by Stephen Hunt
‘Then I say to the court that we cannot extend leniency to your step-daughter, however much that decision and duty pains us.’ Callum Perry turned towards Willow. ‘If the defender rests her case then the prosecutor shall call for a due verdict to be made. Lady Wallingbeck, do you have anything to say in this case and do you recognize this court.’
And there’s the trap. ‘I have little to say that would please anyone here, so I shall retain my silence, beyond saying that of course I recognize the court’s authority.’
‘You recognize it? Are you certain?’
His shock this time needed no acting skills. Yes, you thought to goad me into cursing you all for a pack of paid-for lapdogs trotting behind Bad Marcus. Willow grimaced at the cunning lawyer. ‘The High Laws of Weyland’s upper chamber are the foundation stones of our legal system.’ Hard, cold stones that should have remained long covered over by the Common Law.
‘Then I call the court to its verdict.’
The three judges filed away, returning to their seats in short order. Too soon. But then, how could I expect anything else? A clerk of court arrived. He was passed down three scrolls by the judges. Should the clerk approach Leyla Holten first with the verdict, then Willow was judged innocent. Naturally, the clerk crossed to the prosecutor for the verdict to be read, drawing moans from the crowd. Everyone loves an underdog.
‘Lady Wallingbeck,’ pronounced the lawyer. ‘You are found guilty of the foul murder of Lloyd Horting. Your sentence is to be execution on the public gallows . . . hanging from the neck until you shall be made dead. This sentence will be commuted until three days after you have given birth, and carried out no later than seven days after the birth of your first child.’
There were weeps of consternation from members of the public. They had come for their spectacle, their torrid little drama, and they had certainly been given it.
Let’s see if I can toss them a little extra spectacle. ‘Who brings this case against me?’ asked Willow, fighting to keep her voice under control.
‘What?’ said the prosecutor, uncertain. ‘What do you say?’
Willow’s lip curled into a snarl. ‘What I say is that my house has just exercised its right of defence of defamation of its good name through my “mother”. But who dares to bring this case of murder against the House of Landor? There will be a name on the rolls, I trust, of the vile liar who accuses me?’
‘It is your husband, the honourable Viscount Wallingbeck.’
There was a murmur of disapproval from the gallery at that, even one well-packed with the usurper’s sympathizers and his shills in the press. For a husband to seek the trial of a pregnant wife was viewed ungallant in the extreme by southern gentlemen.
‘The verdict has now been pronounced,’ said the prosecutor. ‘These are unnecessary details to dwell on.’
Willow jabbed a finger at Leyla Holten. ‘While that failed actress was bedding her way to my fortune, I was busy studying in Hawkland Park. Mastering commerce, learning how to keep my family estate in hale health. Learning how to preserve our holdings and increase them. There are thousands of books in so big a library, many of them full of detail, both necessary and unnecessary. Even a very dusty and faded full set of the High Law of the House of Prefects.’
‘Verdict has been pronounced,’ repeated Callum Perry, sounding increasingly shrill.
‘I heard you the first time,’ growled Willow. ‘I have a very fine set of ears. Not quite as aesthetically pleasing as that woman’s, but they serve me well enough. What you’re too stupid to realize is that I needed you to pronounce immediately. You certainly didn’t fail to disappoint me. Under the High Law of Weyland I reject this verdict and request lawful Trial by Ordeal under Conciliar Jurisdiction of the Prefecture.’
‘Trial by—’ the prosecutor spluttered, ‘—you mean trial by combat?’
‘I do.’
‘You are female, you are with child!’
‘So I am. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than running a sabre through William Wallingbeck’s repellent heart,’ said Willow. ‘And believe me when I say, if I wasn’t presently as slow as a pit-pony with half a quarry in both baskets I would jump at that opportunity.’
‘Then you have no choice but to accept our verdict.’
‘No, the High Law clearly states that I have the right to appoint a male champion to fight William Wallingbeck on my behalf, as long as that champion is from my house and fit to defend my honour. My father’s a little old for it, don’t you think? So I select my brother Duncan Landor to act as my champion.’
‘Your brother will have no part in this!’
‘Then I must refer you to the Privy Prefect Councillors’ second edict made at the Assize of Riverlarn which states that refusing to act as a champion be the act of a craven and punishable by force of axe to the neck,’ said Willow. ‘And after Duncan’s executed, I’ll select my father as champion. And if he refuses . . . well, you see my point. You’ll find the assize in the twelfth volume of the High Law if you have the thirty-six volume set.’
‘You will not prosper by this!’
‘I believe I just did. You can follow the ancient High Law,’ said Willow, ‘or Bad Marcus can restore the Assembly and our Common law and I will accept retrial by a jury of my peers and a defenderunder-law of my employment. Now, Mr Perry, I’m ravenous. Kindly scare me up some supper. After that you had better slip away to the guild’s radio hold and send a message to your king explaining how you failed. Then, cooking for me will, I suspect, look like a very satisfying choice among the few left to you.’
The prosecutor turned towards the judges beseechingly. ‘I ask that this case be struck off and removed for immediate retrial.’
The elderly judge in the middle of the three smiled ever so slightly. ‘After a verdict made and accepted by both sides? Please, sir, please. Never in a thousand years. The High Law is the High Law, sir. It is the granite of our throne. Lady Wallingbeck, the right of Trial by Ordeal under Conciliar Jurisdiction of the Prefecture is yours. As originally granted by Queen Hazilire, I believe.’
‘Quite so, your honour,’ said Willow, with just the right tone of humility.
There was uproar in court at the unexpected turn of events. Willow stood up from her hard stool and blew Leyla Horton a kiss. The palefaced woman looked like she’d been struck by a bucket of night-soil tossed out of a window. ‘This one’s for you, Mother.’
Willow had rather hoped that she wouldn’t have to see Leyla Holten again until the day of her trial-by-combat, but as always, just hoping for it had made the woman’s appearance more likely. Leyla Holten strode her way into Willow’s cell after the door swung open, kicking damp straw aside with disgust. Willow had smelled the strong sweet perfume before the door opened. However expensive the scent, it couldn’t compensate for the reek of the provost office’s cells under Northhaven’s army barracks. Not exactly made for comfort. Willow didn’t bother sitting up from the rickety bed frame that was her sole possession here. She suspected that if she hadn’t been with child, and that child the future property of Viscount Wallingbeck, she wouldn’t even have that much.
‘You think you’ve won, don’t you?’ barked Leyla, by way of greeting.
‘I think you would have been better off leaving me in exile in Rodal, old woman.’
Maybe it was the old that got under Leyla’s skin, but she trembled with rage. ‘You haven’t beaten me! I will transform this farce you have arranged into a blade to cut your throat.’
‘What’s the matter, did all the society invites dry up after your “daughter” escaped and joined the rebellion?’
‘I have higher friends than you can imagine. What do you hope to achieve by this duel you’ve tricked the court into ordering? Do you think the viscount will slay his own brother-in-law, or that Duncan will fight to the death for a sister who has betrayed him twice?’
‘Well, they could both fight like milksops to the first blood,’ said Willow. ‘But you know how serious
our gentlemen of the south are about their honour. That’ll surely sully the name of both houses. Maybe my mischief will be enough for me.’
‘You’re trying to buy time,’ said Leyla. ‘But for what?’
‘For Prince Owen to win.’
Leyla laughed coldly. ‘You don’t need weeks for that, you need centuries. The pretender is finished. Parliament’s rebel army has broken and fled the field.’
‘Not so long as Jacob Carnehan is alive.’
‘Your revolutionist pastor? He’s an outlaw working beyond his talents. He lost the war in the north and now he’s been left cowering in our neighbour’s crags across the border. King Marcus rules over all of Weyland.’
There was something about the way Holten said the king’s name that told Willow everything she needed to know about the woman’s ‘friends’ in high places. Willow almost pitied her father, the choices he had made. There’s no fool like an old fool. Taking the king’s mistress to bed might yet prove a chancy business. ‘Quicksilver already has a grave marked just for Bad Marcus.’
‘Let the fool keep it for himself. Did you know that one of the mercenary carriers hired by King Marcus is commanded by Carnehan’s own brother, Black Barnaby? There’s something fitting about engaging the services of a pirate to kill a brigand, don’t you think? Even the pastor’s own family has turned against him and seeks to ingratiate itself with the winning side.’
Leyla smiled at the look of consternation on Willow’s face. ‘So, you didn’t know, then? If your precious troublesome pastor still had a heart for fighting, he never would have fled the Burn. He would have stayed a warlord prince, killing and pillaging as befits such savages. Instead, Carnehan fled across the sea and hid himself away under a cheap woollen church shirt, talking of peace and leading all the good sheep to heaven. What does that tell you about your dangerous, legendary Quicksilver? He is a twice-broken man who has forgotten whatever he was. Where is the great general? Where is the master strategist? He led the rebels down a ravine into a cave with no exit and the royalist army is close to smoking him out for good.’
‘I have seen your smoke,’ muttered Willow, a shiver running down her back that had nothing to do with the damp of this cell. ‘I have seen stealers and the demons shifting inside it. And one is coming for you.’
Leyla shook her head in contempt. ‘Carnehan’s not the only one left broken by the wheel of life’s turn. I always believed your time in captivity as a slave had left your deranged. Now I have the proof of it.’
‘Why did you drag me back to Weyland, Holten? Why did that murderous pig Nocks risk his neck for you? It surely wasn’t just revenge for me escaping from your arranged marriage and humiliating you? There has to be more to it than that?’
‘You will find out just how much more,’ promised Leyla. ‘All in good time.’ She banged on the cell door for the guards to open it. ‘And then we shall see who has won and who has lost here.’
Willow cursed the treacherous woman after she left. What is she planning? To outguess Leyla Holten, Willow would have to learn to think like the scheming woman, a prospect that frankly sickened her. But I have the time. That is all I have locked in here. Time and my mind. Yes, let us see who is to win here.
TEN
TRIAL BY FIRE
Anticipation had built all morning along with the crowd’s numbers, and at last, the moment Carter was dreading arrived. The young Weylander had known it would come when the nomads entered the cage at sun-up, manacling his and Sariel’s hands behind their backs. Trussed like birds clucking for a plucking. Now, four blue-skinned warriors arrived and unlocked the cage, hauling Carter and Sariel roughly through the narrow entrance. His stomach turned in horror. They were going to be put to the fire on an empty gut, but that had a sharp logic to it. Why waste good food on someone who is going to meet a bad death?
The man in control of the proceedings stepped forward and raised his hands. He put Carter in mind of a slightly younger Sariel, if the rascally old bard had shaved his white beard and been starved to gaunter features. The chants of the mob threw Carter the name he’d expected. Temmell Longgate.
Warriors behind Carter forced him down to his knees. Sariel as well, to show deference to their appointed judge.
‘It is time,’ called Temmell. ‘Time for these intruders to face the trial.’
Howls of approval met his words, hundreds of swords and daggers jabbing in unison towards the sky.
‘Do you not know me?’ demanded Sariel, struggling as two warriors pulled the old man to his feet and shoved him towards his stake. ‘Do you not recognize Sariel Skel-Bane?’
‘I know you very well. You are a pair of fools stupid enough to try to steal from the clans and believe you might live to boast of it,’ said Temmell. ‘You are rodents who think to steal scraps from hill lions. This is the rodents’ reward.’
‘I know you, Temmell Longgate,’ thundered Sariel, ‘and I have seen your dreams. Troubled and dark and filled with scampering devils.’
Temmell shook his head for a second, as though groggily warding off a hypnotism cast by Sariel. ‘Perhaps you are just the sort of trickster who sends such dreams, then sells cures to ease them? I am not taken in by your chicanery, you tickle-brained liar. It is a pale shadow of my power.’
Demands to get on with the weirdling’s torching resounded from the nomad mob. The Nijumeti wanted their trial by fire. Carter saw savage bloodlust burning in their faces as the guards hauled him unwillingly towards the second stake. He had a terrible feeling that whatever tales Sariel had saved for this moment would have little influence over their fate.
Carter was halfway to his stake when an old woman stepped forward. He spotted Kerge in the crowd behind her. This must be the sorcerer’s rival Kerge spoke of. Madinsar. The witch rider. Kerge had at least accomplished what he promised. Carter prayed hard that the gask’s mistress could sway the clan. The loud mob fell silent behind her. Respect or fear?
‘I have seen this old weirdling in my dream-walkings. He has the power to aid the clans,’ appealed the high priestess.
‘Or perhaps the power to destroy us?’ snared Temmell. ‘A blade may cut both ways.’
‘I caution for their release,’ said the witch rider. ‘Sparing them will please Atamva.’
‘So such a dangerous weapon may fall into your hands, Madinsar?’ said Temmell, angry at his challenger’s mischief at the trial.
‘These hands have long served the clan.’
‘And mine do not?’ rumbled Temmell. ‘I do not send Kani Yargul’s horde ambiguous visions of what may come, designed to be interpreted whichever way the wind blows. I have made the clans a mighty skyguard! I have fashioned the means by which we will sweep over every enemy who has stolen soil, calls it their own and denies us our destiny.’
‘How little you know the Nijumeti. Victory is only ever claimed by the rider,’ said Madinsar insolently, ‘never the trader who sold the metal that forged the rider’s blade.’
Carter gazed around the nomad crowd’s angry, intent faces. He could see that there were no viscounts and dukes among these quarrelsome people. They had a democracy of sorts. They convinced by words and deeds, and when that failed, a sharp sabre edge.
‘You claim the future, witch rider, yet you live only in the past.’
‘I have seen a little of what this weirdling means for your future,’ said the witch rider. ‘And I smell your fear of him upon you.’
‘These interlopers have no future,’ said Temmell. ‘Not unless the weirdling’s sorcery proves stronger than mine.’
‘Summon Kani Yargul here,’ demanded the woman. ‘Let him decide.’
‘And trouble the Krul of Kruls over a couple of foreign reivers? Perhaps he would like to come and advise the clan on how many nuts should be counted into your breakfast bowl? After that, he can decide on the colour of my boots’ fur lining and whether I should mount my black stallion or my white.’
The crowd roared with amusement. They seemed to like
a good joke. Unfortunately, Carter couldn’t think of any.
Temmell shook his head fiercely. ‘No! Let us begin the trial.’
Carter felt the slim thread of hope slip out of his grasp. She’s lost the day. He felt like a fool for daring to hope. How can any witch’s words compete with the gift of a skyguard?
Two people stepped from the crowd behind the witch rider. Allies or foes? A large warrior Carter didn’t recognize, with a woman he knew all too well. Lady Cassandra Skar. Carter wasn’t so much surprised by her appearance as the fact she seemed far less crippled than he had been led to believe. The young woman was mobile and on her legs. Carter saw the way the warrior treated the young Vandian noblewoman and he recognized that look well. Did Cassandra fake her injuries to remain here with that big brute? If Cassandra had tricked
Princess Helrena into freeing her from the celestial caste’s life of strife and plotting, then Carter had underestimated the young woman.
‘The weirdling asks who knows him,’ said Lady Cassandra. ‘I shall answer. I know both the sly sorcerer and the Weyland boy.’
‘What is this? Were you a thief in a gang with these two dogs, then?’ laughed Temmell. ‘How well you have chosen, Alexamir Arinnbold. I had believed Lady Cassandra merely a noblewoman of Vandia. You should have let the clan know of your celebrated bloodline of robbery before your mother flew here, my lady. Casting large shadows with her metal toys. Trespassing against people never given to the empire to command.’
‘Let her speak, Temmell,’ demanded Alexamir. ‘She is of the clan now and has the right.’
Temmell bowed, mockingly. ‘Very well, let the Vandian use the gift of her tongue as well as she uses my gift of her restored legs. The former is a gift I find common in the fine women of our clan.’
There were more roars of laughter at this, as well as hoots of amused derision from female warriors.
Carter barely had time to take in what had been said before Cassandra approached the two captives, standing directly behind Sariel and himself. She seized Sariel by the scruff of his long leather coat. ‘This trickster is chief adviser to my enemies and captors. He travelled to Vandia to assist in my abduction. He carried me back to Weyland to make a hostage of me, to ask for a ransom so mighty that even the richest emperor in Pellas would not pay it.’