“The hells!” Kesh dropped down beside his own cot and dragged out the two pouches of local spices, best-quality braid, and polished gems he’d brought south from the Hundred; he slung them over his back, buckling tight the straps so the pouches wouldn’t shift as he moved. Then he grabbed rope coiled against the door that led into a small storeroom accessible only from this chamber. None of the goods in there were worth his life.

He went to the door, and found Eliar panting beside him. “I’m ready,” said the Ri Amarah.

Bulging packs brushed Kesh’s arm. “How much are you carrying?”

“All the oil of naya,” muttered Eliar.

“Aui! On your head, then.” He shouldered past and opened the door a hand’s width, peeking out.

A struggle raged within the gatehouse, and outside the gates a crowd had grown, shouting words that Kesh was pretty sure meant something like, “Kill the foreigners! Kill the traitors!”

“They haven’t given us up,” said Kesh suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“The sergeant and his guards. They could just let that mob in, open the gates, and be done with it. But they’re not. They’re defending us. Eiya! Give me three of those vessels of oil of naya.”

He expected Eliar to protest, but instead the other man swung down his bulky packs and began fumbling into them. Keshad ran out into the middle of the courtyard.

“Heya! Heya! Get your weapons! Get out here! Move! Our guards are defending us against a mob that wants to kill us. If we don’t help them, we’re all dead. And I need rags. The rags you use to clean your harness, or some such. Anything that will burn easily. And baskets to haul. Hurry, you cursed fools!”

He ran to the forecourt. The guards had abandoned the two small watch platforms that flanked the gates. The wall walk Eliar had spoken of must run off in either direction, and obviously access to the platforms and the walk came from inside the guardhouse. Which was now being fought over.

About ten merchants came running, all with weapons, some bearing rags or cloth, one dragging a thin pallet. Two carried lamps. Eliar ran up in their wake with three leather bottles.

“Anyone else understand them?” Kesh shouted to be heard above the screaming pack of men beyond the gate.

“They want our blood, like it’s our fault their cursed emperor got himself killt in battle. Gods-rotted out-landers!”

Other men, experienced traders, nodded. Muffled crashes and shouts came from the guardhouse. Someone was taking a beating.

“We’re getting me and one other volunteer up there.” Keshad indicated the platforms. “We’ll splash oil of naya over the crowd, and then light rags and such and throw them down on top. That should drive them away.”

“Heh. Just like the battle over Olossi,” said one older man.

“I’ll go up,” said Eliar immediately.