He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. It was her turn to blush, but she didn’t pull away, and she didn’t say anything. They walked in silence the rest of the way to her door.
Alone in his room, he stood staring at the bed for a long time before getting into it. The day had been an arduous one—and one he had thought finished once already. He had seen more of his mother’s family than he had wanted to, met Gram—his real father’s grandmother—and made a deal with a golem that had gone on to make Lodo a murderer. He had broken free of Shom Behenna’s binding charm and given Shilly a heart-name. He had learned that his only chance of escape lay deep beneath the Haunted City, and he was more confused about the Weavers than ever. What could possibly come next?
There were only two things he was sure of: he had the consequences of the deal with the golem still ahead of him, whatever sort of new danger that would put him and his friends into; and he would never see his grandmother again.
The latter felt especially strange. He would have been glad of that certainty only a few hours ago, had it not involved her death. Now, she was the third member of his family whose death he had been forced to confront in recent times. Part of him was gradually beginning to accept that he too would probably die, one day.
At least, he thought, he wouldn’t have to show her the ward in a vain attempt to prove that he was trustworthy.
That thought was no comfort at all as he pulled the sheets up to his neck and the silver light of the mirror faded to black.
Carah.
Shilly carried the name with her as she prepared for bed. Her bad leg needed re-strapping, and she refused to sleep in her day clothes again. She had to get changed before she fell between the sheets and let long overdue sleep roll over her.
My name is Carah.
She didn’t know what the word meant, or where it had come from, but she liked the sound of it. The fact that it had been so simply, almost casually, given didn’t bother her either. The giving was the important thing; the rest, as Skender had said, was nothing. She liked the fact that it was secret, that it was a part of her no one else knew. Everyone knew Shilly. No one knew Carah. Carah could be anyone.
She wondered if Sal knew who Carah was. That he thought he might made her smile in the darkness of the room, as she drifted off.
How long she was allowed to sleep, she didn’t know. She was woken at what felt like a very early hour by an attendant informing her that she needed to dress. She did so, and ate breakfast with Sal and Skender in a private chamber set apart from the main dining hall. Her friends looked as tired as she felt. Sal had on the wooden expression he adopted when he wasn’t sure what was going to happen next but was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it.
A young, black-robed woman informed them of how the inquest would proceed. Because Radi Mierlo had not been a Strand national, both the Syndic and Stone Mage Luan Braunack would preside over the evidence, which would include the testimonies of both Shilly and Skender, since they had been the ones to raise the alarm. Five representatives of the Sky Warden Conclave would make a decision; once the ruling had been issued, the Mierlo family could dispose of the body as they saw fit.
“And that’s it?” Shilly asked.
“If there should be more,” the woman responded, “I can’t imagine what it might be.”
She wasn’t in the mood to waste words. “What about Lodo?”
“Until he’s caught there’s nothing we can do about him.”
“Is anyone looking for him?”
“Of course. His being at large constitutes a risk to life in the Haunted City. He must be found.”
“And then what?”
“That depends on what the Conclave representatives decide today.”
Shilly didn’t like the answer, but there was little she could do to dispute it just then. “What do we have to do, exactly?”
“You will be called upon to speak at the appointed time,” the woman said. “Until then, you will wait.”
And that was exactly what they did.
It was a sunny day outside, but they didn’t see much of it. They were whisked from the Novitiate chambers to a domed building filling a relatively large space between three large towers. There wasn’t time to enjoy the walk—or, in Shilly’s case, to study the ghosts watching her from their glassy prison. The attendants hurrying them along made it clear that they weren’t there to sightsee.
When they arrived at the public hall where the inquest was to be held, they were shown to seats on a curving bench toward the front and instructed to be still. Shilly looked around. The hall was large enough to hold several hundred people arranged in rows that stretched almost in a full circle around a central dais. On that dais were five seats where the members of the Conclave would sit. In front of the dais, in a cleared space separated from the audience by a circular wooden rail polished to a high gleam, were two more chairs for the Syndic and Stone Mage presiders. The ceiling above was domed, and tiled in a vast mural depicting the rising of some giant beast from beneath stormy waves. At the top of the dome was a slitted hole that let in daylight, corresponding with the creature’s single, flaming eye.
Shilly was impressed, for a while, and despite the obvious differences, she was put in mind of the Stone Mage Synod. As people filed into the room, dressed in various types of formal robes and headdresses, she watched them, wondering who they were and what functions they performed. Some of them were Sky Wardens; the others might have been lawyers, government officials, chroniclers, or simply curious. Attendants separated her, Sal and Skender from the gallery with impassive ease. Faceless black-robed watchers sat on either side of them and on the rows before and behind them. Even when the chamber began to fill and seats were at a premium, no one asked them to move along or to squeeze up. It was almost as though they weren’t even present.
The only one who acknowledged the three of them in any way was Highson Sparre. Sal’s real father took a seat on the far side of the hall, high and behind the central dais. He nodded in their direction, then turned his attention to the centre. Shilly half-felt Sal nod woodenly in reply.
The room was almost full when a deep chime sounded and Master Warden Atilde and members of Sal’s mother’s family filed into the room, led by blue-robed wardens.
“They’re going to an awful lot of trouble,” Shilly said, touching Sal’s hand lightly. She was genuinely surprised that so many people had turned up for a woman no one had seemed to like very much.
“She was an Interior national,” said Sal in reply. “That makes her murder a political incident.”
She nodded understanding. “Are you—?”
A hand came down on her shoulder, and she saw a shadowed hood shake behind her. She got the message, but gave Sal’s hand a squeeze before she let go.
There was a slam as the main doors closed on the hall. Two people she hadn’t seen were Shom Behenna and Tait. She had expected them to be there for sure. No doubt Behenna was wondering about his fate, too, if indeed the Weavers had killed Radi Mierlo despite her doing her best to help them. She hadn’t heard if his disciplinary hearing had reached a conclusion; perhaps he simply hadn’t been allowed to come.
The chime sounded again. The Syndic, in black robes, led Stone Mage Braunack and the five judges appointed by the Conclave into the hall’s central space. The judges wore silver and gold robes that covered every inch of their bodies: not even their hands or eyes showed. There was, therefore, no way to identify who was who. Even their heights were similar.
During the inquest, thought Shilly, they weren’t to be people. They were Justice, faceless and impassive. There would be no appeal to anyone’s human nature, no claim of special treatment.
The Syndic clapped the end of a slender wooden pole to the floor three times. The echoes had barely faded when one last person entered the room. The Alcaide was dressed in a crisp white suit that emphasised the
brilliant red of the burns across his face and scalp. Without acknowledging anyone, the ruler of the Strand walked around the dais once, then sat in the very front row of the audience where a space had been set aside for him. Only when he had seated himself did the judges assume their seats and the inquest begin.
“We are gathered today,” Sal’s great-aunt announced in a firm, loud voice that carried clearly across the heads of those watching, “in the presence of the highest authorities of the Strand, to consider the death of Radi Mierlo, who died last night while under the auspices of the Novitiate. All pertinent evidence will be accepted for examination and a decision regarding cause and responsibility will be made on the basis of that evidence. If anyone has any objection to this process, they must speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
The Syndic waited a long moment, her gaze sweeping the crowd. When no one spoke up, she sat regally in her chair and handed control of the proceedings to someone else.
A blue-robed man with wild, white hair rose from the audience and stepped into the centre. He introduced himself as Warden Timbs and explained that he would be conducting the inquest, introducing witnesses and examining the evidence on behalf of the judges. It was his role to ensure that everyone had their say, and also to weed out anything spurious or nonsensical. He emphasised the need for order several times, pointing out that without strict adherence to procedure the inquest could last a week. He intended to see it finished within the day.
There were no objections, although Shilly did note muttering from the Mierlo contingent. For her own part, she was relieved that it wouldn’t drag on for days. Timbs moved briskly through a brief outline of the circumstances—that Radi Mierlo had been found dead in her room after the alarm had been raised the previous night—before moving on to examine all the issues surrounding her death.
First on the agenda was the exact nature of her death. To discuss this, Timbs called for the testimony of two medical examiners, who both confirmed that Radi Mierlo had died of strangulation. The second expressed an opinion that the murderer must have possessed exceptional strength to inflict such crushing injuries to the woman’s neck. The fact that she had been unable to put up much of a fight further supported this observation.
Satisfied that the cause of death had been established, Timbs moved onto the evidence found at the scene. This included hairs belonging to both victim and murderer, and skin found under the dead woman’s fingernails, suggesting that the murderer had long, grey hair and was of fair complexion. The means of entry was confirmed as the room’s only doorway, which had been broken open with a single blow, again suggesting great strength on the attacker’s behalf. The murderer was assumed to have left the same way.
Timbs called on the medical witnesses to give an approximate time of death. They agreed that Radi Mierlo had died between sunset and midnight the previous day. One went so far as to suggest a more precise time of nine o’clock, give or take an hour. Timbs nodded sagely.
“That,” he said, pacing restlessly across the space before the dais, “concludes the presentation of incontrovertible evidence—that which we can see before us in the present and examine in the cold light of reason. We move on to more speculative evidence, evidence that cannot be studied with a similar rigour, but which can, and often does, lead us closer to the truth. Here we examine witness testimonies, the means and motives of possible suspects, and other matters. I have a number of such to raise. Should I omit any matter that the judges, or those gathered before them, feel must be brought to public attention, please speak out. You will be heard.”
Timbs paused to allow his words time to sink in. Shilly’s stomach had turned over at the mention of witness testimonies. She wasn’t looking forward to lying in front of so many people.
Satisfied that he had made his point, Timbs continued. “Unfortunately, there exist no human witnesses to this terrible crime. There are, however, several avenues open to us. First, I call on Shilly of Gooron and Skender Van Haasteren the Tenth. Please come forward to address the judges.”
Eyes swung toward them across the large chamber. Shilly swallowed as the attendants moved aside to allow them to pass. Sal’s eyes didn’t leave her as she edged by, and she was grateful for the concern she saw in them, but there was no opportunity to respond. She concentrated on every step, swinging her crutch with extra care to ensure she didn’t trip in front of everyone—or trip Skender up. The boy walked woodenly beside her with a terrified expression on his face.
It worried her briefly that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. They had agreed to maintain their story on the grounds that lying wouldn’t change the decision the judges would inevitably come to. Why get themselves needlessly into trouble? But she could understand how easy it would be to be overawed into telling the truth. She was in no doubt that the consequences of being caught lying would be severe.
Warden Timbs bowed when they arrived before him. Close-up, she could see that his skin was severely pockmarked and his eyes were bloodshot. He was also much taller than she had expected. His presence was a powerful one, although she felt no hostility directed towards them.
Not from him, anyway. When she half-turned to look at the crowd, the one pair of eyes she noted were those of the Alcaide, glaring at her beneath his red burns. He sat slumped in his seat, resting his head on one hand as though bored. His stare told a very different story.
She looked hastily away.
“Now, Shilly,” said Timbs, “please repeat your testimony.”
She cleared her throat. “I, uh—I was in my room last night—”
“Please speak loudly so all can hear.”
She nodded and tried again, hating the rush of blood she felt in her neck and cheeks. “I was in my room last night, trying to sleep, when Mawson called me.”
“Mawson is…?”
“The man’kin that travels with Sal’s grand—um, Radi Mierlo.”
Timbs nodded, not encouragingly but in simple confirmation of the fact. “What did the man’kin tell you?”
“It told me to raise the alarm. Its mistress was being attacked.”
“Did it say how, or by whom?”
“No.”
“Did you ask it?”
“I can’t really remember if I did. I might have, I guess.” The question threw her slightly. It wasn’t one she had anticipated. “If I did, he didn’t tell me.”
“So, the man’kin informed you that Radi Mierlo was under attack and asked you to call for help.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do then?”
“I banged on the door of my room. An attendant opened the door. I told her what Mawson had told me, and she went to tell someone else.”
“You were left alone during this time?”
“No. There was another attendant. I waited with him until I was summoned to see Warden Atilde. She told us then what had happened.”
“That was when you found out Radi Mierlo was dead?”
“Yes.”
Timbs nodded again. “I see. Tell me, Shilly, why you think the man’kin contacted you with this information. Why you and no one else?”
“It contacted Skender, too—”
“Why you two, then?” Timbs glanced at the boy beside her, but made it clear he was talking to her exclusively, for the moment. “Why not Master Warden Atilde, or one of Radi Mierlo’s family?”
She feigned a shrug. This she had thought through. “I don’t know for certain, but I can guess. We made friends with Mawson during the trip here. He knew us and could picture us. If you’re going to contact someone through the Change, you need to visualise them first.”
Timbs waved her explanation aside. “That doesn’t explain why he chose you over others he might have met or known—like Sal, or other members of Radi Mierlo’s family. Was this sort of communication usual between you and the man’kin? Has it taken you into some sort
of confidence?”
Shilly thought carefully to answer the warden’s questions in the right order. “I can’t speak for Mawson, but I presume he had his reasons for calling us. Perhaps he couldn’t rouse Sal from sleep, or couldn’t reach the rest of the Mierlos because they were further away. Mawson doesn’t usually call us like this. We have to approach him before he’ll talk, and even then he doesn’t normally offer information off his own bat. I presume he only called us because the situation was an emergency. We were the closest people he knew who could raise the alarm. He used us because there was no one else, not because he regards us as being in any way special.”
Timbs seemed to accept that explanation readily enough, and Shilly began to hope that he had almost finished with her.
“Did you question the man’kin’s words at all?”
The question threw her. “What do you mean?”
“By your testimony, you accepted Mawson’s communication at face value, even though such information is not normally offered. You didn’t stop to ask yourself if Mawson was mistaken or lying. You didn’t ask who the murderer was—or don’t remember if you did. You simply did as instructed and called for help. Why is that?”
Flustered, she looked from Timbs to the Syndic and the Stone Mages watching her interrogation from a slightly higher elevation. Impassive, they looked down on her without any sign of recognition.
“I did as Mawson told me because I had to,” she said. “If he was right and Sal’s grandmother was being attacked, it would have been criminal not to try to help. Don’t you think?”
“It is not my thoughts that are under examination,” Timbs told her. “Thank you, Shilly. Your testimony is most valuable.”
He turned to Skender, and she stepped back flushing furiously. What was he trying to suggest? That she and Mawson were in league somehow? Or that she was hiding something?
That the latter was perfectly true didn’t make any difference to the sense of outrage that filled her. They had no right to put her through this—or Skender. As the boy beside her stammered through his answers to the same questions, she felt herself fill up with a cold fury directed at Timbs and the entire judicial process. They had been trying to help when they could quite easily have left Radi Mierlo to grow cold until morning. That they were trying to protect themselves at the same time was only natural, and not a crime.
The Storm Weaver & the Sand (Books of the Change) Page 17