Andy rolled her eyes. Marcus, who had sat through a few of the Preacher’s readings, was inclined to agree, but he did his best not to show it.

“What do you think he wants, sir?” Hayver said.

“I have no idea,” Marcus said.

“I bet,” Andy said, “it has something to do with that.”

She pointed out the other window, and Marcus leaned over and looked ahead as the carriage slowed. They had crossed the Dregs and come onto the grounds of the University itself, where the curving cobbled road led across the fields, past the various outbuildings, and up to the walled compound that was the ancient core of the institution. There it passed through the pompously titled Gateway of Wisdom, a tall arch of stone that was another of Farus V’s affectations. The great iron gates were ornamental, bracketed to the wall and never closed to demonstrate that the pathway to wisdom would never be barred—though the faculty had been forced to barricade the gateway at times.

If the gate was ornamental, the wall was decidedly not. It was old stone, twelve feet high and topped with rusty iron spikes. It dated from a time when the citizens of Vordan would periodically take it into their heads to burn the scholars of the University for sorcery, though nowadays it was more useful for keeping unruly students away from the taverns of the Dregs.

Today, though, the wall was again serving its original function. A mob had gathered outside the Gate of Wisdom, mostly Southside laborers by their clothes but a few better-dressed young Northside men mixed in. They all seemed to be shouting at once, producing an incomprehensible babble, from which the occasional disjointed phrase emerged.

“—spies! They’re all spies—”

“Turn them over!”

“Spike! To the Spike!”

A line of Patriot Guards with halberds kept the crowd out of the University. There were only a dozen of them, spread thin across the broad gateway, and Marcus could see only fear and force of authority was keeping the mob back. A concerted rush would batter the guards to the ground, halberds or no.

“Hell,” Marcus said, rapping on the front panel to alert the driver. “Stop here.”

“Sir?” The driver, one of the Mierantai servants from Twin Turrets, had the same harsh accent as Uhlan and the others.

“We’d better not try to push through that.” Marcus opened the door. “We’ll go on foot from here and make our own way back. Take the carriage back to the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus couldn’t tell if the driver was relieved to hear this or no. Hayver definitely blanched, though.

“Right,” Marcus said as the carriage wheeled around. “Stay close, you two.” He looked at Andy as he said it, and she gave him a grim smile.

“I grew up in the Docks, sir. I know my way around a mob.”