Shapur glanced sideways at him. ‘If you are walking, you are fine.’
They stepped out into the bleak afternoon light and rounded the corner, looking out at the abandoned training field as they walked.
‘I heard you pulled a merchant off the wall and handed her back to her family,’ Shapur said, disapproval etched into his weathered face. ‘Why was she not disciplined for breaching the defender barrier?’
The problem when your father was warden was that everything you did got back to him. ‘She was just a mute child trying to cut her brother down.’
Shapur frowned at him. ‘So she was armed?’
‘Her sister was waiting to take her home. Any act of violence towards her would have provoked the crowd.’
‘So the sister softened you up?’
It was not too far from the truth. He should have ignored her request and locked up the younger sister, but he had made the mistake of looking over at the family as the brother had been hung on the wall. One look at their faces had confirmed their connection—and triggered guilt for his part in it all.
That was rare for Harlan, who came from a long line of defenders whose loyalty to the role surpassed all else. There had been no question that he would follow in his father’s footsteps when he came of age, and Shapur expected his son to put personal feelings aside and uphold the rules like every Wright before him.
He rubbed his forehead. ‘It’s called compassion.’
‘Compassion? Those people showed up armed, shouting abuse at your king. The merchants do not need your compassion. What they need is swift, firm action to bring them into line.’
Harlan drew a breath when the tower came into sight. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Just keep up, Commander.’
They passed the armoury and stables, arriving at the cliff tower within minutes. Harlan said nothing as he climbed the winding steps behind his father.
When they reached the first cell, Shapur stepped aside so Harlan could see through the small barred window. There were a dozen people seated on the stone floor with their backs against the wall.
‘Every merchant who pulled a weapon on a defender is now dead. That sends a clear message. Any merchant caught inciting violence was arrested and now sits in that cell. What do you think, Commander? Do they deserve to die?’
His father loved to test his moral compass.
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
Harlan stepped back from the door and lowered his voice. ‘On whether they have family or friends already hanging on the wall.’
‘And how is that relevant?’
‘A lifetime of grief is a harsher punishment than anything we could inflict.’
Nothing moved on his father’s face. ‘There is that compassion again.’
Harlan drew a breath. ‘What are your orders?’ He would remove their fingers or cut out their tongues. Whatever his father instructed him to do, he would do it. That was what it meant to be a defender: following orders without question or conscience.
Shapur took the keys from the wall and held them out to him. ‘You will decide the fate of these prisoners, the ones who wished your men injured or dead. It is your responsibility to ensure the merchants never draw a weapon on a defender again.’
Harlan closed his hand around the key and stared at the cell door as his father’s footsteps descended behind him.
Chapter 5
Blake’s father had always been the one to answer the door once the shop was closed for the day. ‘Easy now,’ he would say when the children leapt to their feet and ran ahead of him into the shop. ‘We want to welcome guests, not scare them away.’ The children would peer through the window while their father navigated the locks. It was usually Thea and Birtle from next door. Occasionally it was a defender seeking information, and the children would hide in the next room and listen in on the conversation.
After their father passed, Kingsley had answered the door. If it was a defender, he would tell them nothing, because it was more valuable to have a favour owed by the wrongdoer. Plus, the point of a community was to look out for one another. Yes, the defenders were there to protect, but they were also the biggest threat to their survival. They stood between the merchants and the food.
Two weeks after Kingsley’s death, the Suttone women were gathered in the main room by the hearth. Another evening of silence. No one really knew how to mourn him. They only knew that being together was better than being alone with one’s grief.
