“I know whose lawyer she is, fool. That doesn’t mean she gets the privilege of dictating times or schedules to me.”
“He’s in the building, sir.”
That made Pin stop. “He’s what?”
“She had him brought here from Quarrygate. He’s in the Micarum Cell, with a full and thorough security protocol, of course, which I checked myself. But . . . he’s here.”
“Saint Marian, why?”
“She says there’s relevant case work that cannot be done while he’s locked up in Block Twelve, since she needs access to her client, and—”
“Stop babbling, man. I understand it all now. She had him delivered here, and since I have claimed full judicial authority over Tharek Pell and his case, receiving him here requires my signature. And since it’s a holiday, he can’t be brought back to Quarrygate until tomorrow at the earliest. She’s a devious one, that Mirrendum, I’ll give her that.”
In his energetic youth he would have been envious of someone like Arthady Mirrendum. Perhaps even a bit smitten. She was a dogged legal fighter, ready to use every letter and line of the law on behalf of her clients, and she was definitely looking to make her name defending Tharek Pell. It was admirable, if it wasn’t so damnably inconvenient.
He reached his office, where Miss Mirrendum and another man were waiting. “Where’s whatever I have to sign?”
Miss Mirrendum held a sheaf of papers close to her chest. “Why, your high honor, is that any way to say hello?”
“Hello, Miss Mirrendum. Give me the papers so I can sign them and get going.”
“I’ve been trying to meet with you, sir—”
“Schedule a meeting with Mister Gendorin. But be aware that I will not be holding Mister Pell’s trial until the autumn at the earliest.”
This had been the challenge on his plate in these past few weeks. There was no true reason, in terms of law, to delay Tharek Pell’s case. They could go to trial tomorrow, if Pin wished it. But Barton and the rest of the Grand Ten wanted any and all lurid details of trial and testimony out of the public eye until the new Parliament was convoked. As usual, they worried too much about irrelevant details.
“I’ve scheduled many appointments with Mister Gendorin, and you keep missing them.”
“He’s a very busy man,” Gendorin said, almost reflexively. When Pin looked at him, the boy actually blushed and looked to the ground. Guilty.
What did he know, or at least thought he knew? It was true, Gendorin was privy to details of his schedule, his correspondence, his accounts of exchange. The boy annoyed him to blazes, but he wasn’t an idiot. He might have sussed out more than Pin wanted him to.
“Yes, well, so is Mister Landorick, here,” she said. “He’s a former inspector second class with the Constabulary.”
“Retired,” Landorick said with a lift of his cap. “I do a bit of investigation for hire to pay the bills.”
“For the Justice Advocate Office?” Pin asked. “Unusual for a former constable.”
“Their money still spends, sir,” he said.
She took a folder from Landorick and put it on Pin’s desk. “He’s uncovered some irregularities, namely with the finances of Regine Toscan.”
“What does that matter?” Pin asked. He kept his face neutral, calm, but the mere mention of Toscan and money was nerve-wracking. Paper trails of account houses and goldsmith notes might lead to Barton, Millerson, the archduke, Lady Henson . . . all of the Grand Ten. That was no good, especially since his role, as the Justice of the Ten, was to protect them from these very things. “I mean, we suspected that Toscan and these Haltom’s Patriots were part of a larger revolutionary organization, that’s nothing new.”
“Yes, but it is evidence that should be introduced—”
“In the case of Tharek Pell?” He couldn’t have that, but he couldn’t make it seem like he was impartial. Not in front of this woman. “I will review it and make a ruling. But you should remember that Pell is on trial alone. Toscan is not being tried posthumously.”
“All I ask, sir,” she said, handing over the file.
“Give me those papers,” he said, signing the acceptance of Pell at the holding cells at The Bench. “How long are you having him stay here?”
“Until trial, preferably,” she said. “His conditions at Quarrygate, given that he is not yet convicted of a crime, are unconscionable.”
“He’s a definitive danger, Miss Mirrendum,” Pin said. “He killed a man with a coat button.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” Pin conceded. “I’ll allow a provisional stay of five days so you and your client can confer, but we are not equipped here to hold anyone long term. That’s what Quarrygate is for.”
“It’s for criminals,” she said. “Which he is not yet.”
“Yet, Miss Mirrendum. We are rightfully giving him his trial, but you cannot deny the evidence of his guilt.”
“Don’t presume to tell me what I can or cannot do, your high honor,” she said.
Pin scowled, and gave the signal to Gendorin to usher them out.
“I’m afraid that’s all for today,” Gendorin said, taking them to the door. “Thank you and joyous Reunification.”
With them gone, Pin sat down at his desk, glowering at Gendorin. “Keep an eye on them while they’re in the building. Especially any meetings with Pell.”
“I can’t—”
“Without violating his rights of counsel, of course,” Pin said. “Saints, the last thing we’d need is Mirrendum arguing a dispersal of trial.” He waved Gendorin away, leaving him alone in the office.
Of course, he was a high justice, and no argument from Miss Mirrendum would change the fact that he would convict Tharek Pell on all charges and sentence him to life imprisonment at Fort Olesson. Once a man went there, he never saw the sun again.
He would still review Landorick’s report, but mostly to see how much of a threat he was. Landorick might need to be dealt with. Perhaps a bribe to forget things, perhaps an unfortunate accident. The Grand Ten would take care of it.
And perhaps they would have to take care of Gendorin as well. Which would be a damned shame. He was a decent young man.
But decency was a vice Pin couldn’t afford these days. The Ten certainly couldn’t risk everything for its sake. Far too much was at stake. He understood that, better than anyone.
Chapter 29
JERINNE WAS UP AND out of her bunk before Vien came for her wake-up call. She dressed and left the room with the rest of the third-years still sleeping, passing the ranking board without a glance. It wasn’t going to tell her anything she didn’t already know. It certainly wasn’t telling her anything she needed to know.
She went to the training room, which was sparsely populated, and went through her stretches and calisthenics. Her body was still sore, but it felt good to work through the pain, push herself. She finished up as Vien came in, looking like she was forcing herself to move. Her face was still a mess of bruising.
“Morning,” Vien said. “Sun is up and so are you.”
“Couldn’t really sleep,” Jerinne said.
“I know the feeling,” Vien said, heading over to the weapons on the wall. She stopped and turned back to Jerinne. “I let you down the other night. I should have done better.”
Jerinne wasn’t sure what to say to that, what comfort she could give that wouldn’t sound like condescension to Vien’s ears. “Not as much as I let myself down. We got beat. But at least we’re both still here to do better next time.”
Vien grabbed a staff off the wall. “And I damned well will.”
Jerinne took another staff. “Then let’s work on that.”
They sparred until Vien went to wake up the rest of the Initiates, and other Candidates and Adepts came in and out of the training room with a kind word or silent nod to Jerinne. T
hose little moments of quiet respect continued through breakfast and the morning run. When they returned from the run, Jerinne had someone waiting for her in the lobby.
“Miss Fendall,” Arthady Mirrendum said as they came in. “We’re ready for your appointment.”
Her appointment. With Tharek Pell. “That’s now?” Jerinne asked.
“We’re prepared at The Bench.”
She looked to Madam Tyrell. “I’m sorry, miss, but—”
“It’s fine,” Madam Tyrell said, her expression telling Jerinne that it absolutely was. “Take care of what you need to.”
“Thank you,” Jerinne said, and went to clean up. Her dress uniform was in shambles, but she didn’t want to be wearing that for this. Instead her simple Tarian tunic, clean and crisp, was perfect.
Miss Mirrendum brought her to a carriage and quietly drove her to The Bench, the grand building of the High Court of Druthal in Justice Plaza, where the neighborhoods of Oscana Court, Welling, and Gelmin converged. The high walls of Fort Merrit, the army base in the middle of the northern city, cast long morning shadows over the plaza. Miss Mirrendum led her through a few hallways and down stairwells until reaching a heavy iron door with four uniformed marshals standing outside it.
“Wait here one moment,” Miss Mirrendum said, nodding to a marshal. The marshal released a series of latches before opening the door, and Miss Mirrendum slipped in. They shut the door behind her.
“That’s elaborate,” Jerinne said.
“Damned well right,” the marshal said. “You know who’s in there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
Jerinne waited for a few moments quietly, as none of the marshals looked like they were worth making conversation with. And she didn’t need idle small talk right now. She wasn’t sure what she needed, or even why Tharek Pell wanted to talk to her, why he felt she would be useful to his defense. She wasn’t sure what she even felt.
Standing here, with him on the other side of that door, she should be terrified. Her stomach should be in knots right now. Tharek Pell beat her, snapped her leg. He killed people in front of her while she was powerless to stop him. He was a nightmare in human form.
But all she felt was calm. She got beat. But she lived, and that meant she would do better next time.
There was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a young man in a somber suit.
“Pardon me, but . . . you’re Jerinne Fendall, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“You were—you helped stop . . .” He looked at the door nervously.
“I was there,” Jerinne said. “I don’t know how much I helped.”
“But you were a part of it, yes?”
She shrugged. “I was there. What’s this about?”
He glanced about, eyeing the marshals suspiciously, and then swallowed hard. “I should tell you about—”
The door opened, and he stopped suddenly. Miss Mirrendum came out and scowled at him.
“Mister Gendorin, why are you talking to my witness?”
He straightened his shoulders. “I was just saying hello, congratulating her on her part in stopping Mister Pell here.”
“Leave her be,” Miss Mirrendum said. Looking at Jerinne, she added, “You can go in now. Don’t touch the glass.”
Jerinne went in the room, which was a high, wide chamber of solid stone. In the center of the room was a great glass cylinder that spanned from floor to ceiling, with small holes near the top. Inside the cylinder was a cot, the man himself lying on it. He stood up and walked close to the glass wall.
“Miss Fendall, pleasure to see you again.”
She approached, keeping some distance from the glass. “Even for you, this seems . . . extreme.” Glancing about, she noticed there were murder hole niches in the wall, and crossbows sticking out of them.
“I’ve made an impression, apparently.”
“Did they make all this for you?”
“No,” he said, pacing about a bit. “Apparently, during the Incursion, they imprisoned Oberon Micarum in here. That’s illustrious company.” He raised his voice. “They might have forgotten that Oberon escaped, though.”
“He had an Imach mage and a few others helping with that,” Jerinne said.
“You know your history.”
“But I don’t know why I’m here.” She wanted to sit down, but there was no place for her to sit. “You wanted me to testify in your defense.”
“I did,” he said.
“I have no idea why you would want that. I saw you murder, six, seven men. Including Mister Seabrook.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “You saw what I did, what I was trained to do. You saw me, as the perfect elite weapon, the ultimate expression of a Spathian warrior, with skill that is unparalleled. Can you deny that?”
“Yes, you’re very good at killing.”
“I am what I was trained to be. But I was denied my destiny as a Spathian Adept by foolish men and their politics. Men who had no right to decide that fate for me. And I think you might know something about that.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Am I wrong? Tell me, Initiate, are you being fairly judged for your skill? Do you have faith that your fate will be decided by anyone who has the right to?”
Jerinne, despite herself, burst out laughing. She laughed so hard, she couldn’t even stand. She fell to one knee, taking a minute before she could get her breath again. When she looked up, he was right up to the glass, one hand pressed against it.
“What is so amusing?”
“That’s your pitch, Tharek?” she asked, getting to her feet. “It’s funny, because if I had heard that a week ago, even two days ago, I might have been shaken. Even confused. But today?” She came close to the glass, looking him right in the eye. “Today I know what I can do, and I know that I’m the only person who decides who I am.”
“I let you live!” he shouted.
“Yeah,” she said. “And I am back on my feet, stronger for it. So thank you for that lesson, Tharek.” She walked away.
“You let a member of Parliament die!” he shouted as she approached the door. “They’ll never let you be a Tarian!”
She pounded on the door to be let out, and turned back to him. “But they’ll never stop me from being me.”
* * *
“And from Scaloi, three chairs were up for election: the two held by Josiah Illington and Jebediah Porton, and the seat open due to the death of Jonas Cotton. Good Mister Illington, of the Traditionalist Party, has won his bid to retain his chair. The other two chairs, now the Ninth and Tenth Chairs of Scaloi, respectively, will be held by Good Mister Hasprick Ollist, of the Traditionalist Party, and Good Mister Ret Issendel, formerly the Bishop of Iscala.”
Once Dayne had read this, hands went up among the members of the press. They probably all had the same question, and Dayne considered selecting Hemmit, but instead picked a woman from the High Maradaine Gazette.
“Are we to assume that Good Mister Issendel is a member of the Ecclesial Party?”
“I don’t have a statement one way or the other about that,” Dayne said. “No party affiliation is noted for him, beyond his devotion to the organization known as the Open Hand. I don’t think we can safely presume exactly how he will position himself. He may well declare membership in a new party of his own.”
Hands went up again. Dayne pointed to Harns from Throne and Chairs.
“By my count, the former Ruling Coalition of the Minties, Frikes, and Crownies now has only forty-seven members. But the Opposing Coalition of the Books and Dishers also has forty-seven. With neither side holding a majority to form a government, what can we expect from the new Parliament?”
“I can only speculate, sir, same as you,” Dayne said. “But I have a feeling the five members
of the Populist Party, as well as Good Mister Issendel, might find their voices strongly sought after.” Hands went up again. “I really can’t comment on any of that. The marshals are handing out packets of all the results, including the local city elections. And one final result of note: in the Archduchy of Oblune, there was a motion on their ballots to approve the suffragette petitions, and that motion passed.”
The room went quiet, and then the woman from the Gazette stood up. “Women will get the vote in Oblune?”
“Yes. Starting next year.”
She sat back down—almost fell down, as if her legs had given out on her—tears streaming down her cheeks. Hemmit started to applaud, and half of the members of the press joined in with him. Some of the other half, Dayne noted, looked more than a little put out.
“That’s all,” Dayne said. “We’ll be resuming these briefings once the Parliament is in session. Thank you very much.”
He left the podium and the press room, with Donavan Samsell walking out behind him.
“I think you enjoyed that last part,” Samsell said.
“I rather did,” Dayne said. They went down the stairs to the marshals’ offices, where Samsell started shaking the hands of men as he passed them, most of them carrying boxes of papers. “What is going on?”
“This is it for us this year,” Samsell said. “Election is done, another success. Thanks to you.”
“And you,” Dayne said.
“Well, we’ll see what Marshal Command has to say when they assign election duty next year,” he said. “But it’s time for me to leave here.” He pointed across the room to an older man in a marshal chief uniform, with tufts of graying red hair. “Let me introduce you to the new man.”
They went over to the man, who was working off a clipboard and calling out orders to some of the other marshals. “Quoyell?” Samsell said as they came up. “You need to meet Heldrin, from the Tarian Order.”
Chief Quoyell glanced up at them and grunted.
“Hi, I’m Dayne,” Dayne said, offering his hand. “I’m liaising with the Tarian Order, working with you and the Parliament and—”
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