But if the golem had killed Radi Mierlo out of nothing more than pure maliciousness while getting Lodo’s body out of custody…
Her rage broke on that particular fact. Like a wave whose energy had been spent, she felt her anger ebb and wash through her, leaving her exhausted and confused. Perhaps they should have told the truth, after all. What if their lie allowed the golem to escape, and someone else died?
Distracted by her thoughts, her gaze wandered across the crowd listening intently to Skender’s testimony. Once again, she was caught by the stare of the Alcaide. He was watching her again and smiling faintly, as though enjoying her confusion.
As Skender followed Shilly back to their seats, he felt the lie settle down over the memories like a shroud, hiding the awful truth from view. He hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen Radi Mierlo die. The effect would only be temporary, he was certain, but he would take what relief he could from it.
He could sense Shilly’s relief, too, that he had stuck to the story. That buoyed him slightly. They had to stick together to get through this. There was no one else on whom he could rely. He didn’t suppose for a moment that she would understand what was going on in his mind, but the knowledge that she would try to help him if he needed her was a comfort.
Now that his moment in the spotlight had passed, he could pay more attention to the proceedings. The next witness called was Mawson, who was carried into the room by Sal’s enormous cousin, Aron. The blond-haired teenager put the stone bust heavily down on a plinth provided for it, then backed shyly away.
“Are you the man’kin known as Mawson?” Warden Timbs asked.
Mawson turned to look at the man questioning him, the jerky nature of his movement leaving no doubt that his nature was far from human. He held Timbs in his gaze for a long moment, then turned away, silent.
“You must answer my question.” Timbs tried again. “Are you the man’kin known as Mawson?”
“I do not have to speak to you.” The man’kin’s grating voice cut through the still air. “I am not bound by your laws.”
“You are bound to serve the Mierlo family,” Timbs said. “Radi Mierlo is dead. Don’t you want to see her murderer found?”
“She was of no consequence to me.”
“She was your mistress.”
“I served her unwillingly.”
“Yet still you served her, and will continue to serve her heirs. They are your masters now. If they order you to speak, you must do so.”
Sal’s thickset, moustached uncle, Ranan, rose to his feet, clearly intending to do just as Timbs had indicated.
Before Ranan could speak, Mawson fixed him with a contemptuous glare and said, “I serve the family, this is true. But I retain the right to choose one person from the family to act as my master.”
“This, I presume, is the capacity in which Radi Mierlo acted,” said Timbs, frowning.
“Yes.”
“Who do you choose as your master now?”
“I choose Sal Hrvati.”
Skender had seen it coming, but gasps of shock from the Mierlo clan indicated that they had not. Heads turned to look at Sal, who stared uncomfortably back at them, mouth open in shock.
Timbs gestured that Sal should stand up. Skender could sympathise with how it felt as his friend came under the combined scrutiny of all those in the room.
“Were you aware of this, Sal?” asked Timbs.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Mastery over a man’kin is a rare gift—rarer than the Change itself, I dare say. Do you accept this responsibility?”
Sal hesitated momentarily, then said, “Yes. I do.”
“Very well. Will you tell Mawson to address this inquiry in the proper manner?”
Skender shifted his attention to the man’kin as Sal addressed him as master for the first time.
“Mawson, will you tell them what you saw when my grandmother died?”
“I have already told them.”
“They’d like to hear it again.”
“They should have listened properly the first time.”
“I haven’t heard it, Mawson. Will you tell me?”
The bust’s noble brow inclined in a nod. “I was alone in the room when a man broke in and strangled your grandmother.”
“Did you know the man who committed the crime?” asked Timbs.
Mawson sat in stubborn silence until Sal repeated the question.
“No. I had not previously met the murderer.”
“You described him in enough detail for an artist to draw a sketch. Would you confirm the accuracy of this sketch for us now?”
“If I must.”
An attendant brought in a picture drawn in charcoal on white paper. He held it up in front of Mawson, who confirmed that this was the person he had seen in the room, then he displayed it for the judges and the audience to view. It depicted a hollow-cheeked, wild-haired man with tattoos and bushy eyebrows.
Beside him, Shilly drew in a quick breath and looked away. Skender felt his guts go to water. It was the face of the old man she had known as Lodo, the man who had killed a defenceless old woman right in front of him.
You can’t escape me, Galeus Van Haasteren.
Skender’s right leg twitched as the lie was swept aside and the truth rolled back in. He clutched his errant thigh with both hands and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. It didn’t work. He still saw the gleam in those murderous eyes, the spittle on those thin lips. Closing his eyes didn’t help; the face was waiting for him there, in all the colours of life, not just charcoal. In desperation, to distract himself, he studied the wood panelling on the back of the curved pew in front of him and tried to remember all the useless details he had been taught by Fairney and the Novitiate lecturers. What was the precise acidity of a sea bass? How many stages were there in the life cycle of a brown-worm? Delicate whorls and geometric patterns that didn’t seem so much carved as grown teased his eye as his brain found solace in routine recollections.
He dimly heard Mawson being interrogated about why he had asked for help. This was a crucial part of the interrogation, since Mawson could easily undo the lies Skender and Shilly had told. Sal, though, was aware of that fact, and able to twist Timbs’ question so that Mawson didn’t have to answer it directly.
“What prompted you, given that you had so little regard for your mistress’s life, to call the children for help?”
“I didn’t call for help.”
“Why did you want someone there, then?” Sal asked.
“It was important that someone saw,” said the man’kin, and Skender looked up, realising that it was him Mawson was talking about.
Stay. You must see. It will change the path of your life.
“Saw what?” asked Warden Timbs.
“Aesthetics,” was the man’kin’s answer, and he would be drawn no further on the matter.
Skender physically relaxed as both the sketch and Mawson were taken away. There followed a series of witnesses testifying not to the crime itself but to the facts surrounding it. A guard described how one of his patients had overpowered him during lockdown and escaped from the care ward known as the Privity. A specialist in mental conditions defined Lodo’s state as empty-minded, and provided detailed descriptions of the elderly man’s failing health. Shilly’s eyes swam during the healer’s testimony. Without a sudden return of the patient’s full mental capacity, it was doubtful that the body would survive more than a week or two unassisted. When asked if it had been Lodo himself who performed the crime, as opposed to some other controlling intelligence, the healer was reluctant to commit himself. Without a direct examination, it was impossible to tell.
One of the black-robed Novitiate attendants came forward to testify to the degree of security surrounding Radi Mierlo’s accommodation. With his hood back, he was revealed as a broad-fac
ed man with steely-grey hair. His voice and attitude were firm and unrelenting as he assured the judges that all due precautions had been taken to protect those within the Novitiate walls.
“We are dedicated to the care of all those who fall under our charge, for they are the future of the Strand. Our standards are as high for those visitors who stay within our walls.” His gaze sought and found those of Skender, Sal and Shilly. “No matter who they are or where they come from, they are our responsibility, and we do not lightly let them down.”
Skender believed him. The fact that the golem, in Lodo’s body, had got in and out of the Novitiate without being seen wasn’t the fault of the attendants. He had no doubt that there were numerous ways of gaining admittance—old tunnels and other such simple means as Skender himself used to get around unobserved. Who could tell what the golem had learned down the centuries?
Other witnesses were called to corroborate earlier statements, but there was no talk of motive, Skender noted. When Warden Timbs called for final statements from the audience, Sal’s uncle Ranan stood to address the judges.
“My mother was a determined woman,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Those who crossed her path learned quickly that getting in her way was inadvisable. Her goals were clearly defined. She strove to attain them for our benefit, the benefit of her clan, and she ended her life still striving. Her legacy is that determination, which we will all try to emulate. Whether she succeeded or not is irrelevant. The attempt is all.”
Ranan folded his arms in front of him before continuing, as though physically holding back grief.
“The name Radi Mierlo struck fear in the hearts of many. She had enemies, both here and at home. She didn’t let causing offence come between her and her aims. She once told me that she fought with words where others might use knives or poison—and she wasn’t one to back down from a fight. If there was a way for her to return from death to help us, she would do it without hesitating. She would readily sacrifice herself for our benefit, given half the chance.
“That she was not given the chance is the greatest tragedy for me and those who love her. She died alone and undefended, at the hands of a man who should have been incarcerated in the Haunted City’s deepest, darkest cell. A necromancer, a renegade, a man who knowingly abetted the kidnapper of one of our own. That this man was allowed to commit such a terrible act is the true crime here. Who will pay for this? Who will compensate us for our loss? There is no possible compensation, and we sit here endlessly turning over the details of a grisly death that has no bearing on the life that preceded it.
“There is no mystery. The only matter remaining is to see justice done. I request that this be accomplished speedily, with no further obfuscation, before another of my clan falls at the hands of this maniac.”
Sal’s uncle sat back down in his seat, fairly vibrating with restrained energy. Skender didn’t know if he had meant everything he’d said, but it had certainly had an effect on Sal and Shilly. Lodo’s depiction as a man who deserved to be locked up had set both their lips in lines. They stared furiously ahead as Warden Timbs wrapped up the proceedings.
There would be a break while the judges deliberated. The Alcaide led the procession from the room. When the dais was empty, the doors to the hall opened and the audience was allowed out.
“What do you think?” asked Shilly as their attendants led them to their private chamber. There was food: small pastries containing vegetables and minced meat, accompanied by a fruity dipping sauce.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Sal. “It’s all happening too fast.”
Skender agreed. So much had happened in the previous twenty-four hours; with ghosts and golems and murderers and Weavers all vying for their attention, he felt a strong urge to not think at all. He concentrated instead on the texture of the food in his mouth, the taste on his tongue. I will remember this, he told himself. This will be my anchor, for now.
Under the watchful eyes of the attendants, conversation went no further. When the time came to return to the inquest, they did so obediently enough. It didn’t seem to Skender as though the judges had deliberated for terribly long. Whether that was a good sign, he didn’t know. He was willing to hope on Shilly’s behalf that it might be.
As before, the Syndic and Stone Mage Braunack filed in first, followed by the five faceless judges in their silver and gold robes. This time, though, the judges did not sit down when they had assumed their positions. They stood as the Alcaide came out last of all and took the same seat as before. Warden Timbs stood silently to one side. His role was over.
The Syndic struck the floor three times with her wooden pole then spoke to the assemblage before her.
“The evidence has been presented to you all, and the examination of this sad affair is complete.” She turned to face the Stone Mage beside her. “Are there any doubts as to the process conducted here today?”
“I have none,” said Mage Braunack.
“All that remains, then, is to cast judgment.” The Syndic swivelled to address the judges behind her. “What say you? How does the Strand decide in this matter?”
It was difficult to tell which judge spoke. Skender thought it might have been the one in the middle, although it could have been any of them. Her voice wasn’t muffled as she replied to the Syndic’s question.
“In the absence of evidence to the contrary, we find Payat Misseri guilty of the premeditated murder of Radi Mierlo. There are no contributing factors.”
Skender glanced at Shilly. She shook her head. There was nothing else she could do.
“Very well.” The Syndic turned once again to face the audience. “The judgment of the Strand has been heard. Unless or until evidence to the contrary is presented, that is the way the ruling will stand. We offer our sympathies to the family, and our assurance that every effort to apprehend the guilty party will be undertaken. The deceased’s body will be made available for disposal upon application.”
She bowed to the Alcaide, who rose to his feet and left the hall as silently as he had sat watching. The audience began to murmur as the judges filed out.
“That’s it?” said Shilly as the attendants urged them into the aisle. “Lodo gets the blame?”
“I don’t think you’re the only one who’s disappointed,” said Sal, indicating the Mierlos. His uncle was deep in angry conversation with his aunt. Skender assumed that the Mierlos had hoped to heap some of the blame on the Novitiate and perhaps gain some “compensation” into the bargain.
“What do you think they’ll do now?” asked Shilly.
“I don’t know. Leave, I guess.” Sal turned to Skender. “Hey, Skender, there’s a thought. They’ll probably hitch a ride when Beli takes you back home.”
Skender pulled a face. “Lucky me.”
Before anything more could be said, Warden Timbs hurried up the aisle to intercept them, a roll of papers clutched in one hand. “Sal,” he gasped, red in the face from the exertion. “Wait! I need to talk to you about Mawson.”
Sal stopped in the aisle to speak with the warden. “What about Mawson?”
“Well, he’s your responsibility now. We’ve been keeping him since your grandmother’s death. What would you like us to do with him?”
Sal looked momentarily flustered, and Skender could imagine why. The idea of having a pet man’kin was more satisfying than the reality having to work out how to lug a hundred-kilogram slab of stone around.
“I suppose he could stay in my room,” Sal said. “Is that possible?”
“It can easily be arranged.”
Timbs bowed and went to hurry off, but not before Shilly grabbed the sleeve of his robe and hauled him back.
“What happens if Lodo is caught? No one talked about that.”
Timbs looked around nervously. “That’s not for the inquest to decide.”
“Whose decision is it, then?”
“The Alcaide’s, of course. He will pronounce sentence when it happens.”
Shilly let him go and he scurried off. “He’s never going to be free,” she said angrily. “If they catch him, he’ll rot in a prison somewhere, and I’ll never get him out of here.”
Sal put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s the least of his worries, I think.”
Shilly’s expression changed to one of intense weariness. She nodded and let the attendants guide them away. Skender trailed in silence, wondering how it would feel to have someone close to him in so much trouble. His father, for instance, although it was hard to imagine Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth possessed by a golem, hunted by Sky Wardens, and on the verge of death. The healer had said that Lodo’s body probably wouldn’t survive more than a week or two unassisted. If Lodo were to die soon, then any sentence the Alcaide gave him would be purely academic.
Skender could only be glad that it wasn’t his father who was in that position. It was Lodo. And although he knew it was wrong, Skender couldn’t find the strength in himself to be sad that he might never see that face again.
Chapter 10. Shades of Liberty
The inquest had taken most of the day, so they were let off joining Fairney’s tutorial group late that afternoon. Sal was beginning to wonder what the point was of them even pretending to study when they kept missing so many lessons and tutorials, but there was no escaping their evening homework session with Tom and Kemp. Master Warden Atilde had made it quite clear that the attempt to give them a normal education would continue irrespective of what went on in the world around them. The only concession she made to circumstances was to allow them to study in Sal’s room, so someone could be there when Mawson arrived.
The Storm Weaver & the Sand (Books of the Change) Page 18