It washim.
That Listener was the man whose secret Rolan had learned, the day Luc had made him kill his first Cryptic. He’d seen those sleeves and hands in the vision, as if they were his own.
Which meant that Listener was a murderer. Rolan hadseenhim abandon a beggar to drown in the river, too concerned with keeping his clothes dry to offer a helping hand.
“Rolan?” Anaya stood at the mouth of the alley, her eyebrows raised in alarm. “Are you okay?”
“That man, he—” Rolan cut himself short, choking back the words.
An Arcanist never reveals the secrets he knows.
“Rolan?” Her voice pitching upward, Anaya walked to him, shifting the crate of butter in her hands so she could touch his forehead. “No fever, but you look ill.”
“I… must have swallowed more vinegar than I thought.”
He hadn’t yet taken the Arcane oaths, of course. He’d never sworn to keep any secrets. And heknewthat Listener was no better than a killer. What if Rolan was the only one who could bring him to justice?
Were these the kind of thoughts Luc had when he learned a particularly awful secret? Rolan wished the Arcanist were here to ask.
“Let’s go home,” Anaya said. “Maybe you do need more sleep. Who knows what you might have picked up out in the forest. Worms, probably.”
He forced a grin. “Oh, definitely worms. Lots of worms. I pulled one out of my nose yesterday, in fact, and it—”
“Stop!” Anaya cried. “You are so…”
Her voice faded into a frown, as they both turned at the sound of shouting.
A crowd was growing around the stall, people shoving one another and screaming at the terrified-looking man selling his milk and butter.
“It says so right here!” a woman roared, waving a paper over her head. “You’ve been selling us milk from cows with fainting sickness! You’re poisoning our children!”
“I-I never meant—” the farmer stammered.
“You dog!” cried another woman, and behind her, a man pushed forward to kick over the farmer’s stall. Butter and milk spilled across the cobblestones, and the farmer scrambled to get away but the people converged around him, yelling and grabbing at his clothes. His three large sons, all broad shouldered and bearded, began pushing back and roaring like bears.
“It’s the Arcanist’s doing!” someone yelled. “No secret is safe!”
It was turning into a proper riot.
“We need to get out of here,” Rolan said.
Anaya nodded, tossing her butter to the ground with a disgusted expression.
They tried to slip quietly around the crowd, only to find themselves trapped when a troop of guards came rushing toward the commotion.
“Go back!” Anaya cried, but it was too late.
The crowd closed around them like crazed cattle, everyone seething and punching and shoving. Rolan gripped Anaya’s hand just as an elbow slammed into his temple. He blinked hard, seeing stars, his heart pounding.
Then he felt Anaya’s hand slip from his.
She went down with a cry of panic, lost beneath the crush of bodies.
“Anaya!” Rolan squeezed between a guard and one of the farmer’s sons, the pair locked in a tussle. Spotting a flash of curly hair, he dove desperately.
A boot kicked him in the stomach. Someone tripped over him and cursed, their heavy body crushing his until he wriggled free, gasping for air.
“Anaya!”
