“It’s them!” one of the rioters shouted.

Now would be my chance to reason with them, Marcus thought, and chide them for making unwarranted assumptions. Try to bluff our way out. He took in the look on the man’s face, the fury rising in his eyes.

“Run!” he shouted.

They ran. Andy and Hayver, in their uniforms, easily outdistanced the four scholars, who were slowed by their clumsy robes. Marcus stayed in the rear, ready to grab anyone who stumbled. He looked over his shoulder and found the rioters closer than he’d thought, practically on their heels. Spinning, he clawed his saber from its scabbard and raised it to block the way, bringing the first pursuer up short.

“Get him!” another shouted, pushing forward and swinging a wooden post like a club.

It would have been easy to skewer him, but Marcus wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Instead he sidestepped the clumsy blow and rammed the saber’s guard into the man’s face, feeling bone crunch in his jaw. He dropped like a broken puppet, clutching his face and writhing in pain, and Marcus took advantage of the despite to backpedal. They were nearly to the door, Hayver standing beside it, white-faced.

“Marcus! They’re inside!”

“Good!” Marcus turned his back on the rioters and edged past the ranker. “Close the door!”

“No, I mean—”

“Colonel!” Andy said. “A little help?”

Hayver dragged the door shut, plunging them back into gloom. Before the light vanished, however, Marcus saw another half dozen men, advancing down the corridor toward them.

*   *   *

They must have been inside already. No wonder the door had been open. Marcus swore and jogged forward, sword at the ready. Andy had her broken broom in a passable attempt at a guard position, and Viera stood behind her, clutching the marble bust. Karl and Fredrick were pressed against the wall while Volaht hovered uncertainly nearby.

“Out of the way!” Marcus bellowed in his best parade-ground voice. “These people are under the protection of the Royal Army of Vordan!”

“It’s the Army of the Republic now,” one of the men blocking the corridor spit back. He had what looked like the leg of a chair in one hand.

“Yeah, you work for us!” another said.

“Put the sword down!”

“Get out of the way,” Marcus repeated. “I don’t want to hurt any of you.”

“Oh yeah, soldier boy?” said one of the men, from the safety of the rear of the back. “Gonna stab us?”

Marcus took a step forward. The man in the lead had the expression of someone comparing his chair leg to Marcus’ polished steel and coming up short. He gave ground, pressing into the huddle behind him. Encouraged, Marcus took another step forward, flicking the point of his weapon forward until it was practically under the man’s nose.