Dwyer stood by the rear door, cudgel still in hand. “I will give you as much time as I can. Make for the woods. The dark will help shield ye a bit, but not for long if they hire a Finder.”
Paedrin glanced at Hettie and saw her face stiffen with disgust. Her eyes flicked once his way, but did not linger.
Erasmus pulled on some stiff wool socks and then stuffed his feet into a well-worn set of boots. “Dry feet. Never underestimate the value of dry feet,” he muttered.
There was a loud hammering at the front door. Erasmus shrugged into his cloak and then motioned toward the woods visible beyond the next row of buildings. Annon and Hettie followed, but Paedrin stayed put. Annon paused and looked at him meaningfully, his eyebrows lifted.
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He did not wait for them to acknowledge his words and walked around the side of Erasmus’s dwelling, watching the spatter of torchlight brighten from the front. The angry voices of a mob grew steadily louder.
Paedrin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, short, quick breaths to steady himself. He listened to the raucous voices and the shouts of anger and demand. He could barely make out Dwyer’s voice, trying to turn the tide of anger. A stone or brick smashed into the front window. The shrill wail of voices grew louder. There was the sound of a door slamming and being bolted. But against such a mob, it was a flimsy defense. In a moment, the home would go up in a blaze, along with all the books of poetry and translations, a man’s work for many years. It was unfair.
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Paedrin inhaled, and as he started to float, he ran up the side of the structure so that he reached the apex before running out of breath. He flipped up onto the roof, still holding the staff in one hand, and crouched at the edge, looking down at the mob. There were easily thirty or more down there, some with torches, others with lanterns. They were all Preachán, and they were a ferocious mob, shouting threats and insults at the lone man inside. One man stuffed a rag into his bottle of spirits and set fire to the edge.
Paedrin stood up straight, adjusted his neck muscles, and then hurtled off the edge of the roof. Someone saw him jump, for fingers were suddenly in the air stabbing at him. He plummeted to the street like a stone, but just before landing, he hissed in his breath to soften the impact and managed to land on the man with the flaming bottle and crush him into the street.
