The A’Kor didn’t seem happy, but he had no power and knew it. “Then go and be done quickly,” he finally said. “And do not forget our need.”
Arianne rubbed the back of her neck, muscles wrenching into knots and radiating a dull, pounding ache into the back of her skull. Sitting for two days in court watching a fountain of lies and speculation about her involvement in dark conspiracies had marched her through a gauntlet of sharp and bitter emotions. To have her character and reputation bullied and beaten filled her with indignation; sitting helplessly by during the beating turned that indignation into exhaustion and despair.
Mr. Redd, her dutiful lawyer, argued and grandstanded until even she grew weary of it, and now, as she sat waiting for the last witness, she knew the trial had long since ended. Even she could see that the critical evidence against her had no convincing refutation anyone could offer. Her husband and his treasonous affairs had killed her just as surely as Davon Carver had killed him.
As her case deteriorated, she felt more and more abandoned. Her parents refused to attend, probably not wishing to be sullied by their daughter’s downfall. They had, at least, let Elaine visit her after the first day. The young girl sobbed in her arms, more than once expressing her wish that Baron Carver would come. Arianne shared that wish, but didn’t vocalize it, and the more scared she became, the more angry she was with the man. How dare he abandon her in this hour of need! She knew these thoughts weren’t fair, but they came anyway.
The Queen had come yesterday evening and condoled with her, and the monarch’s tears of sympathy truly shook Arianne to the core. She had never seen the Queen cry; she might expect a stone to cry first. And if Filippa was crying, then Arianne knew her situation was dire, indeed. The Queen could not override the judgment of the court for capital crimes, and nothing, it seemed, but some unseen providence could provide an escape now.
Mr. Gutke, the head prosecutor, rose from his seat and approached the bench. He was a hale, youthful man with a powerful voice—one Arianne was sick to death of. “We would like to call Mr. Edward Cranton, former Head Clerk to the Hightower Estate. We ask for special consideration of this witness as he was recently wounded in an assassination attempt.”
Arianne had heard the ill news just before the first day of the trial. When she learned that the man would testify in person, her heart had sunk. She knew how his testimony would play out—Lady Hightower arrives in town one day, and the next an assassin tries to kill off her steward and her clerk.
“It looks bad,” Mr. Redd had said, “but there is no evidence to connect you to the assassin.”
Still, her steward was dead, and besides herself, there would be few that would want either of them dead. Baron Carver was likely one of them, but she doubted that he was involved; if he had pulled the trigger, her clerk would be dead, too. Whoever the assassin was, and whatever his motives, he had ended sloppily without finishing the job.
Even so, Mr. Redd said it wouldn’t have mattered, factually, if the two were alive or dead. Their testimony had been recorded some time ago. “The attack only muddied the water a bit,” he prevaricated when she asked what such an event would do to her chances of winning the trial. She knew very well that the assassination attempt would clear the water in the mind of the judge.
The bailiff lead Mr. Cranton in from a side room, the screeching of the dark wooden door cutting through the murmuring and paper shuffling of the courtroom. The dismal interior where the drama played out consisted of dark wood paneling running all the way up to the high ceiling. Windows sat atop the wall, running all the way around the octagonal room. Judge Pinkerton sat behind a large, raised desk, evidence laid about him. A single stand sat directly in front of him where witnesses stood or sat to deliver their testimony.
Whether an act or not, Mr. Cranton made a great deal of piteous moaning as he ascended the three steps to the witness stand. His coat was off and his arm in a sling, a slight stain of red blushing the white linen that covered his wound.
Mr. Redd leaned in. “A fine piece of showmanship,” he whispered. “He is trying to gain the sympathy of the judge and seem vulnerable.”
While her lawyer might enjoy a cold analysis of tactics, she was furious. Mr. Redd had warned her not to look angry and sullen as it would only prejudice the judge against her, but with her case as good as lost, it hardly seemed to matter now. She would scowl all she wanted. If she had a chance she thought she might just see how well Mr. Cranton’s head would fare against the thick book of law hulking on the table next to her left elbow.
After introductions, Mr. Gutke launched into a line of questioning about how the late Lord Cornton of Hightower had indicated that a certain amount of funds be disbursed to one Justus Paige of Longford on a monthly basis, and how upon his death the Lady of Hightower had asked that the payments continue. Arianne knew her face had turned blood red, and she wanted to scream, “liar!” until the hall rang with it.
He continued with the confrontation at Hightower during Davon’s visit, fabricating an entire narrative about how she strictly ordered them to destroy the ledgers and tell no one or she would kill them. He claimed that he and the steward had hired a man to recover them, but that Davon Carver had killed him, thinking him a robber. At that point she felt it best to lean back and stop listening, choosing instead to come up with a list of angry, cutting phrases to level at one absent Davon Carver should he have the decency to show up before they marched her off to the Drowning Bridge.
“And relate to us the events of four nights ago, if you please, Mr. Cranton,” Mr. Gutke prompted.
Mr. Cranton leaned back, wincing. “I was in the protective custody of the sheriff at Black Lock prison. Four nights ago I was dead asleep in my chambers when a shot rang out, startling me from sleep. I couldn’t know at the time that…”
Mr. Cranton stopped, emotion welling up in his voice. Arianne wondered if it was sincere.
He continued. “I couldn’t know at the time that the horrible assassin had killed my colleague and longtime friend, Mr. Barles.”
“Please continue,” Mr. Gutke said after allowing several moments for Mr. Cranton collect himself.
“I stood from my bed when my chamber door was thrown open.”
“And who did you see?”
“I could see nothing,” Mr. Cranton explained. “A lantern shone in my face and my eyes were blinded. The man at the door said, ‘Lady Hightower sends her regards,’ and then he shot me and left me for dead. I heard him run away.”
Murmuring erupted among the spectators, whispers of conjecture and outrage blooming about Arianne as she sat staring daggers at Mr. Cranton’s profile. He was genuinely scared, she decided. He might be part of the scheme, but he probably thought his position in it so low that he would attract no dangerous notice.
The judge banged the gavel for order. “Proceed, Mr. Gutke.”
“Very well. Mr. Cranton, do you believe that Lady Hightower sent the man to kill you?”
Mr. Redd raised his hand. “Objection. What the witness believes is not relevant. I remind the court that we are after facts, not opinions.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Mr. Gutke turned to face Mr. Redd. “Very well. I surrender the witness for cross examination.”
Mr. Redd stood, pacing back and forth in front of the witness for several long moments, Mr. Cranton’s head following him back and forth as if on a swivel. The judge opened his mouth, but Mr. Redd dove in before the magistrate could admonish him for his obviously calculated delay.
“Mr. Cranton, you testified that Lady Hightower threatened you and Mr. Barles, telling you to destroy the ledgers and threatening you with death, is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Mr. Cranton confirmed.
“And that you then hired a man to retrieve them.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Redd nodded. “And was this man a part of the sheriff’s office in Longford?”
“No, Sir.”
“And w
hy did you not seek out the sheriff to deal with these allegations, instead hiring a Mr. Aberforth, a well-known drunk and ruffian?”
Little rivulets of sweat dripped down Mr. Cranton’s forehead, his skin blanching. For the first time in the entire trial, Arianne felt a glimmer of hope.
“We, well, we were afraid that the sheriff would not take our plea seriously as the matter dealt with the Lady and landholder of the town! By the time we had formulated our plan, it was well after dark, and Mr. Aberforth was ready and willing to do the job. We bade him quite strictly not to hurt anyone.”
Mr. Redd nodded. “And how much did you pay for his service?”
“Five pounds.”
The crowd murmured again and Mr. Redd let it play. “So little? For a matter of such importance? Or were you merely playing the part of a good clerk and saving a little money?”
“Honestly,” Mr. Cranton answered, “we had no idea why the ledgers were so important at this point. We were merely transferring money. When the Lady became violent and threatening, we knew that saving the ledgers would help us prove our case, but we had no notion of it ever being involved in some treasonous plot!”
“I see,” Mr. Redd said. “And could you explain why Lady Arianne Hightower didn’t just burnt the ledgers herself? Why would she entrust them to David Harper—or Baron Carver, as we know now?”
“Objection!” Mr. Gutke popped in. “Mr. Cranton cannot speak to what Lady Arianne’s motives were. We shall have to await her testimony for that.”
“Sustained.”
“Very well,” Mr. Redd said. “Then I will ask you this: before the incident with the ledgers, had Lady Hightower ever threatened you or anyone else with violence to your knowledge?”
“Irrelevant!” Mr. Gutke interrupted.
“Overruled,” the judge said. “It speaks to the Lady’s character. Answer the question.”
The pale Mr. Cranton chewed on this question for some time, screwing up his face into a great mask of concentration. “Not that I can recall,” he finally said.
“Did she ever maltreat or abuse you while under her employ?”
“No.”
“And did you ever question Lord Cornton of Hightower or the Lady Arianne Hightower about the prodigious amount of money being funneled away from their estate?”
“No.”
Mr. Redd stopped his pacing and turned his head toward Mr. Cranton. “Never once?”
“I did not. It was not my place to question.”
“And would you personally hire the courier to take the money to Longford?”
“Customarily, yes, though Mr. Barles would do it when I could not.”
Silence hung in the air, Mr. Redd gradually approaching the witness stand, his eyes boring into Mr. Cranton’s.
“Now, Mr. Cranton, be very careful about how you answer this next question. What if I were to tell you that the personal finances of your household had been looked over and that it was found that you had been socking away a little extra money from an unknown source. What would you say then?”
Mr. Cranton sweat rivers now, his skin paling to a corpse-like hue, sickly and gray. His slack mouth twitched up and down in search of something to say. Arianne watched carefully as Mr. Gutke was yelling ‘objection’ and screaming at the judge to censure Mr. Redd, who calmly watched the stunned witness.
“Do not answer the question,” Mr. Gutke instructed his charge.
The judge pounded the gavel until silence fell. “Mr. Redd, do you have evidence concerning Mr. Cranton’s finances that you wish to present to the court?”
“Just the witness’s terrified demeanor,” he said. “I am through with him.”
Mr. Gutke’s face boiled red, but he held his tongue.
The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Do you have any further witnesses to call, Mr. Gutke?”
“Just one, your honor. I would like to call Lady Arianne Hightower to the stand.”
Chapter 40
Davon rested his rifle on his knees, Ki and Ta squatting next to him behind a red granite boulder. A canyon breeze carried the frigid breath of the high ice of the mountain passes, chilling their skin as it blew past them. In front of them, a column of Creetisian soldiers snaked along the creek, heading in the direction of Windgate.
Davon and his companions had left Jun’Kal after the midday meal. By that time much of his strength had returned, though he still felt a little wobbly in the knees and light in the head. Scaling down the granite cliff proved even more challenging than scaling up it, though the two sisters had the knack of it and used mockery as a tool to inspire him to quicker efforts.
They had traversed the slope of the mountain down a steep, winding trail that cut confusing turns through trickling sluices and behind outcroppings of granite that ice and snow had cracked and dragged off the mountain. The vigorous breeze whistled through the needles of dense spruce that provided excellent concealment from every direction.
As they had neared the swollen creek that flowed toward Windgate, the sound of marching feet and grumbling men pulled them up short. Ta had ordered he and Ki to stay there while she sneaked ahead. She had returned with the dire news.
“The Creetisians march west along the creek. Single file. Only about a third of them are armed, but we can’t go south without crossing that line.”
After her report, she had guided them forward to the granite boulder where they now waited, which afforded them a good view of the men walking by about fifty feet below them. Davon peeked around the boulder, watching as the emaciated soldiers in baggy, yellowing white uniforms trudged by. They wore black belts and black boots, and from Davon’s vantage point they looked like a row of children who had put on their parents’ clothes. Reports of hard times in Creetis had not been exaggerated. These men were hungry.
But their presence signaled both relief and grave danger. Ki and Ta now knew that the Creetisians had not discovered Jun’Kal or amassed an army to exterminate the Aua’Catan. Unfortunately, they had found some way to pass through what once were thought impassable mountains and attack Bellshire from the north where no one would expect it.
Davon cursed the delay. How long was the column? They were well into afternoon now, and he had wanted to get south of Windgate before the day was out. Creetisians obstructed their passage while increasing the urgency of their mission. Had anyone from Windgate been able to escape to take news to Bellshire?
“I see the anger in your eyes, Brown Man,” Ki said, “but we cannot move. We must wait for a break in their march. Above all, we cannot have the Creetisians scouring this part of the mountain. If they found Jun’Kal, it would be the end of our people.”
Davon slumped down, leaning against the lumpy boulder. Curse the luck. Ki and Ta bracketed him, pulling out their own pouches and carvings that he had seen them working on earlier. He pulled out his own carving bag, setting to work on something for Arianne. He’d found the wood by the communal fire in the Pahk, a straight round stick. But what he was shown to carve he didn’t quite understand. In the wood he saw an array of rings with grooves on the inside and outside.
He set the blade to the wood, knife flicking furiously and precisely, his companions just staring in amazement. For Davon, skill had nothing to do with it; his hands not his own. After an hour he realized that the objects he had crafted looked a lot like what the sisters worked on, only he used wood instead of bone. On each ring he carved he created a flat space on one edge. Using the tip of his knife he carved a rune on this space, a symbol whose significance he did not know.
There were five rings in total, and he had completed two when Ki stopped him. “Do you even know what you are making?”
“No,” he said.
“They are for your woman, are they not?”
“Yes. How would you know that?”
She and Ta looked at each other and smiled. “They are for a woman. You will give them to her. They are for her hair. Did you notice some of the women wearing them in Jun’Kal?”
Davon thought back. He had seen rings in the hair of a few of the women once he thought about it. “Yes, I did. They are for decoration?”
They smiled knowingly at each other again. “Mostly.”
“Why don’t either of you wear them?”
They shrugged in unison, though Davon suspected they were simply avoiding answering him for some mischievous purpose of their own.
Ki examined the one he was working on. “You are doing quite well. Continue.”
There was something he was missing, but as he set his knife to his third ring, he realized the sound of marching and talking had faded. Ta had noticed it too, and she slunk around the edge of the boulder, returning a couple of minutes later.
“There is a gap in the line,” she reported. “There is another column coming up about a mile back. If we are careful, we can pass in the space between. It would be safer to wait until dark, I think.”
“We go now,” Davon said.
They stowed their carving materials, Ta leading them out, keeping to the trees and behind boulders as much as possible. Once they reached creek, Davon found a wide trail.
“Where does this go?” he whispered.
“It leads back into the ice mines,” Ki said. “Now we need to run to get distance from the column behind us. We only have to follow this path for about a mile before we will turn onto a separate trail to the south.”
The worn dirt path and the gurgling stream at its side made for quick and silent running, but as they turned an abrupt corner, they found three Creetisian soldiers milling about by the creek. Their shirts they had cast aside as they bathed, their malnourished ribs poking out against the skin. Stubbly faces stretched wide with surprise at an armed man and two Aua’Catan women. The Creetisians had one weapon between them cast aside on the ground, and one went for it.
Ki and Ta didn’t hesitate, spears sailing through the air. The first two had barely opened their mouths to yell when the glassy spearheads punched through their chests. They fell without a scream. Davon reversed his rifle, bludgeoning the remaining Creetisian over the head just as the soldier brought his rifle up. The sisters retrieved their spears.
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