The first hand reached for my sword before anyone asked me a question.
I stepped back, keeping my left palm open.
"Don't draw it," the Church escort said.
"I'm not drawing it."
"Move away from the patients."
I did. The public approach behind me was filling with people who had heard the accusation without seeing the attack. Retreating farther would put me in their path. I stopped beside the stone post where the escort could see both my hands.
My right arm remained bound against my chest. It was an awkward position from which to look threatening, but the name on my coat was doing most of the work.
The escort stayed close enough to stop me if I moved toward the hilt. I could see his eyes drop to it whenever my coat shifted. Keeping my hand open felt absurdly deliberate. I did it anyway.
Behind him, the clinic was still moving people. I tried to see past his shoulder without turning my body. He moved to keep himself between me and the patients.
"I'm staying here," I said.
