There was a polite cough from the doorway behind them. Fletcher froze, the hairs on his neck standing on end. If it was a guard, their conversation was enough to have Uhtred executed for treason right alongside them. He powered up his telekinesis finger, keeping his back to the door. One blast would be quick and dirty enough to incapacitate whoever it was.
‘Come now, Fletcher. If you attacked me now, you really would be committing treason. Unfortunately for you, a young battlemage would have little chance against a king.’
Fletcher spun to see King Harold, leaning against the door. His eyebrows were creased in consternation but there was a glimmer in his eye that Fletcher couldn’t place.
‘I’m sorry about what happened in there. If I could have prevented it, I would have. If you let me explain, you will understand,’ Harold said.
‘Please do,’ Fletcher replied, struggling to keep his tone civil. The monarch’s authority barely deserved his respect, if beneath that authority such actions could go unchallenged, let alone unpunished.
‘There can be no explanation for your indifference,’ Uhtred said, standing up and limping past Harold.
‘Uhtred …’ Harold began.
‘You can speak to me tomorrow, after the trial is over. I’d like to hear your explanation, with the death of these innocent boys on your conscience,’ Uhtred growled, slamming the door behind him.
There was an awkward silence in the room, as Harold stared after the dwarf. Finally, the king sighed deeply and pulled up a chair beside Fletcher. He removed the circlet from the cap of golden curls on his head and put it on the table, before rubbing his temples.
‘I am going to tell you a story, Fletcher. A story that you may have heard some, but not all, of,’ Harold said, his eyes closed. He spoke in a low voice, as if wary of being overheard.
‘When I was but a boy, Hominum was in trouble. My father had raised taxes so high that the poor could barely feed themselves and even the nobility had to tighten their purse strings. He spent the money on frivolous things – great feasts, statues, paintings – he even built a sumptuous palace in the centre of Corcillum. The people were unhappy, the nobles even more so. It was not a question of if a revolt would happen, but when. So, he abdicated his throne to me, just as I graduated from Vocans. Taxes were cut, the common folk had a new king and peace was restored once more.’
Fletcher was vaguely aware of the tale, but he did not understand how this had anything to do with the trial.
‘You see, I am king in name alone. My father holds all the power. He controls the laws through the Judges and manages the army and nobility through the Inquisition. He can put down any troublemakers via the Pinkertons. When he gave me the throne, he believed I would do as I was told: and he had those three branches of government in place in case I did not. It was a publicity stunt, nothing more.’
Fletcher was stunned. In that instant, the king had diminished somehow. His presence weighed less heavily on the room.
Harold opened his eyes and gave Fletcher a level look.
‘My father is a bigot, a racist and a sadist. Yet, I … I grew up among tutors and scholars and was raised by my dwarven nannies.’
Fletcher had heard the stories about old King Alfric and the anti-dwarven laws that had existed during his rule. But to hear his own son speak of him in that way was shocking … the old king must be a real monster.
As Harold wrung his hands, Fletcher couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Why would the king tell him all this? He had no desire to be a pawn in someone else’s game.
‘I even spent a great deal of time with the elves on diplomatic missions, back when we were at peace,’ the king continued. ‘I am nothing like that man, though we share the same blood. Sometimes, I wonder if my mother’s death is what made him so hateful …’ Harold’s voice trailed off, and they sat in silence for a while longer.
‘I feel for you, truly. But I find it difficult to believe. What about the agreement with the dwarves, and the peace with the elves? What about the war? They say those were all your policies,’ Fletcher asked, unable to hold himself back.
‘The king’s council. It was my way of clawing back some power. I tricked my father into creating it, telling him the council would help deal with the boring, administrative tasks involved in running Hominum.’ Harold chuckled to himself and rapped his knuckles on the table.
‘A voting system was introduced, one that my father, Alfric, believed he could control, given his friendship with most of the council. But I had my own allies. As their parents died from old age and from protecting their borders, my younger friends inherited their positions. I managed to push through these new laws using that conduit. That was why last year’s Tournament was so important – it was my father’s idea to offer a council seat as a prize. If one of Zacharias Forsyth’s children had won, the balance of power would have swung in my father’s favour, for the Favershams and Forsyths remain on his side. I owe you thanks for preventing that.’
‘What does this have to do with Othello and our trial?’ Fletcher asked.
‘My father still believes I am as hateful as he and his friends are, that the laws I have introduced are for reasons of practicality, not morality, even if he disagrees with them. If he knew the extent to which I am against him … he would start a civil war and take power once again. I am trying to hold Hominum together, and the safety of its people balances precariously. We are barely holding off the orcs as it is. If there were civil war between my father and me, or if the dwarves were to rebel, or the elves to decide to invade, our armies would fall and the orcs would rampage across the Empire, slaughtering everyone in their path.’
‘So you can’t get involved in our trial, because your father would get suspicious if you did. You can’t give us a pardon?’
‘I can only give pardons to the nobility, but yes, even if it were possible, I could not, not without a good reason,’ Harold replied. ‘But, I am not here just to explain my actions. I have to tell you what will happen if Othello is executed tomorrow. The generals, nobility and common soldiers would be told a dwarven officer had been found guilty of murdering five men and committing treason. The dwarven recruits would find out that an innocent dwarf, the son of the great Uhtred Thorsager himself, has been executed for defending himself against a group of racist soldiers. Can you imagine what would happen?’
‘There … there would be riots … the humans and dwarves would murder each other,’ Fletcher gasped, horrified. He had been so concerned for himself and for Othello, he had not realised the wider ramifications of the trial.
‘The dwarves would be slaughtered, but not without first putting up a fight that would cripple our army,’ Harold said grimly. ‘The elves might end their alliance, after seeing what we did to the dwarves. And all the while, the albino orc would be gathering his forces, ready to send his hordes at our beleaguered and distracted army. All this, from one dwarven death. Yet all the Triumvirate can think of is their damned weapons business and getting their revenge on you. All my father cares about is putting the dwarves and elves in their place. I’m damned if I help you and damned if I don’t. It’s civil war with my father or a dwarven rebellion.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Fletcher asked desperately, grabbing Harold’s hand.
The king looked sadly at Fletcher, and grasped him like a drowning man.
‘There is nothing I can do. But there is something you can do.’ His eyes bore into Fletcher’s, burning with hope.
‘I’ll do anything. I’m a dead man anyway,’ Fletcher said. It felt good, to have a purpose, a plan of any kind. For a moment, he allowed himself a flicker of hope.
Harold took a deep breath.
‘Confess to treason tomorrow. I’ll make sure your death is quick.’
10
Fletcher received no further visitors that night. When sleep would not come to him, he summoned Ignatius and they played together, a stupid game of tag around the table that left Fletcher with bruised shins but gave
him a welcome distraction from what was to come.
But by the end Fletcher could do little but sit in silence and watch as Ignatius slept, glad that the slumbering demon could not sense the despair that had taken hold of him.
Jakov and his guards came early, banging and shouting as they entered the cell, expecting to drag a terrified convict from his bed. Instead they found Fletcher standing alone beside the door, ready for what the morning would bring.
Despite the early hour, the courtroom was full of people, with more nobles and generals in the crowd, even some soldiers. It did little to assuage Fletcher’s nerves, but he reinforced his resolve with thoughts of the consequences of inaction.
What he was about to do would exonerate Othello of all crimes. It would cheat the Triumvirate of their victory and prevent a war that would tear the Empire apart.
All it would cost him was his life.
Arcturus looked haggard as he took a seat at the defence table, a great pile of notes and papers clutched to his chest. Captain Lovett looked no better, seated behind him on the front bench, uncomfortably squashed between Zacharias Forsyth and old King Alfric, with a rickety wheelchair close by.
As Rook and Charles waited for the crowd to be seated, Othello was dragged into the room and manacled beside Fletcher. This time, he stood proudly, head held high, eyes blazing with defiance.
Fletcher worried whether Uhtred had told Othello of his plans. Whether he might still go through with it. The threat to his son’s life had put a lot of strain on the goodhearted dwarf … it would be best for Fletcher to make his move now, just in case.
‘Othello, I need you to promise me something,’ he murmured, keeping his voice low. ‘The king came to see me last night. He’s on our side and has a plan. I don’t have time to tell you what’s going on, but whatever happens, you have to go along with it.’
Othello raised his eyebrows and gave Fletcher a trusting smile. It was strange to see so much of Othello’s face. His jaw was strong and square beneath the remaining stubble, like the edge of an anvil.
‘I’m glad someone has a plan,’ Othello whispered back. ‘After my dad’s … outburst last night, they punished us by banning Arcturus and Lovett from seeing us – I heard them arguing with the guards outside my cell. My father can’t even attend the trial.’
Othello curled his lip with anger, shooting a hate-filled glance at Jakov. He whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Are you sure we can trust the king?’
‘We have no other choice,’ Fletcher replied. ‘I doubt anything Arcturus and Lovett could say will make a difference.’
Othello glanced at the defence table and shook his head.
‘They look like they’ve been up all night. I’m willing to roll the dice.’
Fletcher gave Othello a sad smile, wondering if there would be a chance to explain himself before his execution. He took a deep breath.
‘I have something to say!’ he yelled, twisting his body uncomfortably against the chains so that he faced the crowd.
‘Fletcher, be quiet,’ Arcturus growled, his tired eyes widening with surprise.
Rook banged his gavel as the room began a murmured discussion, with many of the crowd standing, to better see which prisoner had spoken.
‘I’m sad to say I agree with Captain Arcturus,’ Rook sneered. ‘We have no time for impassioned speeches and grandiose last words. Keep your tongue still or Jakov shall gag you as he did the dwarf.’
‘I want to confess,’ Fletcher said, turning back to him.
‘Don’t do it,’ Arcturus yelled out. ‘We can still win this, we can still wi—’ His voice was muffled as he was tackled off his feet and slammed into the ground; Jakov’s bulky frame straddled his chest and a meaty palm clapped over his mouth.
Another guard stepped purposefully towards Lovett, but there was no need. Fletcher could see Zacharias Forsyth whispering in her ear, and the glint of something sharp and metallic pressed against her ribs. It only strengthened Fletcher’s resolve. He hated these bloodless, indifferent men – they were nothing but empty vessels, slaves to their own desires.
‘Say that again,’ Charles said, his voice breathless with excitement. ‘Say it so the whole room can hear it.’
The room was loud again, and Fletcher felt the combined gaze of the most powerful men and women of Hominum. He did not flinch – it needed to look convincing.
‘I confess to the murders of the five men,’ Fletcher bellowed, shocking the crowd into silence. ‘Yes, that’s right, I did it. It was me and no other. I stole Othello’s tomahawk that night and went out looking for trouble. Little did I know Othello had seen me take the axe and followed me.’
He stuttered, the words he had rehearsed so carefully like hot coals in his mouth. With every syllable, he brought himself closer to death.
‘Af— After he had tracked me for almost an hour, the soldiers saw him on their patrol and decided that a dwarf would make for good target practice. I heard the gunshot and went to investigate. When I arrived, I saw that they had shot Othello through the leg.’
He took a deep breath, knowing the next words would condemn him. Yet, in the final act, his nerve returned, and he spoke with conviction once again.
‘I killed them all while he was barely conscious on the ground. I did it in cold blood – they didn’t even see me coming. Othello had nothing to do with it. I am the guilty one here.’
The words rang in the silent room.
Rook scribbled furiously, barely looking up from the table. But Charles’s glee faded from his face, as he realised what was happening.
‘The … the dwarf. He also …’ Charles stuttered. There was a curse from behind and Fletcher allowed himself a grim smile, recognising Didric’s throaty tone.
‘We must confer,’ Charles said, seizing the gavel from the high table and banging it against the side. He hurried up the steps and there was a hushed conversation between the two Inquisitors, but Fletcher could not hear it over the whispers of the crowd. He noticed a great deal of glancing at the Triumvirate and the old king Alfric, confirming his suspicions. Othello was the real target for the trial. His own death was just the icing on the cake, and now they would find it a poor meal.
Suddenly, a new voice broke through the crowd.
‘We have our verdict.’
It was one of the jury, a tall, imperious-looking lady with grey, scraped back hair and tortoiseshell spectacles. She held a small pile of torn paper in front of her, and Fletcher’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. The jury had voted while the Inquisitors were distracted.
‘A moment, if you please,’ Charles said, holding up a finger.
‘We do not please,’ the jury lady snapped. ‘You would do well to remember that it is the defence’s turn to speak, and Fletcher has clearly dismissed his representative and pleaded guilty. It is we who make the decisions in this courtroom and we may rule whenever we like. I only ask whether the dwarf has anything to say, before I read it out.’
Othello hesitated, looking searchingly at Fletcher’s face. After a moment he looked away, indecision creasing his brow. For ten beats, the future of Hominum rested in the hands of a single dwarf. Then he shook his head, unable to say the words aloud.
‘In that case, our first ruling is this. We find Othello Thorsager … not guilty. He is a victim of circumstance, nothing more.’
Othello barely reacted, instead gripping Fletcher’s wrist and drawing him close.
‘What was the plan?’ Othello whispered. ‘This doesn’t make any sense.’
He stared into Fletcher’s eyes with sudden intensity. This time, they told the truth that Fletcher’s mouth could not.
‘No …’ Othello said, tightening his grip as Fletcher’s eyes began to water. Fletcher did not need to be strong any more. Othello was safe now.
‘You said there was a plan,’ Othello croaked, grasping Fletcher’s clothes like a drowning man. ‘The king was going to save you.’
‘This was the plan,’ Fletch
er said, smiling bitterly at the dwarf through blurred eyes. ‘You’ll understand one day. This is bigger than us.’
The jury’s verdict hit his ears, each word like a hammer blow to his chest.
‘Fletcher Wulf is found guilty of all charges. He shall be hung by the neck until dead.’
11
The verdict echoed in the rafters like a death knell, and Fletcher supposed it might as well have been. Silence weighed heavily on the room; some people were shocked, others waited for his reaction.
Then a string of curses erupted from the very back of the hall. Fletcher turned and saw the familiar, lopsided figure of Sir Caulder stomping down the centre of the court. His wooden leg clunked against the stone floor as he made his way to the front of the room, never ceasing his tirade of expletives.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Rook yelled, banging his gavel. ‘Guards, expel him from the court at once!’
‘Dammit, I have something to say and I’ll hamstring any guard who comes near me,’ Sir Caulder growled, unsheathing a short sword from a scabbard at his waist. He was in his old uniform – steel chainmail with the silver and blue surcoat of the noble house he had once served. The guards hesitated, instead raising their muskets.
Zacharias Forsyth shook his head in disgust, then sprung to his feet and turned to address the crowd.
‘Would you give this foulmouthed old man a platform to spew his ramblings? The trial is over – let us leave him to his mad thoughts.’
But Zacharias had clearly misjudged the crowd. Eager for more entertainment, they ignored him, some even calling for him to be seated. King Harold stood and glared out at the onlookers, until silence reigned once again.
‘I am inclined to agree with Zacharias,’ he announced.
Fletcher’s heart sank. Why would Harold take Zacharias’s side? Had this all been a ploy, to get him to confess?
‘But …’ the king continued, ‘I knighted Sir Caulder and appointed him as weapons master at Vocans Academy myself. He is a good man, and of sound mind. Out of respect for a knight of the realm, we shall hear him out.’
Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition Page 7