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Quinnault raised his arms above his head as he spoke the words in a voice that carried to the far reaches of the crowd.
    A few people paid heed and ceased their babble.
    “Stand higher on the bridge so that more people can see you,” Katie urged him. Hope sprouted in her chest at the crowd’s initial response to him.
    He took two steps back to the center of the arched span. His height and the elevation made him stand well above everyone. “My people, listen to me!” he commanded again in ringing tones worthy of a battlefield—or a pulpit.
    Katie immediately felt calmer, more confident. Apparently so did the mob. Quiet spread in gentle ripples.
    So this was Quinnault’s magic talent. Nothing overt enough for him to be called a magician, but enough—and perhaps the best talent for a man with aspirations to the priesthood or to leading a diverse populace through tribulation.
    “Listen to me, please. You must cease this violence!”
    Katie saw three men pause with hands upraised, ready to strike. But they didn’t complete their blows.
    “I understand your fears,” Quinnault said. “I lived through the wars, I fought alongside you when rival lords threatened these islands. And when peace came within our grasp, you declared me king. You, the people, decided I should lead you because you knew I would bring the warring factions together in compromise.” Quinnault paused a moment to let his words sink in.
    “Now we must all work together to maintain that peace. We must fight those who would disrupt that peace from within as well as without.”
    Men and women stared in disbelief at missiles of food and stones and tools and clubs they clutched in their hands. A woman in the front ranks deliberately put down the palm-sized rock she had been ready to lob at the man standing next to her. Her neighbor pocketed the hammer he held poised to defend himself.
    Quinnault breathed deeply.
    So you noticed that someone manipulated their emotions with magic, Katie commented on a tight mental line. Best if the magician in the crowd did not eavesdrop.
    Magic? Quinnault cocked an eyebrow at her. His slightly bemused expression could not hide his unease from her.
    Katie searched the crowd for signs of the man with the gaudy orange shirt with purple piping. She should have been able to pick him out in a moment among the more soberly dressed folk.
    I sense magic and conspiracy in this brawl. Someone deliberately fed fear into these people.
    “Disperse to your homes now to celebrate Sawheen, our Holy Day of Remembrance,” Quinnault commanded. “You are good people. You don’t need to listen to those who would use you to fight their fears. You need only live your lives in peace. A peace we have fought for. But now the fighting must cease.”
    “What about the foreigners? What about . . . ?”
    Katie searched the crowd for the speaker. It sounded a lot like Orange-shirt, but she couldn’t be sure. The voice seemed to come from all directions, followed by ripples of unease. She spotted Liam Francis working his way through the crowd with deliberation. Sean Michael and Jamie Patrick approached from other directions, their bright red hair obvious beacons in the mob. She hoped they honed in on the disruptive magician.
    “If you notice people from other lands crowding our city, be assured they bring trade, they bring friendship. I work with their leaders to avoid another war. We all work for peace and prosperity,” Quinnault responded.
    A mood of calm followed his words, more overwhelming than the anonymous voice.
    Katie bit her lip in confusion. Was it right for her husband to use magic to influence the crowd in the same manner another had used magic to bring the crowd to riot?
    (Sometimes, Katie, one must fight fire with fire or magic with magic,) a dragon voice reminded her.
    “What do we do now, Quinnault?” she asked. Her brothers disappeared again, swallowed up in the mass of people. She had no idea if they found their quarry or