‘But they will use it against me?’
Michele chuckled. ‘I can smell the blood rushing to the delicate little butterflies in your stomach. Relax, today is only a plea hearing.’
I nodded, failing to tell him about the run in with Menelaus. Maybe Malachi had informed him already. We pushed through the doors and I followed Michele’s quick clip towards the reception desk, apparently having no doubt as to where he was going. I thought of the book he’d penned, the ‘unofficial’ guide to the Praetoriani justice system. Whatever the reason he had lowered himself to help me, I felt certain it was part of a larger agenda.
I recognised the receptionist, Kate, from my last visit. She smiled but said as little as possible, never removing her eyes from Michele. The grand reception hummed with staff, the gold-framed portraits on the wall adding to the sense of being watched. But Menelaus wasn’t there. We signed the guestbook and received our wrist-tags. A burly guard escorted us down the spiral staircase, near the semi-circular conference hall at the back, and through the underground checkpoint before turning sharply right.
I hate these bloody tunnels, I thought, as we were herded down another level and through darker caves, until we arrived in a well-lit area with plastered walls, lined with benches. A tall, slim man, in plush red robes, passed the guards at the courtroom door and disappeared inside while Michele flashed the relevant paperwork to another receptionist, who made us sign more documents before whisking us through.
I hadn’t expected the courtroom to be quite so big – and gold. I learned later that it was called the Aurea Curia, or Golden Court. The man who’d entered before us – a magistrate – sat on a high, gold-rimmed desk on a dais, which matched the glittering chandelier hanging above the centre of the courtroom. The marble underfoot seemed to shimmer, brightly polished to reflect the classical scenes painted on the ceiling, as did the mirrors that lined the wall. On a stand next to the witness box, a heavy white-and-gold book gleamed under a spotlight. I stared at the faux sky above us and wished I could melt into it.
Michele tugged at my cloak and led me to the bench at the front. Across the aisle, an auxiliary in a tight dress sat with her fingers poised over a tablet – not the wax kind.
The magistrate wasted no time, commanding us to sit. ‘Theodore Alistair Clemensen, you have been summoned here today to face charges for severe misconduct.’
He paused, allowing me time to work out what about failing to show up for an interview constituted ‘severe.’ Michele, however, had warned me that in recent years the Praetoriani court had often increased the nature of the charges unexpectedly.
‘You have been charged with four counts of Absconding from Assessment, and Failure to Comply to Obligatory Summons; one count of Failure to Nominate a Preferred Guardian; one count of Intention to Practice Magic with Malo Animo…’
With ill intent? What? How do they know what I’ve been doing with the coven? It must be Menelaus.
‘…and finally, one count of Failure to Report, in this case, the location of an item belonging to the Praefecti.’
Michele and I shared a look. They must be talking about the amulet! The bastards, after I was tortured over it! I suspected that someone within the Praetoriani had ordered it in the first place, after I’d realised that Julian’s driver and my torturer had a rather unique feature in common.
‘How does the defendant plea?’
Michele shot to his feet. ‘Your Honour, Praetor Cullen, neither my client nor I were informed to the full extent of the charges presented to us today. As you know, under Section 42 of the Code, all defendants must be informed in advance—’
‘I have records proving letters were sent to Mr Clemensens’ home address, outlining the potential increase in the charges—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Your Honour, but my client has recently been staying with friends and has not received any letters regarding this “potential”, and as you well know, the client’s advocate must be informed of the specific nature of the increases at least a week in advance of the plea hearing.’
The tension between them squeezed the space of the courtroom into the width of an atom. Praetor Cullen pulled off his glasses and locked eyes with Michele, who was still standing practically on tiptoes, no doubt creasing his expensive Italian shoes. I tried not to wish my father and uncle were sitting behind me to back me up; after all, I’d told them they weren’t welcome. Michele would have to do.
‘Changes of address,’ said the magistrate, staring right at me, ‘however temporary, must be reported at once to the Administrative Department. Additionally, Mr Clemensen only nominated his advocate two days ago.’ He checked his notes and nodded. ‘I will therefore not adjourn the plea hearing, as I’m sure you’re about to request. I’ll give you an hour with your client to discuss the charges and return a plea. The courtroom is dismissed.’
I jumped at the sound of the gavel banging against the desk. Michele practically dragged me outside and into the small, dank room adjacent to the court. He put a finger to his lips as we sat down at a small table and scribbled on a piece of paper he retrieved from his briefcase. Don’t admit anything to me in here. We’re being watched. I thought he was being paranoid but after what had just happened, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’
An hour later, I stood before the magistrate again. As I spoke, the words echoed with finality around the empty court. ‘I plead Guilty to Failure to Comply to Obligatory Summons, and Not Guilty to Absconding from Assessment, Failure to Nominate a Preferred Guardian, Intention to Practice Magic with Malo Animo, and Failure to Report.’
I shot a nervous glance to Michele, but as usual, his features remained stoic. So I waited while Praetor Cullen wrote something down. ‘Mr Clemensen, you have pleaded Guilty to Failure to Comply to Obligatory Summons. Do you have any defence as to your reasons for committing this offence?’
Michele stood up and motioned for me to sit. ‘Your Honour, my client – immediately after his Assessment by the Praetoriani – had been inexplicably kidnapped and tortured on his way home. He was then confined to hospital and later discharged back to his family home, whereupon his relatives were engaged in assisting his recovery after a highly traumatic event. My client did not open any mail during this time; he was afraid to do so until he could be sure that the Praetoriani had nothing to do with his kidnapping.’
The woman in the corner gasped, her shock quickly reaching her cheeks. Praetor Cullen narrowed his eyes at her before saying to Michele, ‘That’s a strong accusation.’
‘Indeed. It is one my client and I do not intend to press during his trial unless his sentencing today deems it necessary.’
Dear gods, he’s threatening the magistrate. I held my breath. The silence rang deep through these caves.
‘The Praetoriani have nothing to hide.’ I was sure if Cullen bit his lip any harder it would bleed.
Michele smiled. ‘I am glad to hear it. I look forward to the trial.’
‘However, due to the highly unusual circumstances surrounding the defendant’s actions, I am willing to lower his sentence.’ I gulped, sweat prickling my neck. ‘Once the defendant has nominated a Guardian, he will be required to attend probation each week for one year.’
‘Your Honour, my defendant is grateful for your understanding of, as you put it, the “highly unusual” circumstances, and will be glad to nominate a Guardian after the outcome of his trial.’
Praetor Cullen nodded. ‘In light of the defendant’s pleas of Not Guilty on multiple counts, I will postpone his original trial date until the beginning of the following week. We will see you in court on Monday, twenty-second of June, this year.’ He started to lift his gavel when Michele interjected.
‘One last thing, Your Honour.’
An eyebrow arched and the gavel hung in mid-air. ‘Go on.’
‘Due to the uneasy relationship between the Praetoriani and the Clemensens in recent years, includin
g the involvement of one your employees with the death of Mr Clemensen’s mother, my client requests a trial by an independent jury and not the internal jury as specified in the Praetoriani’s correspondence with my client.’
Praetor Cullen looked ready to chuck the gavel at Michele’s head, but everyone in the courtroom knew who’d come out better off in that fight, even with his lictors hovering near the side door.
‘After all, Your Honour, the Praetoriani has nothing to hide.’
A smirk tugged at the edge of my mouth.
‘Motion upheld,’ said Praetor Cullen, and the gavel came down, the echo masking the muttering that followed it.
EXCERPT
The Solem Umbra Underground Paper
Issue #359
The Princeling is Captured
Monday 8th June 2015
For almost a quarter of a century, Hellingstead has been free of vampires — except the non-residents working within the Praetoriani’s walls, but they’ve had the good sense to stay underground. A source within the inner sanctums of that ‘revered institution’ has leaked that Theodore Clemensen has been summoned today for a plea hearing, accompanied by none other than Professor Michele De Laurentis himself.
What does this bode for our community? And what can we do about it, when our factions are so divided? The Tuscan vampires and their witches already have two of our number under their sway, and now they have our fabled prince. We must find the crack we can fit through and work our way in, somehow.
In the last week alone, three of our number have been arrested, only to disappear into the bowels of bureaucracy, a direct breach to the 2nd Counter Bind. How long can we exist in fear? The sapiens themselves never caused us as much harm and terror as Pneuma have suffered in recent years.
Who will stand up for us?
— B.C.
Monthly Round-Up Report
Arrested
Brian Sanders — warlock — Friday, 5th June
Shelly Davis — protean — Tuesday, 2nd June
Peter Davis — protean — Tuesday, 2nd June
Missing
Andrew Frond ‘Rush’ — prophet — 1st June
Robert Gale — shaman — 31st May
Angel Spice — dream-walker — 29th May
5
The Archives
The scent of vanilla hit Menelaus the moment he opened the door leading to the underground archives. The vast chamber appeared much smaller than it was; countless rows of ancient manuscripts and preserved papyrus stood in flanks from floor to ceiling, blocking his view whichever way he looked. Low lighting – necessary to protect the manuscripts – bathed the archive in an eternal dusk, but he liked that mysterious charm.
‘Bonjour, Professor,’ said Guillaume, appearing from a shadowy region behind the great oak desk. It reminded Menelaus of a counter in a crumbling Victorian sweet shop.
‘I’m not a professor here,’ he said, even though he still wore his tweed jacket. He’d come to the Praetoriani straight after he’d finished his last lecture of the academic year, three days after his meeting with Ava; only official researchers were allowed in the archive at weekends, so he’d been forced to wait until Monday.
He hung his jacket on a hook in the preparatory area by the desk; it was customary to don protective gear when dealing with some of the older folios. Anyway, the temperature stayed constant within the chamber so he wouldn’t need it. ‘But hello, regardless. How’s the wife?’
Guillaume’s smile gave a better indication of his youth than his salt-and-pepper hair, a smile as always accompanied by a waggle of the eyebrows. ‘She’s busy with the twins.’
‘Twins? When did that happen?’
‘Between your last visit to the archives and today.’
‘I suppose it’s been a while.’
Guillaume nodded and looked expectant. ‘What can I help you with, Monsieur Knight?’
Menelaus walked over to the desk. ‘Well, here’s the thing. I need something rather rare.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Cyranides.’
‘Ah, the first century encyclopaedia of amulets. We have a few copies. Would you like the ancient Greek or Latin version?’
Menelaus had expected this. ‘Guillaume, I need to find the original Arabic version.’
‘I’m afraid that is…difficult.’
‘But you know that it exists?’
Guillaume’s usually tanned face paled. ‘Don’t you?’
Not until you confirmed it for me, thought Menelaus, but he stood tall and infused his voice with completely false confidence. ‘Of course, I’m just surprised you know about it.’
‘I am Head Archivist.’
‘You can find it for me then.’ He kept the query from his statement, and stared at Guillaume, a good foot shorter than him.
‘I can put in a special request with the Praefecti’s Head Office.’ Guillaume scuttled to the computer and a complicated-looking form appeared on the screen.
His mouth dried and his feet itched. ‘Listen, Guillaume, here’s the thing.’ Would his hesitation make Guillaume suspicious? ‘I once wronged a ward of mine. It led to her death – a complete accident – and the Praetoriani stripped my powers of invisibility as punishment. You’ve heard of this before, I know.’
‘I came to your hearing; I remember it well. You were too young to be a Guardian, Menelaus. No one blames you for what happened.’
Menelaus swallowed back the tears pricking at his eyes. Even ten years on, the memory of his trial and punishment made him sick to the stomach. He wanted to help Ava, to help her to spare Theo from a similar fate. It would be much worse for that lad if he was found guilty than it had ever been for him. ‘Now I have the chance to make it right by helping her son down the right path. And I need something from the Cyranides to help him do it. But he’s up for trial soon, partly because of the decisions I once made. I don’t think the head honchos, up in some stuffy office, will understand or care about what I’m trying to do – save a life from destruction. I need this book, Guillaume, but it needs to be done anonymously.’
Menelaus paused for breath. He had time to draw in several lungfuls before Guillaume stopped frowning. ‘A year ago I wouldn’t have understood either,’ Guillaume said.
‘What’s changed?’
‘I’m a father now. I know what it feels like to be willing to break a few rules to protect those in your care.’
Menelaus nodded, holding his limbs still.
‘I will order the manuscript in my name, under the pretence of checking the modern translations for accuracy—’
‘Thank you, Guillaume—’
‘—on the condition that you don’t take it out of the archives and return it the second you’re done with it.’
‘Deal,’ said Menelaus, feeling a weight lifting. He reached for the Frenchman’s hand and shook it, maybe a little too hard.
‘It will take a few days. I’ll ring your office when it’s in. Is there anything else I can help you with, Monsieur Knight?’
‘Yes. Do you have anything on a young man called Raphael?’
The only hit in the system pointed Menelaus to Block 316, Row D, 1284.2. It took a while to find. At last, he tugged out a folder trapped between two wedges of books, feather-thick. Disappointing. He sat at the small fold-up desk attached to the end of the bookshelf, his knees banging up against the desk, so he splayed out his legs and settled to read.
My God, that’s Raphael, all right. Hand drawn on yellowed paper, the boy’s eternally youthful profile seemed to pop from the page – a page dated 1806. Menelaus turned over the drawing carefully in his hands, and read the neat ink scrawl on the back, translated from Norwegian on the folio directly behind the picture. The boy follows me like a shadow. His feet rarely touch the earth. He must be a vision sent from the Old Gods. I call his name into the wind, ‘Raphael, Raphael, Raphael!’ What a sprite is he, the little thief who knows all of our secrets! – A.F. Clemensen.
The remaining sheets
contained a list of dates that Raphael had been spotted, from locations all over the world, but mainly in Norway, Scotland, and England. Why mostly these three countries? Perhaps he preferred the climate, Menelaus thought at first, but then again, the portrait claimed to be rendered by a Clemensen hand. Every sighting corresponded to the areas in which the Clemensen family had lived during the last few centuries – he knew this because the addresses of the Clemensens had been written down too. He flicked through the pages again, trying to find an explanatory note or anything that might help lift the veil of mystery that existed around Raphael.
Who wrote about these sightings? He checked the folder’s front pocket and found a notecard with Chinese lettering. It had been some time since Menelaus had seen those characters: it was the name of his adoptive grandmother or nainai, Jaun. His fingers traced the careful markings and he recalled the time she’d told him how they corresponded to ‘scroll’ and ‘chapter’. Thus, she had simply followed her name to become the Praetoriani’s Arch Archivist – before she went missing. And now Menelaus couldn’t help but smile, a sad wisp of one anyway, holding something of hers in his hand.
I must ask Julian to translate the rest of the notecard for me. I wonder why she was keeping tabs on Raphael. Maybe there’s a good reason. If there was, he would add his own sightings of Raphael to the list.
Luckily, Guillaume let him check out the folder from the archives as it didn’t have a preservation order for historical importance. He left, ascending in the lift and surfacing in the great western arm of the HQ. Three floors of offices, belonging to the Auxiliaries, extended above his head and around one side of the courtyard, mirroring the other arm opposite – dubbed the ‘Guardians’ Wing.’
Norns of Fate: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (Descendants of Thor Trilogy Book Two) Page 3