The Castle rose high and seemed larger than was possible, since at its base it continued into the rock of the cliff. It was hard to tell where the Castle ended. Some parts of it were ancient beyond measure, older even than Piping. Originally, it was a village carved into the rock itself – networks of tunnels, tombs and homes that lay within the cliff. As the Castle grew, it grew down as well as up.
The oldest and deepest of those tunnels formed the dungeons where Patch would soon find himself. He thought of them, and shivered.
They reached the Castle gates, passing under the massive double archways and through the courtyard market, which was busy despite the rain. They dismounted at the vast central Keep, and Virtus Stone led them through the iron-clad Keep gate, into a dim stone entrance hall.
There were two sets of steps ahead. One set was plain stone, leading downwards. The other led up, and was far grander: the steps were marble, and the walls beside it were carved with images from the history of Piping.
The first carving showed the earliest days when Pipers knew only the simplest Songs. They were more like monks or knights back then, and travelled the world bringing help where they could, for no reward but food and shelter. A simple life, based on a proud code of honour – an ideal which was reborn much later, when the Custodian Elite were founded.
The next few carvings showed the discovery of new Songs and new skills, as the Piper’s Art was refined over centuries.
A great and glorious history, Patch thought, was carved into those walls.
And then he saw a carving that depicted a battle: army facing army, but only one side had Pipers in their ranks. It took Patch a moment to realize which battle was being represented, and when he did he sighed with sorrow.
The Pipers in that battle had been paid to fight. The opposing army was being slaughtered.
The history of Piping was not always great or glorious, thought Patch.
Stone stopped walking and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. He followed Patch’s eyeline to the carving. “Ah,” he said. “The Battle of Dornley Flats. I see you disapprove.”
“Of course I do,” said Patch. “Before then, Pipers could only fight for causes that were just, not for money.”
“Pipers didn’t invent war, boy,” said Stone. “The many nations of these lands have always quarrelled with each other. Sometimes those quarrels grow. Sometimes they become wars. If Pipers have skills that are useful to an army, shouldn’t they be able to profit from them?”
Patch didn’t answer.
“Besides,” said Stone, “no ruler – no king, queen, baron or overlord – wants the Pipers’ Council as an enemy, for without the Council’s approval they could hire no decent Pipers to help in their battles. They’d be forced to use outcast Pipers, poorly skilled, poorly trained! Their forces would be at a severe disadvantage. That fact keeps the Pipers’ Council safe, and all Pipers too, something you’d be wise to remember.”
“Maybe,” said Patch. It might have been the truth, but it left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Up past those carvings lies the Chamber of the Council,” said Stone. “That’s where you would have graduated if you’d proved your worth. Think how different your life could have been! As it is, your trial tomorrow could be the last time you ascend those stairs.” He shook his head with a sigh and raised his arm, pointing ominously to the other steps. “We go that way.”
Stone led them down the spiralling steps, followed by Patch, with Erner at the rear. It got darker as they descended, and a horrible stench rose from below.
They came to a locked gate. Stone knocked, and a burly man opened it.
“Prisoner for trial –” said Stone – “by the name of Patch Brightwater.” He turned to Erner. “Accompany him to the holding cell,” he said. “I’ll inform the Council of our success.”
“Come on through,” said the burly man. He closed the gate once Patch and Erner were inside. “My name’s Furnel, lad,” he said to Patch. “This way.”
Furnel led them to a dank corridor lit by oil lamps. Patch saw a row of small cells, with one door open. Furnel pointed to the door, and Patch went inside. There was just enough space to lie down, and a sickly light came through the bars in the door. On the cold floor was some straw, and a rough blanket that at first touch felt like it might give him splinters. The door was shut behind him and he could hear Furnel and Erner walking away.
Wren came out of his pocket and ran up to his shoulder. Horrible place, she signed, anxious.
Patch nodded. Five years, he thought. Five years in a cell that would probably be even worse than this. And that was if he was lucky enough to have his sentence reduced.
A few minutes later, Erner opened the door and handed him a bundle of clothes. “The jailor insisted you change into these,” he said. “Prison clothing must be worn by the accused at a trial.”
Patch took them. Rough cloth trousers, rough cloth shirt.
“You can keep your boots,” said Erner.
“What about my coat?” said Patch.
Erner shook his head. “I’ll look after it until your release.”
Patch set Wren on the floor and changed, then handed Erner his clothes and coat. “There’s one other thing I want you to look after,” he said. He turned to Wren, whose eyes widened.
What are you talking about? she signed.
“I’ll take good care of her,” said Erner. “You have my word.”
No chance! signed Wren. I’m staying with Patch! Someone has to lift his spirits!
“You can’t stay with me, Wren,” said Patch. “The dungeons are no place for you.” She folded her arms and avoided eye contact. “Please, Wren. Erner will find the help you need. I’ll make it through. In five years, I’ll be out. And you can bring me that reward!” When he said it like that, it almost sounded possible.
Wren looked to Patch, then to Erner, and back again. Her shoulders sagged, and her head dropped. She nodded. I’ll miss you, she signed.
Erner was carrying a satchel, and he kneeled down and opened the flap. “There’s room in here,” he said.
“Keep out of sight,” said Patch. “People have a thing about rats. Safest to stay hidden!”
Wren hopped inside, with one last sad look at Patch. She waved, and Patch waved in return. “Look after yourself, Wren,” he said. Erner closed the door, and Patch listened as his friend’s footsteps faded.
He was alone.
After a long restless night, Patch was awoken with a bowl of hot stew.
“Is it morning?” he asked the jailer – Furnel, the same burly man who’d been on duty the night before. Given that no natural light seemed to reach his cell, he had no way to tell if it was daytime.
“It is,” said Furnel. “Your trial begins in an hour.”
Patch ate the food, his last meal before perhaps ten years of confinement, or five if he was lucky. When he finished, Furnel manacled himself and Patch together.
“I know you’re not thinking of escape now, lad,” said Furnel. “But things change when the sentence gets passed and the reality of it hits home. Trust me.”
He led Patch up the central steps of the Keep until they reached the ornate door to the Council chamber. Furnel knocked, and the doors swung wide to a cacophony of voices.
The chamber was full.
Around the walls, rising rows of seats made it feel like a theatre.
Rundel Stone sat in a chair at one side, and Patch was led to a stool in the middle of the chamber. He sat and looked around the room quickly, trying to find Erner – and there he was, three rows up on the left, satchel in hand. Patch thought he could see a tiny nose peeking out from the bag.
He would be judged by members of the Piper’s Council, usually two of them. A door in the far wall opened, and his judges started to come into the chamber. He watched, anxious to see who was going to rule over his fate.
He stared as all five members of the Council came in and sat at the judges’ bench.
Lord Drevis entered
first, followed by Lord Pewter, Lady Winkless, Lord Cobb and Lady Rumsey.
All of them would preside over his case. They wore ceremonial robes, fold after fold of garments stitched with gold, silver and brilliant indigo.
Patch turned to Furnel. “Isn’t it supposed to be just two judges?”
“For something this infamous?” said Furnel.
Patch gave him a wary look. “Infamous?”
“Aye, lad. You were big news for a time, when the rumours started about a rogue Piper. People were scared! They thought the Hamelyn Piper himself might have escaped! I’m not surprised the whole of the Council is here. And look at the size of the crowd!”
The clap of a gavel sounded from the judges’ bench, and the chatter of the audience began to settle. The gavel was in the hand of Lord Drevis, the head of the Piper’s Council. Drevis, like Stone, was one of the legendary Eight. Indeed, he had led them in their successful capture of the Hamelyn Piper, and as a result was probably the most famous Piper in the world. Another two claps of the gavel, and silence was finally achieved.
“The Court of the Council is gathered,” said Drevis. “Accuser, state your case.”
Rundel Stone stood from his seat. “This prisoner before you is Patch Brightwater.”
“Prisoner shall stand!” called Drevis, and Patch stood, chain rattling.
“Thirteen years of age, Brightwater trained in this Castle,” said Stone. “Last midsummer, his own failings led him to abscond after bringing shame on himself. He left the Castle, abandoning his training.” The audience murmured darkly. “As the Council is aware, rumours began of a rogue Piper, playing the Dance throughout the land. A Piper able to change form!” The murmurs grew. “It transpires that Brightwater was at the root of the affair. However, the rumours of shape-changing were misplaced. He merely played the Dance in secret at various inns and taverns, to extract moneys and favours!” Stone addressed his next words to the audience, and spoke them with some relish. “His actions brought disrepute to the pure and glorious Art of Piping!”
The audience booed.
“The evidence?” said Lord Pewter.
Stone held up the two halves of Patch’s broken Pipe. “The history of his crimes lies within the Pipe he used, one he had clearly crafted himself.”
Lord Pewter gestured for Stone to bring the pieces to the bench. He took the broken Pipe and examined it carefully, then passed it to his colleagues. “A very traditional Pipe, but easy to get wrong,” said Pewter. “I’m pleased to see how well you learned your carving, Patch Brightwater.”
“Uh, thanks, Lord Pewter,” said Patch. “It was cured over a hawthorn fire. Makes all the difference.”
Stone glared at him. “The prisoner is to remain silent!”
“Come, come, Rundel,” said Pewter. “I addressed him directly, his comment was allowed.” He turned to Patch. “Think carefully, now, Patch Brightwater. Do you confess to your crime? Did you Pipe the Dance as the Virtus claims?”
There seemed little point denying anything. “I did,” said Patch. A gasp came from the audience. “But it was not through greed, Lord. It wasn’t riches I sought, only food and a bed to sleep in.”
The Council turned to one another and entered muffled discussions. Finally, Drevis clapped the gavel and spoke. “Patch Brightwater, you have confessed your guilt. We must now consider the case for leniency. You have misused Piping, but I know your tutors thought well of you, and that previously you had shown yourself to be honest and of good nature – although not always of good judgement. Now, as you have done before, you have gone astray and chosen poorly.” He looked to his colleagues. “We are all agreed?” They nodded. “This crime demands ten years in the dungeons of Tiviscan. The mercy of the Court allows us to reduce this to five years.”
The audience murmured, nodding their heads. Erner gave him an encouraging glance. Patch looked to Erner’s bag and could just about make out a thumbs up from a certain small paw.
Then a voice spoke: “Wait.”
It was Rundel Stone.
“Yes, Virtus?” said Lord Drevis.
Stone got up from his chair and strode to the centre of the chamber. “I agree with your assessment of the prisoner. To my mind, he is indeed a fool more than a villain.” Sniggers came from the audience. “However, there is one matter that I strongly disagree with.”
“Go on,” said Drevis, his eyes narrowing.
“This is a serious offence,” said Stone. “When the Hamelyn Piper was imprisoned, the Dance was forbidden at once. In all these years, nobody has broken that law. Until now. Yet you wish to give the perpetrator a slap on the wrist?”
“Look at him, Rundel,” said Lady Winkless. “There’s no evil in the lad. Five years in the dungeons is already a severe punishment.”
Stone shook his head, and when he spoke again there was a hint of anger in his voice. “You look at Brightwater, and see a boy who came here to study, a boy who then strayed from the path. I see danger. Here was a boy willing to play the Dance and ignore the law. Time has passed since Hamelyn, and people are starting to forget the horror of it. That cannot be allowed!” He looked around the chamber, the audience utterly silent. Yet, Patch noticed, Stone didn’t look at him. “There has been fear since these rumours of a Dark Piper emerged, but before that, something curious had happened to the story of the Hamelyn Piper. On my search for Brightwater, for example, I saw an inn called The Piper and the Rats. The inn’s sign showed a jolly scene, but it was the Hamelyn Piper that was depicted! Smiling! Benevolent!” His hand formed a fist as he spoke. “I spoke with some who even thought he might have been a hero. Who said the children had been taken to a wondrous place, to live happy lives. Who said that the people of Hamelyn must have done something to provoke him, or had treated their own children so terribly that the Hamelyn Piper needed to rescue them!” He paused, his anger seeming to overwhelm him for a moment. “How can that be? How can we have forgotten?” He looked around the chamber. Most would not meet his gaze. “The notion that the Hamelyn Piper was not evil cannot be allowed to stand,” he said. “And so we cannot be lenient now. We cannot show pity. We must reassert the seriousness of what occurred in Hamelyn ten years ago. Brightwater’s crimes must be treated with grim brutality. As such, I invoke the rule of multiple infractions!”
The Council all looked at Stone with stunned expressions, as the audience broke into uproar.
Patch bent down slightly to Furnel. “What does that mean?” he whispered.
“I think you’d best sit down, lad,” said Furnel. “This ain’t going to be pleasant.”
Patch stayed standing.
“It’s your right to insist, Virtus,” said Lord Drevis, sounding almost dazed. He turned to the other Council members to discuss the matter, as the din from the audience continued.
At last, Lord Drevis clapped the gavel and the commotion in the chamber settled. “It is with sorrow that we must accept your request, Rundel,” he said. “Patch Brightwater, your sentence will still be treated with leniency and reduced by half. However, the basic sentence is now ten years for each time you broke the law and performed the Dance.” He looked to Rundel Stone. “In studying the broken Pipe, how many times did you assess?”
“One hundred and two,” said Stone.
There was total silence in the chamber now. The faces of the Council paled, as the implications became clear to all.
“We will take it on ourselves to verify the figure, Rundel,” said Drevis.
“Naturally,” replied the Virtus.
“Patch Brightwater,” said Drevis. “The sentence is ten years for each of the one hundred and two occurrences of your crime. You are hereby sentenced to one thousand and twenty years in the dungeons of Tiviscan, reduced to five hundred and ten by the clemency of the Council. Jailer, take him down.” He clapped his gavel, looking somewhat ill.
The audience began its din once again. “God have mercy on you,” shouted someone, “because Rundel Stone certainly won’t!”
&nb
sp; Patch fell back onto his stool, unable to take in what had just happened. He looked up to where Erner sat and could see him struggle with his bag as Wren tried to escape. “No!” Patch shouted at Wren. “Please! Don’t!”
Someone from the audience laughed: “Beggin’ won’t help you!”
Patch kept his gaze on the bag. He saw Wren’s paws, briefly. She signed something to him, then hid back inside.
Furnel dragged him out of the chamber and led him back down the steps, and through the dungeon gate once more, but instead of heading back to where he’d spent the night, Patch was taken to another spiralling staircase.
Down they went into the gloom below, passing level after level, and Patch thought, How deep will I be put?
Furnel took him down a long dank passage, one that reeked of decay and was lined with cell doors. As they passed each door, shouts started up from behind: “Who d’ya have? Eh? Who’ve ya brought us?”
Furnel stopped at the last door in the corridor. There was a folded blanket on the floor, and Furnel picked it up and gave it to Patch. The burly jailer was subdued, and could hardly make eye contact. “It’s not often I feel sorrow when I bring a prisoner down,” he said, shaking his head. “This cell is the best I can do for ye, lad, given your sentence. Deep, sure enough, and at the very edge of the Dark. But it’s by the outside wall of the Castle – so you have a window, such as it is.” He unlocked the door and swung it open.
Patch stared. The door was several feet thick, as were the walls of his cell. He looked inside and saw that the cell was larger than he’d expected, perhaps five strides across. The “window” was an open hole barely the size of his hand, allowing a narrow band of light in from outside. The depth of the window showed that the outer wall was at least six feet thick, even thicker than the cell door. A bundle of rags was in one dark corner.
The stench in the cell was appalling.
“Your toilet is there,” said Furnel, pointing to a hole in the floor. “You get food and water most days. There’s your bowl and water jug.” He pointed to a clay bowl and jug over by the rags. “Food and water tubes come in those holes by the door, see? Be sure you’re ready to catch ’em.” Patch noted small holes in the wall, and a mound of decayed food on the floor underneath. No wonder the smell was so bad.
A Darkness of Dragons Page 5