There's an odd shuffling at the edges of the crowd, as if people are trying to press into the thin slants of light that penetrate the shadows of the street. People crowd together, and more than one person cries out in protest as their neighbors jostle them.
Here and there, shapes slip between the human members of the crowd, sinuous and dark. They might be dogs. You'd like to believe they're dogs.
"What this city needs," the Raven says, "is strength. Certainty. The same certainty that led us to victory against Pomona, that kept the invaders from our doors. The same certainty I felt when I looked Pomona's queen in the eye, knowing that one of us would fall in battle and the other survive. I was victorious. And you have nothing to fear."
It's a line that calls for applause, but instead there's a hush. Shadows pass across Cenone's face, as if dark clouds are skating across the sun.
And then, out of the crowd, a dark, lean shape leaps at the chariot and swarms up onto it beside Cenone. It looks something like a dog. It is decidedly not a dog. It bares its teeth in a smile and then howls. From all around you, answering howls ascend.
"The trumpets—ignore it—" Cenone demands, rounding on Liathar.
Liathar gestures, but the sound of a trumpet is a weak, brassy bleat against the howling. Liathar draws his sword and lashes out at the dark figure. The creature writhes away from the blade in a taunting dance.
"No!" Cenone demands, and Liathar reluctantly sheathes his sword. "There's nothing there. This is all hysteria, delusion—"
Abruptly, the sound of howling is joined by the sound of screams. A man stumbles in the crowd. Then a child. Some of the spectators scatter, but others force their way forward.
"Your fault!" a man yells. "You brought this on us!"
"Do something!" a woman cries. "Fight them!"
Cenone spreads his arms, a gesture that was once regal and now seems merely placating. "We cannot have panic. There is nothing to fear."
Across the square, a wagon horse rears in a panic, kicking out at dark, swirling forms. Then it shudders and falls in its traces. You can feel something icy at your side, but when you look down, it's gone. The person next to you jostles you, hard. You're hard-pressed to stay on your feet.
"Father, permit me," Liathar begins. Cenone holds up a hand to stop him, a crisp command that makes Liathar hesitate even as his hand is on his sword.
With a sharp crack, a stone smashes against the side of the chariot. Then another. The shadows are growing darker, like a swarm of black rats pouring into the square and weaving through the crowd to circle the chariot. The rage of the crowd is feeding them, you realize. That, and Cenone's denial and lies.
Any minute, and a well-aimed stone will find its mark. Any minute, and the dark shapes will swarm over the chariot and pull Cenone down into the furious crowd.