Two Sendalis grabbed him. One Ear picked up the weapon, baring his teeth.
“Break it up,” shouted a guard. Several approached.
The Sendalis released their grip.
“On the floor, inmate!” The screw planted a kick. Guyen’s knee buckled, and he collapsed in the mud, sending One Ear a defiant glare on the way down. The returned look said he was a dead man. Well, he wasn’t yet. The guards bundled him back to the cell.
He sat in the gloom, nursing his bruised leg. How was he going to survive three more days in here? He pictured the glass shard in the slop bucket. Perhaps he’d have to use it. How had it gotten to this? Thoughts turned to the outside world. Did Jal know where Yemelyan was? Did Mother know he’d been arrested? Was Dalrik doing anything to help? Could he? Probably not. Insane as it was, Ariana, the primmest of haughty Sendali Highborns, was probably his only bet. He’d lay coin she was a damn good one though.
That night, he couldn’t sleep for a sense of impending doom. Toulesh flitted about, erratic and nervous, keeping watch at the door. Much as he hated to, Guyen let him roam and tried to sleep. When he stirred, it was with the feeling he’d suddenly fallen. The simulacrum had woken him. Activity in the corridor. Gods knew what time it was. A key scraped in the lock. He sat bolt upright.
The door opened, and One Ear entered with a lamp. Guyen scrambled down from the bed, heart pounding. The door shut. The key turned in the lock.
“Good morning, Krellen.” Stallenhall was silent apart from a few distant howls.
Guyen backed away. “Who let you in here?”
One Ear leered. “You bloody disrespected me today. I don’t like people disrespecting me. It’s bad for business.”
Guyen edged around the cell, glancing through the grill. The corridor was empty save for the flickering wall torch. “Stay away from me,” he spat. “I’ll fight you!” How would he fare with the man in a proper fight? Not well, the bastard had an advantage—he enjoyed killing.
One Ear laughed. “All I want is what you promised. I know you had a visitor. Wealthy tart she was too.” He stepped closer, waving the bone dagger.
Guyen glanced at the slop bucket, picturing the glass shard. He’d have to be quick if he went for that. He thought frantically. What were the man’s weaknesses? Did he have any? Actually, he did have one—he liked a wager. “Wait,” Guyen said, “I do have something.” He pulled the fake silver from his pocket. “What about a bet?”
One Ear glanced at the coin. “What kind of bet?”
Guyen banished Toulesh from the room. A mist of swirling blue nether light rose from the floor, clamour strengthening. “I’ll bet you can’t call heads or harps on this coin,” he said.
“I could just cut yer bloody throat,” One Ear scoffed. “Seems more fun in that.”
“You want rid of Uoth or not?”
He considered. “What are your terms?”
“Ten flips. Beat me, and I’ll kill Uoth for you. Otherwise, you give me more time to get your drugs.” Hopefully, he didn’t know about the trial date.
One Ear sneered, malevolence dripping from his scarred face. “Take that bet.”
This was risky. “Go on then,” Guyen said. “Heads or harps?”
He shrugged. “Heads.”
A good start. The coin was already set to harps. Guyen tossed it expertly up, caught it, and turned it out on the back of his hand. Harps stared up.
One Ear grunted. “Harps then.”
Guyen slipped focus. The ceiling cobwebs lit up. He stared into the coin, searching out the Primearch’s head. Power surged, and the coin glowed red with nether light. A dusting of web and dried up spiders fell from the ceiling.
One Ear swore, brushing them away. “Filthy, bloody hole.”
Guyen tossed the coin. It landed heads.
One Ear frowned. “Harps again.”
Guyen tossed once more. The result was predictable.
One Ear growled. “Bloody heads then.”
Guyen repeated the process, charming the coin back to harps.
The slop bucket emitted a sharp crack. One Ear jumped. “What’s the trick, wild boy?”
“No trick. I have a lucky streak, is all.”
“Give it to me,” he muttered. “I’ll bloody do it.” He snatched the coin, weighing it in his hand. He glared, expression thick with suspicion. “This ain’t a normal silver.”
Guyen showed his palms. “Does it matter? It’s your call. What could be fairer?” Charming the coin would be more difficult now the Sendali was holding it. How had he done it back in that alehouse so many moons ago?
“Harps,” One Ear grunted. He threw the silver up.
Guyen pulled in Faze from all around, from the cobwebs, the spiders, stale gruel, the slop bucket… and the room hazed, the coin spinning slowly in mid-air like a sycamore seed on the breeze. He was back in the Overlay, the Sendali frozen in place. Clamour broke into ethereal, voice-like chimes as Faze hummed through the room, everything alive with nether light.
He focused on the coin, looking for heads. It revealed itself. He was about to swap it out when he had a better idea. Perhaps he could teach the bastard a lesson, at least scare him off. He discarded the heads version, and finding harps, superimposed that instead. It should make the coin heavier. His stomach twinged. That was no good, he needed to channel Faze from his surroundings, not himself.
He tried again.
This time, the vaporous blue light rose from the floor and bled from the walls. That was better. He superimposed more versions of the coin. It glowed, the Primearch’s head burning crimson red. He pressed on, isolating, substantiating, combining, gods-knew how many times—fifty, a hundred, a thousand?
He released focus and time exploded back into motion as One Ear caught the coin. The Sendali balked as if he’d just caught a boulder, instinctively adding another hand to support the weight. Faze leaked into the metal in real time now, like some out-of-control reaction, steaming up from the floor, out of the walls, every glimmering surface crackling. Summoning Toulesh would stop it, but that wasn’t the desired effect. One Ear fell to his knees, hands pinned to the floor, then his palm bulged. He screamed. And with a slurping, tearing sound, the coin punched through.
The Sendali howled like a banshee, blood pouring from his hands like a river. The slop bucket lay split in two, frozen dust fizzing around it. Green shoots curled up from the wooden bed, and every inch of Creep smoked—brown, frazzled, dead.
Guyen summoned Toulesh. The world solidified.
The door burst open. The guard stared. “Hayern’s Might!”
The one-eared bastard whelped on the floor. He’d got what was coming. The first of many paybacks.
“I think he might need a surgeon,” Guyen murmured.
One Ear moaned. “Get me out of here. Away from him.”
When the Sendali returned to Stallenhall the next day, he’d lost both hands, the surgeons unable to save them. There was every chance he’d die in agony from an infection. And good riddance. Bizarrely, every patch of Creep within a hundred-yard-radius of the cell had turned to flaky brown dust. The source of the probability he’d stolen for the trick, most likely. Sadly, the coin was irretrievable, buried several inches beneath the stone floor. But it had certainly gone out in a blaze of glory.
Without hands to wield his shank, One Ear no longer merited Top Dog status, thus a temporary peace descended. True to his word, Uoth offered his protection, but it wasn’t needed. Word spread quickly in Stallenhall.
41
A Citizen’s Revenge
The jailor came at dawn on Soulesday. Time for Sendali so-called justice, whatever that meant. Ariana had said the trial in front of the Prime Council might last several days, but hadn’t wanted to discuss sentencing. There’d been no word from her. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to come up with a defence. Globes, she might not be permitted to represent him at all.
At least the not-knowing would be over with soon, likely along with breathing.
/> The inmates banged on their grills, offering greetings as Guyen passed out into the icy morning air. One Ear’s demise had not gone unrewarded, the jailor delivering a bowl of fresh water to wash with and a clean shirt to wear. The thin material was little protection from the cold though. A transport waited outside the prison gates along with a full escort of outriders, no expense spared for today’s spectacle, the show trial of the year.
Two guards pushed him into a wagon, a cage on wheels, climbing in afterwards with a manner of quiet professionalism. “Hands in the hoop,” one barked.
He complied, and they tied him tight to the bars. He’d not complain at the pain, no matter how much the cold infected his fingers like an old woman’s arthritis. The wagon set off with a lurch and they rolled through the icy streets, frozen puddles glittering weakly in the wagon’s oil lamps. Citizens starting their days stared like he was an animal. He may as well have been one. He was certainly a pathetic excuse for a human being—a useless son, a terrible friend, and a worse brother.
“Smoke?” the guard offered.
“No, thank you,” Guyen said.
“Go on, it’s traditional.”
“I won’t, thanks anyway.”
The guard lit his pipe. “Is it true what they say about you? You’re a fanatic?”
Where the hell had that come from? “I’ve nothing to do with the rebels,” Guyen replied.
“I heard the Prime’s murder was part of a conspiracy,” the guard said. “That right is it?”
There was no point answering with the truth. “I’m an innocent man,” he said. That would have to do.
The guard laughed. “They all say that.” The wagon turned a corner, brightening dawn striping them in pink light. “Amazing sunrise,” he said.
“Ay, going to be a fine day,” the other man said.
Guyen stared desolately through the bars.
Entry to the Devotoria was swift and functional, the wagon sweeping into the bowels through the gated entrance on Justice Road. The holding cell was like any other a thousand times over across the Feyrlands—a box room with a shelf for a bed and a bucket to use anyway you liked. The floor was cold underfoot, boots left outside—why risk him hanging himself by his laces and deprive them of the satisfaction? Light was minimal, afforded only by the torch in the corridor. That was a good thing. It made hiding from the nosy scrags peering in through the bars easier. He scowled back. They might not see his face but it made him feel better. After a while, he freed Toulesh to prowl the environs, the locked door no concern, but when the simulacrum returned he brought back only worries.
Several hours passed before the Captain of the Guard appeared with two men-at-arms. He offered a disapproving frown. “I could have told them this would happen.”
He was right. Hadn’t this day been coming from the moment the Devotions had been landed with him—the outsider, the enemy? Haven’t they been trying to purge the infection, to carve you out of their hallowed halls ever since?
“Put your boots on,” the captain ordered.
Guyen slipped his feet in and tied the laces.
“Hold out your hands.”
He offered his wrists.
“Put this on him,” the captain ordered his underling, handing over a belt. The guard wrapped it round Guyen’s midriff and fastened his hands to it. “Right, time to move,” the captain barked.
“I would like to talk with my counsel,” Guyen said.
The captain shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.” He shoved him unceremoniously towards the open door. “Let’s go.”
They climbed a winding staircase from the holding area, passing guards at each landing, and reached the mezzanine floor. At the end of a short corridor, an arched doorway decorated with carvings of gallows and hanging men presented—the prisoner’s entrance to the Council chamber. The door was embossed with the Star of Devotion, the inscription above the arch the familiar Brotherhood of Talents motto of the Primearchy.
“I’ll see if they’re ready for him,” the captain said, and disappeared inside. A babble of voices bled out as the door closed behind him.
“You’re a popular boy,” the guard said. “Place is heaving.”
“Well, you Sendalis love a show.”
The man nodded appreciatively. “You got some balls, my friend, I’ll give you that.”
Locking Toulesh in tight, Guyen turned to face the door. A moment later, the captain reappeared and beckoned him through.
The musty chamber was full. Onlookers lined benches along the sides, and the gallery was packed. The six Primes sat at their stations, Jal occupying the Grande Prime’s position at the centre, the others ranged around her. Sub Prime Kynsley had replaced Wilhelm as head of the Scholars. Rialto stared into the distance, expression blank. The chamber quietened and the guards led the way to a raised dock at the front. They pushed him up the steps and into the chair. One attached his restraints to a tether, then stepped away.
There was no sign of Ariana. Nyra and Tishara looked down from the gallery, but no Mist, and no Dalrik—of course, seeing him had been a forlorn hope. No, just a lot of Sendalis dressed up in their finery, excited for the spectacle to come. Nervous sickness bit. Another empty bucket sat on the floor. He probably wouldn’t be the first to throw up at his own trial.
The bewigged clerk conducting proceedings cleared his throat. “In the case of the Primearchy versus Maker Guyen Yorkov, the charge is one of murder within Devotions jurisdiction. Would the prosecutor please indicate themself for the record?”
Jal rose. She was doing this herself? How did she have the gall?
“Jal Belana, House of Felonius,” she said.
“Who represents the accused?” the clerk asked, looking at Rialto.
He shook his head. He probably wanted as much distance between them as possible. It was understandable, if cold. The clerk turned to his secretary. “Let the record show the accused has no counsel.” He looked up. “You will represent yourself, Maker Yorkov.”
Guyen stared, incredulous. “Sir, I know nothing of the statutes. How shall I do that?”
“String him up,” someone shouted from the gallery. The chamber broke out in a hubbub.
The clerk banged his gavel. “Order! I will have order.” He turned back. “You must address me as clerk. If you need to consult on a point of law, you may confer with my secretary.” He signalled the man hunched over several open books beside him. Guyen sent a desperate look up to Tishara. She shook her head in shared disgust. A commotion sounded outside, and the guards rushed to block the doors. A woman’s voice trilled. Guyen’s heart soared.
“Let me pass,” Ariana barracked. “You may not interfere with the Truths.”
The clerk waved at the guards. They lowered their swords, and Ariana stormed into the chamber, black Justice’s robes whipping. They suited her, highlighting her blonde hair. Her father, High Justice Thurl, followed behind, his face thunder.
Jal shot to her feet. “What is this?”
“Clerk, I attend as counsel for the accused,” Ariana announced. “Mistress Thurl of the Scholars.” She offered a shallow bow.
“You?” Jal scoffed. “You’re just a girl.”
General Berese waved at the clerk. “Is this allowed, man?”
The clerk turned to Ariana. “What is your Assignment, Mistress Thurl?”
“I am assigned to the Truths, clerk. In my father’s honourable footsteps.”
The clerk looked to him. “Is this true, High Justice?”
Thurl straightened his tie. “It is, clerk. She is my daughter. However, she is not qualified for the bar.”
“I see. One moment.” The clerk consulted his secretary, and they unfurled a scroll, peering over it for an age. He looked up, nervously adjusting his oval-rimmed eyeglasses. “It is permitted. Let Mistress Thurl take her place.” He signalled an empty desk.
Jal let out an exasperated cluck. “The Office will hear of this, clerk.” Her tone was like hoarfrost.
&nb
sp; Ariana glared defiantly across the chamber. This was payback time. She would do something for her mother today. She strutted to her desk. “May I consult with my client, clerk?”
“It is permitted,” the clerk said.
The chamber descended into an interested din. She approached, climbing the steps.
Guyen offered a grateful smile. “Am I glad to see you.”
She frowned. “Just go along with everything. Say nothing, understand?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She returned to her desk, face wrought with worry. Whatever she had planned, it came with no guarantees.
“Order,” called the clerk. The chamber ignored him. “Order! Let us move to the details of the charge.” Quiet descended, and he unfurled a scroll. “In the matter of the Primearchy versus the Krellen national Guyen Yorkov, the accused is herewith—”
Ariana stood. “Excuse me, clerk, Citizen Yorkov is just that—a citizen.”
Jal regarded her with disdain. “Come now, Mistress Thurl, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
The clerk looked between them. “The Council notes your objection, Mistress.” Ariana waved him on. The clerk continued. “The accused is charged with the murder of Prime Arik Devere on last Noxen night, who died subsequent to a fall from the roof gardens above us. How do you plead for the accused, Mistress Thurl?”
“Not guilty, clerk.”
The clerk banged his gavel. “Procedural matters pertaining to this case have already been settled in pre-trial, so we move on to argument. I call upon the prosecution.”
Jal stood. All eyes trained on her. She approached, still attractive in a masochistic kind of way. She addressed the chamber. “My lords, Mistress, you are familiar with the details of the case outlined in your notes, but a crime so heinous as murder bequeaths a legacy of pain which cannot be appreciated on parchment. You all knew Lord Devere as a faithful servant to Sendal and a man of the highest standing within the Devotions, but to me—” She looked down at the floor. “To me, he was everything.”
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