, though. Every face around her seemed hostile, every glance threatening. The broadest smiles seemed most dangerous, for would a killer not want to allay suspicion? And yet the first attacker had not been a smiler or a waver, just a bland face in bland clothes, a man like a thousand others. If death could hide in such a man, where could it not hide?

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  They made their way down to the harbor, the crowd thickening as they went. The guards were trying to hold the people back so they would be out of reach of Mercutio, but it was difficult and the danger was still very great. Bernicia focused all her attention on the people around her, trying to pick out the danger, sure that every man and half the women she saw had a concealed dagger and a secret malice. But they reached the harbor square without any more attacks, and she led her horse to the quayside where the wheat-filled wagons had been halted. She waited for her brother to dismount, then slid off her own horse and followed him toward the water’s edge. He vaulted onto the central cart, showing off his agility and his muscular legs along with his smile. Grabbing a handful of wheat, he raised the golden stalks over his head.

  A priest began to recite, and the crowd joined him:

  Green grows grass from the redbrown earth,

  Called by the sun, kissed by the rain,

  Blessed by the goddess high,

  Mother to mortals, summer’s lady —

  At that moment something was thrown from the crowd and arced through the air toward them. She saw that it was perfectly thrown and would either hit Mercutio or land beside him. But then she had to revise her estimate; it was thrown too far and high and would land in the harbor. Had she been wrong, or had its flight somehow been changed? Who or what had that power? But then another was thrown, and a third. Fighting broke out in the crowd, no doubt as people attacked the throwers. Her brother was still standing on the cart when the second object flew down at him. It was a bottle, she saw, dark green glass, as long as her forearm. Balanced on the front and side of the cart, he took the end of his cape in both hands, caught the bottle in it, spun around and flung it out into the water, at the same time jumping down to the pavement. Damn him, she thought, how does he do things like that? And make them look so easy?

  But then a third bottle struck another cart and exploded.

  A gout of flame spurted out, followed by a boiling cloud of black smoke. She smelled something sharp. Running four steps toward Mercutio, she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away. She knew he wanted to run forward, to save someone, to fight someone, to do anything rather than flee. But she knew they could do nothing now but get away. She risked a deep breath to shout, “Run!” After a second’s hesitation, he turned with her and they hurried away from the black cloud. Behind them someone screamed. Out in the crowd there was another explosion; had someone caught another thrower before the bottle left his hand?

  Chaos erupted across the square. Five thousand people turned at once and began fighting their way toward the streets that led to safety. Acrid smoke filled the air, and those who breathed it fell coughing to the ground. People screamed and shouted, horses neighed, infants cried. An old woman cried out in horror as she fell to the ground and the crowd surged over her. But at least no more bottles were thrown.

  Once they were away from the smoke, Mercutio halted, and Bernicia came up beside him. He was right, she thought, not to go farther when that would just embroil him with the crowds jamming the streets that led away from the harbor. One of the guards joined them. Bernicia’s mind was racing. Was this an assassination, or something more? Had the plan been to kill Mercutio, or was that just one prong of a strategy aimed at – what? Chaos? Making Calyxia look weak? Making Mercutio look foolish?

  Mercutio pointed. “Come,” he said, “they have caught someone.” He began making his way toward a knot of people in the center of the square, left as an island as most of the people fled out through the streets. Bernicia followed. A young woman lay on the pavement and two people held her by the arms while others loomed over her, shouting. She gave them no answers but only held her face still. She seemed distant, and Bernicia realized she was dying. Pushing past the men she knelt down by the side of the pinned woman and looked into her vacant eyes. She said, “Why?”

  The woman said, “For the master.” Then her eyes gently closed.