Page 47 of The King's Man 3

“This is for the safety of the people,” the captain says.

“Which people,” someone mutters.

“The quarantine will be lifted when ten days pass without new infection.”

“What about provisions?” someone calls. “Our stores are low as it is—”

“Ration what you have,” the captain snaps. “Provisions will come when they come.”

“What does that mean?”

Someone throws a stone and it clips a redcloak’s shoulder.

The captain barks, “Get back. Anyone who tries to leave will be executed on the spot.” He addresses his men. “Seal the gates.”

The townspeople are in uproar. Swearing, cursing, crying. Some stand staring into the middle distance, like they can’t believe any of it.

My throat is tight as I swallow.

What about the herbs?

What about my patients—the children, the mother with scales, the baby not born yet?

What about the town?

What about us?

Irush forward, zigzagging my way to the front of the crowd. “Wait.”

The captain ignores my wild, urgent plea. A shimmery seal, like that of the Crucible, begins to creep over the gate. A young man, not more than twenty, takes a running leap before it closes completely.

The seal pulses faintly, its translucent surface glinting as the young man presses through, distorting his form—

Then comes the sword. Blood sluices down the barrier, pooling at the base.

I skid to the gate. The end of the sword juts sharply towards us, a warning to all. The young lad’s feet are jerking, his hands grappling at the sword hilt. I ball a hurried spell, something to stop the loss of blood. I slam it against the seal—it brightens for a moment and spits the spell back at me. I’m thrown off balance and land heavily on the cobbles, heave myself up to try again, but the lad’s feet have stopped moving. His hands fall to his sides. His head drops.

Screams come from all around me—harried movements—pushing and shoving and running... run where? To try their luck at another gate? To secure all the food they can? To find their families?

Wherever they go, nobody comes to weep for the lad.

Nauseated, I drag myself away. The blood is still fresh, still slicking down the barrier. No one cries for him. I don’t have time to either.

Quin. Need to find Quin.

If we stop people taking water from the brook and remove the source of the outbreak, we can contain this. In ten days, the seals will be unlocked.

What about medicinal herbs? What about those who’ll die in a day if I don’t get those supplies?

Movement keeps catching my eye from shadows; it comes with a prickly feeling at my nape, like someone’s watching me. I catch another glimpse when I turn a corner. A red dress. A womanly figure.

I don’t have the energy for her feud. I cut through an abandoned clothing store, exchanging my cloak for a blue one, a colour she won’t expect, won’t pay any attention. I slip out again and turn back into the main street, fixing my clasp at the neck of the new cloak.

The magistrate’s office is the most imposing structure in any town, and though this one is smaller than those in larger settlements, it is no less austere. A fortress-like complex with high walls and a heavy gate guards a two-story stone building within. Narrow windows dot the façade, and from the upper floor, a speaker’s ledge juts out—the place where the head magistrate would address his men, who might stand in neat rows below in the courtyard.

The mightiness of the building should be a place residents can feel protected, but at the moment they most need a calming,controlled voice on that ledge, there’s no one. The gates are open, guards who should be manning them are gone, and the courtyard is empty.

A lone horse grazes a stretch of grass near the colonnaded staircase.

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