Paradox Read Online Free Page B

lied. “I love it.”
    But that was not good enough. He backed away as Stavrel came close, pushing Tom hard against the spindle wall.
    â€œListen, pretty boy.” Big hand, pressing against Tom's sternum. “Know what I'm gonna do?”
    Tom's diaphragm was paralysed. He could not speak. No talking his way out of this.
    Stavrel spat. “First I'm—”
    Running footsteps. Coming into the chamber.
    â€œCome quick!” Almost skidding to a halt: small Levro, Padraig's younger brother. “There's hundreds of ‘em!”
    The pressure of Stavrel's hand increased. Tom thought his heart might burst.
    â€œWhat's going on?” Padraig grabbed Levro's shoulder.
    â€œMilitiamen! Ain't never seen so many—”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œHeading down Skalt Bahreen. Straight for the market.”
    â€œBetter get home.” Their father, the head trader, was rumoured to have shady dealings. “Come on!”
    Stavrel looked from one brother to the other. Padraig glanced backat Tom, shook his head, but spoke only to Levro: “Come on.” They exited together, moving quickly.
    What now?
    Stavrel thumped Tom once in the chest. Then, wordlessly—as Tom braced himself for more—he turned and hurried out, bearing left instead of right: away from the market.
    Out of danger.
    Pain and shame kept Tom pinned to the wall. Then, blinking back tears, he slowly sank to his haunches. His arms were trembling, and he leaned back against the solid stone, feeling the dull vibration. A marching army's rhythmic beat: two hundred troopers' bootsteps pounding in counterpoint to Tom Corcorigan's thumping heart.

The noise was greater here.
    Sick with tension, Tom scrambled along Split Alley—an almost disused tunnel—over broken, tilted flagstones, not knowing what he would find in the market chamber.
    â€œDestiny help us.” An old woman's voice floated down the narrow, jumbled route.
    The repetitive stamp of marching feet from the larger Skalt Bahreen, off to the left, accompanied him. This tunnel ran almost parallel: a short-cut. Would he reach the market ahead of them?
    He hurried, not knowing why. Perhaps he should be looking for somewhere to hide.
    Flames. The acrid stink of smoke.
    Father …
    Tom tripped over a broken block, and pain shot through his shin. But the market was just around the corner.
    There was no panic.
    Rapt, the crowd's attention was focused on something to Tom's left. Slowing down, he limped into the market chamber and leaned against the terracotta wall. What was happening?
    Grey banner: faded narl, fangs agape.
    There was a group of blue-robed, masked Largin wives in front of Tom. Huge cycle-eunuch guards—on-phase: muscles massively pumped with testosterone—formed a protective ring around the women.
    The serpent banner was in flames. As Tom watched, the burning remnants dropped. Marketgoers and stalls blocked Tom's view, but it seemed that the fire sputtered out.
    There was an old bale of rough sackcloth beside Tom, and nobody was paying attention, so he awkwardly clambered onto it. His shin, where he had banged it against the stone, was sticky with blood.
    The pain faded instantly.
    Someone had burned away the banner to clear the entranceway from Skalt Bahreen. Fully revealed, it was greater than Tom expected: a black semicircle wide enough to hold six men marching abreast.
    And they did.
    At the crowd's rear, near Tom, a small white-haired woman, bent beneath the weight of years, made the double-claw ward-sign with arthritic fingers. Tom shook his head and raised himself on tiptoe atop the unsteady bale, one hand against the wall for balance.
    Hundreds of them.
    Flanked by ranks of local astymonia in ceremonial headbands and gauntlets, a wave of scarlet-uniformed militia marched into the market chamber. They wheeled in formation, bootsteps reverberating, forming a red arrow into the chamber's centre as the market-going crowd fell back.
    The