Sorcha's Revolt
CHAPTER FIVE - RIOT!

"Come on." Clear of the mob, DeSilva broke into a dead run, keeping tight hold of Sorcha's hand. Others at the back of the mob were breaking away too, Kellion men hustling women and children out of the fight. At the end of the street, DeSilva slowed and stopped, turned back to watch, swearing beneath his breath. "Monte, what is it?" Sorcha asked, breathless from their run.

"He planned it," DeSilva said through his teeth. "My bastard father planned it all; a duel could have been the end of it, but he knew it wouldn't take much to set the Silvan army off and have the mob go berserk. Him and Veen, they put women in the crowd and had Veen's men ready to get them out. Look; there's Kale."

He pointed, and Sorcha saw the one-eyed Kellion limping from the fight with three scantily clad and clearly terrified Kellion women following in his train.

"Monte!" Kale hailed DeSilva with a grin. "Heard you'd arrived, good party, eh?"

"Did you know about all this?" DeSilva demanded.

"What, this?" Kale waved his cutlass at the roiling fight behind them. "Sure! Come on, we've got a plan."

"I'll just bet you do! Come on, Sorcha, we're getting out of here."

"What?" Kale blinked and could only stand baffled while DeSilva and Sorcha walked quickly away.

"A plan!" DeSilva swore at the heavens. "I'll bet I could say exactly what..."

Even as he spoke, a score of Kellion youths ran past them along the rooftops on either side. Just as Sorcha noticed them, they reached the buildings overlooking the centre of the rioting. Moments later, fire-bombs began arcing over the heads of the crowd.

"Oh shit, phase two," DeSilva said, and hurried Sorcha on again. "The crowd will be falling back any second."

They ran, in earnest now, turning off the main street and into the back-alleys of the Foreign Quarter. DeSilva seemed to take turnings at random until they came upon another street running parallel to the main road where the fighting was thickest. Scattered rioters and Silvan soldiers streamed out of neighbouring alleys, fighting and fleeing randomly. Then Sorcha heard horses and pointed up the street to where a squad of mounted Silvan Police had just appeared on the street. "Monte, do something! Call Fenn!"

"I can't, he'll kill everyone! This way, hurry!"

Again, they ran, straight across the street even as the police began their charge. Horses thundered past behind Sorcha as she and DeSilva gained the safety of the opposite alley. DeSilva did not stop but led her again at a run through the labyrinthine rat-runs of the Foreign Quarter. Sorcha had entirely lost all sense of direction when they came suddenly to a dead-end alley. "Monte, where are we going?"

"Up." DeSilva said, steering her towards a stack of barrels and crates at the far end of the alley. "Don't worry, I know exactly where we are. I grew up in Silveneir, remember?"

"Yes, in the Palace!" Sorcha protested, but DeSilva was already boosting her up the rickety pile of crates towards the lip of the roof. Climbing up behind her, he put his hand on her backside and helped her clear the final yard of the climb. "I lived in the Palace," he confirmed, as they gained the rooftop and paused to catch their breath. "But I spent most of my time pissing about in the streets. I know my way around. Now see the top of the roof there? Climb on up, I'll be right behind you."

Sorcha was halfway up, picking her way as carefully as she could over the steep roof-slates, when she heard DeSilva call on Stantine Fenn behind her. She glanced back in time to see a bolt of fire shoot from his hand, blasting apart the barrels and crates they had used to climb up to the roof.

It was still only mid-morning. Below them, on the streets, the main knot of the rioting had broken up into scattered running battles against the army and police. The streets were littered with bodies of both sides, and the various sounds of gunshots, firebombs, screams and snarls of combat echoed from all sides.

DeSilva swore again and Sorcha saw, following the direction of his gaze, that both rioters and police had started climbing up onto the multi-level terraces and rooftops all around.

"We have to get well out of here," DeSilva said. "I think my father's planning to bring the police and army to the barricades. He'll have riflemen waiting in ambush, or something equally nasty in store."

"So, what are we to do?"

"Get the hell out of here, that's what. Away over the rooftops, hide out in Southside and have it away through the Necropolis come midnight."

"Monte, I want to get out, I really do, but we left your pack and all our things at the inn."

"Damn, all that money... If we ever want to stop living rough in the wilds, we'll need that stake..."

"Monte, let's go back to the inn and then..."

"Yes, but not now. Alright, we head for Kale's. The police are likely to search any known Kellion homes outside the Quarter, but Kale has a secret room in his cellar, we'll be okay. Worst case scenario, I'll just identify myself as the Warmistress' nephew."

Together they began picking their way across the rooftops, DeSilva helping Sorcha to keep her balance on the steeply sloping tiles.

"They won't believe you," Sorcha said as they clambered over the ridge of the roof and started down the other side.

"No, we'll both end up in the cells for a few nights, but the truth will come out." He paused, waiting while Sorcha slithered down the roof to join him overlooking a narrow alleyway. "In fact, getting arrested might be the best thing to do." DeSilva grunted and jumped from their rooftop to the next, clearing the intervening alleyway easily. "Why we didn't just go straight to the palace, I have no idea."

Sorcha hesitated at the jump, the distance across and down seeming to double before her eyes. DeSilva beckoned urgently, his eyes drawn to something behind her shoulder. She looked back and saw two Silvan soldiers mounting the far end of the roof. Swearing, she jumped. Her shoes skittered on the opposite rooftop, and she lost her balance, only to be caught by DeSilva before she could fall. Then an arrow struck and shattered on the roof-slates nearby. Sorcha looked back and saw one of the soldiers already fitting another arrow to her bowstring.

DeSilva drew a pistol and returned fire; the archer dropped her bow and fell, went rolling down the roof to vanish off the lip. A dull thump echoed a second later.

DeSilva had a second pistol in his hand, but the remaining soldier was scrambling for the ridge of the roof, trying to get behind cover.

"Monte, let her go, she can't shoot back."

DeSilva ground his teeth but re-holstered his pistol. "Come on. We'll hole up somewhere near here, make for Kale's when it gets dark, find our way back to the inn tomorrow."

There followed a tense, exhausting journey across rooftops and balconies until they found their way to a tall building on the edge of the Foreign Quarter. The police were out in force on the streets and the rioting mostly contained, but Sorcha and DeSilva gained a balcony on the mid-level of the terraced building.

The windows were all boarded up, the building abandoned for the duration of the civil unrest in the neighbouring Quarter. DeSilva pried the boards off a window and they slipped inside, discovering a warehouse stacked with crates and boxes. The place thick with dust, sunlight filtering in through the boarded-up windows to create constellations of golden motes in the air.

"Come on." DeSilva led the way as they explored, finding their way to a narrow stair leading up to the topmost floor. Here they found an office set apart from the storage rooms. The door was locked, but DeSilva kicked it in with pragmatic expertise. Within, the room had once been well-appointed, with a desk in the centre of the floor and a leather-upholstered chair behind it. One wall was lined with bookshelves, the other with wooden filing cabinets. A couch against the third wall, positioned below the window, completed the décor. The thick carpet was choked with dust, evidencing that the place had been abandoned for weeks or more.

"How long has this been going on?" Sorcha wondered aloud.

DeSilva gave no reply, still engrossed with searching the office. The desk drawers were locked; DeSilva aimed a finger at the lock and called up Fenn's power in a tight beam of brightness that turned the air in the room hot. Sorcha hurried around to look, and found the lock glowing brightly, smoke rising from the wood around it. DeSilva plied a sharp kick to the drawer and something snapped audibly inside.

Opening the drawer, he grinned to discover a flask of liquor and small box that proved to contain tobacco and matches.

"Oh, well, at least you're happy!" Sorcha quipped, folding her arms and glaring around the room. "So, this is where we're staying tonight, is it?"

"Sure, why not?" DeSilva packed his pipe and lit up, using the magic ring on his left hand to draw a flame. "A good campaigner is always comfy. Wait here."

He ducked out of the room, and Sorcha waited in irritation for several minutes until he returned, grinning wider. "Come and see.”

Sorcha sulked on his footsteps back into the warehouse, where DeSilva had broken open one of the crates. Sorcha's irritation vanished when she saw that it contained blankets and bedding.

"Three guesses what this place sells," DeSilva grinned, then dumped the top contents of the box out to get at the less dusty goods further down.

Together, they made up a bed on the floor of the office. It was barely past noon now, but they had long hours to wait until nightfall. Outside, the sound of rioting and street-battles reached them faintly.

"Monte, I don't think I can sleep; I'm too worried, and it's too early, and..."

DeSilva drew her to him for a kiss, smiling. "Who said anything about sleep?"

Sorcha answered his kiss, joining him on their improvised bed where she began unbuttoning his shirt. She peeled off her harem-top, and the touch of his skin on hers dispelled some of her distress. Worry for Sabra, trauma from the riot, the underlying fear at their overall situation, all faded away as she surrendered to physical sensation. DeSilva's hands on her body, her hands on his, his lips nuzzling her throat and his fangs pricking at her skin, became the sole details of existence. He rolled her beneath him, and she embraced him with her thighs, her arms spread wide to brace her body as she lifted her hips to accept him. A gasp broke from her and she forgot everything, lost in the striving of their bodies together.