Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  “We can’t leave these bodies here,” Ta pointed out.

  “We have little time to move them,” Ki reminded her. Footsteps at their rear already sounded alarmingly close.

  Davon grabbed his victim by the hands. “Let’s put them under the branches of that spruce. It’s the best we can do.”

  Ki and Ta lifted one while Davon took care of the other two. Only a close examination would reveal their presence, and Davon hoped it would do. Ki grabbed the Creetisian rifle and ammunition pouch.

  “You will show me how to shoot, Brown Man,” Ki said as they jogged away.

  “Father and the A’Kor won’t like it,” Ta admonished.

  “That hasn’t stopped us before,” Ki observed. Ta didn’t argue.

  They sprinted now, evening shadows deepening in the canyon. With guns and spears at the ready, they crossed the creek where it widened out, a place Davon remembered from the sound when he was blindfolded.

  “Now we move off the path,” Ta said, and they dove into what appeared to be an impossibly dense thicket of spruce. Once they had pushed past the first branches, a serpentine corridor between the trees revealed itself. They traversed the dim pathway quickly as it rose up a slight incline on the other side of the canyon before turning west along a level track that led them out of the canyon proper and into the foothills beyond.

  Davon’s senses were alive, and he hoped against hope that they were past any danger. He would brook no more delays. They kept to a deep gully as the foliage thinned on the wind blasted slopes of the hills. The evening light outside the canyon still possessed enough strength to cast warm shadows and bead sweat on their skin as they turned south. To the west, smoke from numerous fires rose into the sky, creating a haze that clung to the land around them.

  Davon held them up. “I need to see what happened at Windgate so I can report it. It should be visible just over this rise.”

  His companions nodded and followed him up the hill, the thick-bladed grass swishing at their pant legs and concealing rocks that tripped them up. As they approached the crest, they dropped to their bellies and crawled to the top.

  The buildings of Windgate were still standing, but instead of rough and tumble ice miners, a host of Creetisians filled the town and spilled out onto the arid plain beyond. Soldiers milled about tents pitched in precise, orderly rows, though the fires were scarce for an army of its size. There wasn’t much to burn out on the plain.

  But of most alarm was a line of wagons along the road. As the men filed out of the canyon and through the town, soldiers on the wagons would issue a weapon to those of their fellows not fortunate enough to already possess one.

  Davon clenched his jaw. Whoever had paid into the Aid Society fund or made payments to Justus Paige and Baron Longford had put rifles into the bony hands of their enemies. Davon wondered why anyone would support such a traitorous scheme.

  They reversed down the hill and took refreshment to give them strength for a long hike south. Davon paced distractedly, trying to put his thoughts together. Why would Lord Cornton of Hightower have joined in with such a plot? Why empower the Creetisians to make war against the northern duchies of Bittermarch when he and his lands would be likely victims of the war? The warmer climes of the southern duchies would be a much more plausible target for the starving Creetisians.

  Ki put her hand on his arm. “We should move. We will travel well into the night to get away from this horde. It is fortunate that they have no horses.”

  “I think they ate them all,” Davon said, and not in jest. “But you are right. If we can get south of the main army, we will escape. They must have scouts and lookouts on the road, so we will need to stay in the wild for a day or two. If we can’t find horses after that, I will attempt to turn into a beast again and run it. If I am forced to leave you behind, meet me at Hightower.”

  The sisters nodded and they jogged away into the deepening shadows of twilight.

  Arianne had dressed as Mr. Redd had instructed, accentuating her femininity with her long dark tresses floating about her shoulders and wearing a brightly colored gown. It was the same gown she wore that had attracted a compliment from Davon, and she half hoped it might attract the man himself to finally show his brown face during the trial.

  Mr. Redd assured her that her wardrobe and appearance would build sympathy with the judge, but the judge’s deep set eyes bore no boyish twinkle of admiration or attraction to give her hope. His pudgy, aged face regarded her as if he was completely unimpressed, a man who had tired of beautiful faces and shapely forms. Even so, Mr. Redd informed her that by nature, people trusted and valued physical beauty, regardless of the character of the mind and soul.

  The second part of Mr. Redd’s advice she would not countenance; she would not act like a naive, innocent girl who was too stupid to even understand what her husband or clerks were up to while she sat in the drawing room embroidering cushions and gossiping with her lady’s maids. If stupidity was to be leveled at her, it would be a stupidity of neglect, not intellect. A silly girl she was not, and she wouldn’t stoop to dissembling.

  She had given testimony for two hours under a withering barrage from Mr. Gutke, questions clearly designed to trip her up and cause her to contradict herself. She had little difficulty with these as there was nothing to conceal. Mr. Redd congratulated her during a brief break, but even after two hours’ worth of denials and adamant assertions of her innocence, Mr. Gutke had apparently not exhausted his available lines of questioning.

  Arianne rubbed her neck. The mental exertion had steadily taken its toll, her headache building to a roar. “How much longer can he go on?” she asked Mr. Redd.

  “He must be close now,” he assured her. “I can’t imagine he has much left that he can bring against you.”

  Judge Pinkerton banged his gavel, and Arianne made her way to the witness stand again, trying to appear as comfortable and at ease as possible. The invisible blacksmith hammering at the back of her skull didn’t help.

  Mr. Gutke approached the stand, his strong nose and long face regarding her like a problematic nut he needed to crack. This man believed she was guilty, and throughout all of his questioning, she could see him searching for that one last opening that would force out all of her supposed traitorous secrets. As yet, he had not brought out the letter written in her husband’s hand. Mr. Redd warned her he would end with it for dramatic effect.

  Mr. Gutke rubbed his chin, dull eyes absorbing her every reaction. “Lady Hightower, I wish to return to the events surrounding the ledgers of your estate. Why was Baron Carver, then acting under the name David Harper, sent to your estate in the first place?”

  “In the wake of the Aid Society scandal, the Queen wished him to examine my ledgers for irregularities. At least, that is what she told me when she informed me of his impending visit.”

  “Now, you claim that he informed you of the problems in the ledgers and offered to take them back to Bellshire, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you deny his request?” he probed.

  “I felt the more prudent course would be to hire an armed guard and travel together, sparing both of us the danger.”

  There was that barely perceptible sliver of a grin forming on Mr. Gutke’s face, the same one that appeared every time he thought he had a question that would break her.

  “And, Lady Hightower, did you know at this time that David Harper was indeed Baron Carver in disguise?”

  She blinked. Unexpected indeed. Mr. Gutke smiled smugly, no doubt thinking he had put her off balance now. He had, just a little. She collected herself. “I did.”

  The audience gasped at this revelation, though Arianne couldn’t fathom why it should matter.

  He approached the witness stand, face brightened by his small victory. “And this was the same man who murdered your husband, correct?”

  “No, it—”

  “No?” Mr. Gutke exploded. “It is a matter of history and public record. How can you deny
it?”

  “It was a sanctioned duel,” she said evenly, “accepted by both parties and properly witnessed and registered. That is not murder, Mr. Gutke.”

  His eye twitched just a little. A point scored. “But Lady Hightower, this man killed your husband! Are you going to claim that you didn’t wish to see him in any danger? He robbed you of your Lord. Anger and a desire for revenge are perfectly natural. Isn’t it true that you didn’t wish him leaving with the ledgers because you didn’t want them leaving your control before you could destroy them?”

  I didn’t wish him to leave because I cared for him, even then.

  While furious at Davon’s absence, somehow her regard for him fortified her. “Mr. Gutke, I will inform you that the manor house at Hightower has ten fireplaces. Had I any incriminating evidence, or were I the criminal you think I am, I certainly would have availed myself of any one of them long before Baron Carver arrived at my door and been done with this business. I need no man’s help to toss a book into a fire.”

  His thin-lipped smile disappeared and he tromped to the evidence desk by Judge Pinkerton, retrieving the letter and returning to thrust it into her face.

  “Lady Hightower,” he said, voice harsh, “is this your husband’s handwriting.”

  “It could be,” she answered. Mr. Redd had instructed her to respond in this fashion to the inevitable question.

  “Could be?” Mr. Gutke said. “Is it or is it not?”

  “Mr. Gutke, I am perfectly sincere in my response. From what I remember, it is like it, but there may be two hundred other gentlemen who write after the same fashion. His name does not adorn the parchment, so I cannot say with any certainty.”

  He stripped the letter from her with a swipe of his hand. “Your honor, I will read this letter. Be aware that our experts attest that the handwriting matches that of Lord Cornton and was written using fake names.”

  Mr. Gutke read the letter, inserting a great deal of drama and emphasizing “my wife and I are in complete agreement” with a healthy dash of relish.

  He finished and turned toward her. “What do you make of that, Lady Hightower?”

  She shrugged. “It is a letter I never saw until Mr. Redd showed it to me. It concerns an investment I was not aware of, and was written by a man who may or may not have been my husband. I am afraid it is a complete mystery to me and I can offer no insight.”

  “It is written in your husband’s hand!”

  “Objection!” Mr. Redd thundered. “We only know that it closely matches her husband’s hand, and, as no one witnessed anyone write it, it could be a forgery.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Pinkerton said, and Arianne’s hope leapt within her. Mr. Gutke was angry and defeated, and something about the judge’s demeanor had changed, his bored eyes regarding her with some emotion. Respect?

  “Do you have any further witnesses, Mr. Gutke?” the judge asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you wish to call anyone to the stand, Mr. Redd?”

  Arianne turned to regard her defender. Only Davon Carver remained on the list of people both sides had agreed to examine publicly, and as he had quite disappeared, there was nothing else to be done.

  “No, your honor.”

  Judge Pinkerton rose and everyone followed suit. “Very well. I shall retire to my chambers and return with the verdict within the hour.”

  He left and Arianne returned to Mr. Redd. They both took some satisfaction in the scowls of Mr. Gutke and his associates.

  Mr. Redd beamed at her. “If only all my clients were as composed and in control as you, though your innocence certainly lends you strength.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. What do you think of our chances?”

  “You have won the day, Lady Hightower. I am sure of it,” he said, returning his notes and documents to his satchel. “There is simply too much reasonable doubt to convict you. And,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “you can tell that Mr. Gutke knows it, too.”

  Judge Pinkerton returned a half an hour later, and immediately upon seeing him her heart fell clanging into the pit of her stomach. His entire countenance had changed. As the late afternoon light fell upon him, he appeared as pallid and sweaty as the wounded Mr. Cranton had earlier that day. As he sat and perused a document, Arianne could detect a slight trembling of his hands.

  She turned to Mr. Redd, whose gaze was also fixed worriedly on the judge. Arianne caught Mr. Redd’s eyes and he shrugged. It seemed that Judge Pinkerton had suddenly taken ill.

  “Let the accused come forward,” he said, voice resigned.

  Arianne rose and approached the witness stand, heart hammering and hands clammy. Judge Pinkerton’s eyes took her in, and she saw pity there, and fear. Why where his hands shaking?

  “It is the decision of this court that Lady Arianne Hightower is guilty of treason. As Bittermarch is on a war footing, there will be no appeals and no delays. The sentence of drowning will be carried out tomorrow at noon. Court is adjourned. Remand her into custody.”

  Arianne couldn’t breathe. Judge Pinkerton abandoned his chair and practically fled to his chambers while gasps of outrage and cheers of victory commingled in the spacious hall. Before she could think, the Lord High Sheriff was at her side.

  “I am sorry, Lady Hightower,” he said, face hard. “Come with me.”

  Chapter 41

  Melchor Raines could hardly miss witnessing the fruits of his handiwork. Disguised as a day laborer from the fields, he was grateful for the wide brimmed hat that kept the harsh sun from beating down on his face. Lady Hightower’s vigorous defense of herself in court had nearly spoiled everything, but when a family is threatened with a grisly, slow death, a judge’s mind can be changed.

  And it wasn’t a threat. Melchor was ready to carry out the violence in the event the judge proved stubborn, but he bet that good old Pinkerton was no stranger to bribes and had no doubt twisted justice to fit someone else’s means many times before. Sentencing one of the Queen’s favorites to death, however, required a bit more persuasion than money could provide.

  A jostling, anxious crowd squeezed in around him. He had waited through the night to guarantee a good vantage point, and he wasn’t the only one that had braved the dark for that purpose. The avenues leading to the Drowning Bridge had burgeoned with spectators well before dawn, and the City Watch came with them, shoving them back to the side and quelling arguments and occasional fistfights over the best spots.

  Melchor pulled his pocket watch out of his beaten leather jacket, careful to conceal the golden accessory that had no place in the pocket of the farmhand he was pretending to be. It had belonged to the late Horace Clout, though Melchor’s reasons for acquiring the timepiece were far from the sentimental. His money was running low, and he couldn’t risk meeting with his other Creetisian contacts at such a critical juncture in their plan. Baron Longford was ready. Melchor himself was ready. And the Creetisian troops sneaking through the mountains in the north were ready to march south with almost no resistance as the bulk of Bittermarch’s army had been committed to the south.

  Today, the heir to the throne would die. Tonight the monarch of Bittermarch and Lord Ember would follow suit. The first shots of the war would be fired in the south to complete the diversion before the week was out, and Bellshire would be ripe for the plucking by their forces from the north.

  The distant sound of horses quieted the crowd, necks craning down the road in search of the execution party. A full fifteen minutes passed before Melchor could see it. The hooded executioner rode at the front, horse as black as his uniform. Two lines of blue uniformed soldiers followed, rifles on their shoulders. In the middle of them walked the Lady Hightower, pale as birch and clutching a pendant around her neck.

  Such a waste of a beautiful woman. He would want a bride when he settled down on some estate in newly conquered Bittermarch, and if that wife looked like the Lady Hightower, he would forgive a great deal of other character defects. Far from somber, dull attire, she
wore a fetching red dress as if heading to a ball. Her midnight hair was curled and bounding around her shoulders with each step toward her doom. Some poor maid had gone to a lot of effort for hair that would be matted to her head in death in scant minutes.

  While her dress and her beauty showed fire, her eyes were extinguished and haunted. How cruel it must have been to have the victory in court snatched from her just when the decision seemed hers. Melchor shook his head. Could such a woman have led Bittermarch? He thought not, though her composure at her trial had earned his respect. A waste of a good woman indeed, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Behind the execution party came a carriage that would convey any friends and relations of hers that wished to support her during her last moments of life. The coach and four was expensive, and Melchor knew it likely carried Queen Filippa herself. He had bet that Lady Hightower’s parents—conspirators in a plot whose first casualty would be their daughter—would absent themselves from the proceedings.

  Foot over foot and wheel-turn by wheel-turn they came toward the awful bridge and its mechanism of death. The bridge the Bittermarchians had constructed for meting out capital punishment was wide enough for bleachers on one side and a pulley attached to a cage on the other. The short cage forced the condemned to kneel while the executioner swung a heavy arm over the river and used a crank to lower the cage down into the depths of Cloud River. There it remained for ten minutes and then was hauled up.

  Loved ones were not allowed to retrieve the body of traitors, forced to watch as the executioner retrieved the body, weighted it with chains, and consigned it to the river. The Creetisians preferred hangings, but Melchor thought the drownings more horrifying in their way. The suffering of the prisoner was completely left to the imagination of the crowd, though it did spare them the memorable scenes of jerking bodies and twitching feet common with a good hanging.

  Even the little children seemed to hush as the procession arrived and the executioner dismounted. Somewhere, a summer bird not quite aware of the dire proceedings belted out a cheery tune that floated over the rushing, hungry water.