It was just an hour before dusk, and the dancing was in full swing, when the Lord Inquisitor rode into town in a hired coach, his face clenched and frustrated.
Obviously, the terms of the trial were not to his liking. “We’ll begin jury selection tonight!” he announced to his men, and they rounded up Gallen and his young wife and herded him back to Gallen’s home.
Gallen selected Deacon Green to be his defender in the case, and within the hour the townspeople drew lots for jury duty. All of the northern sheriffs put their lots in, and to Gallen’s great dismay, four of them won seats on the jury, along with two men and a woman from nearby. Even in his own village, the jury was stacked against him.
Gallen was given copies of the affidavits sworn against him, and he and Maggie and Orick and Deacon Green studied them for a bit. Three men out of County Obhiann told how they had planned the robbery two weeks ago, how they had taken Seamus O’Connor down, then Gallen, and were beating the men, planning to rob them (they omitted the fact that they were planning to cut Gallen’s throat), when they swore that Gallen uttered his prayer and hell itself disgorged one of its minions, a magical man with wicked swords and a face that glowed like starlight. Later, as they ran away, they claimed that they looked back over the hills and saw a strange light, as if the very bowels of hell had opened.
Technically, their case had some weaknesses. In many places their sworn testimony had been copied verbatim from one document to the next, so it would be easy enough to prove that they had been in collusion. Second, they were all felons—robbers who nevertheless swore that murder had never entered their minds that night.
And there were some holes in their testimony. None of them had actually witnessed the bowels of hell open, and they did not claim to have seen any other sign of the demons that troubled the area the next morning.
Yet as Deacon Green, a tall, balding man with round spectacles, studied the testimony, he muttered under his breath. “Och, Gallen. You’re in a tight spot, sure, lad. I don’t see a way out of this. You’ll do prison time, at the very least.”
“How can that be?” Maggie said, sitting on the sofa, holding Gallen’s hand. “Why would anyone believe those robbers, instead of Gallen?”
“The Bible says that out of the mouths of two or three witnesses, every word shall be established,” Deacon Green said. “And so according to law, if three witnesses testify against a man in a capital case, then that man will … well, he’ll hang—unless we can shake the accusers.”
“What about Seamus O’Connor’s testimony?” Maggie asked, biting her lower lip. “We can put him on the stand.”
“But what can the man swear to? He was so drunk he had to hire Gallen to keep him from falling off his horse, and then he got a knock in the head halfway through the battle and didn’t wake up for four days. He says that he’s willing to swear that the men who tried to rob him were murderous bastards, and he hopes they all go to hell. But I’m afraid people can only laugh at any testimony he has to give.”
“But we can prove that the witnesses here have something against me,” Gallen contended. “Mason and Argent Flaherty both had a brother and a cousin killed in the attack that night. They have a blood debt against me.”
“But both of them swear that they came forward to the law out of remorse,” the good deacon said. “Both of them are to be whipped with forty lashes for their crime, once they testify against you. If they only wanted revenge, they could have lain in wait for you of a dark night and cut your throat. Now, I know that you feel they have something against you, but the fact is that their remorse seems genuine, and this could sway the jury.”
Gallen shook his head, wondering, “Could they have worked out a deal with that Bishop Mackey? Perhaps they’ll get a commuted sentence for testifying against me.”
“All three men claim that they sought such a bargain, but that Bishop Mackey never spoke a promise in return,”
“And what of the reward?” Maggie asked. “Isn’t there money for proving witchcraft against a man? These men are robbers, so why wouldn’t they be willing to lie for some money?”
“Fifty pounds.” Deacon Green sighed. “Not enough to risk your life for.”
Gallen wondered. There is always someone who holds life cheap. All three of these men were desperate. To some degree, they had all risked their lives in trying to rob Seamus O’Connor of fifty pounds, but then it had been nine men against two—and the robbers had never expected Gallen O’Day to be among those two. They’d hoped to get five pounds per man then.
Would they go to so much trouble for a share of fifty pounds split three ways? Not likely, not when you considered that they could be whipped within an inch of their lives, in the bargain.
No, there had to be some other reason for them to bring false charges against Gallen.
So Gallen sat with his head bent low, wondering why these strangers would come like this and try to bring so much trouble down on him.
He wondered if it simply might be a matter of conceit. If they got away with this, these three robbers would be revered among outlaws all across the land as the men who had killed Gallen O’Day. And the very irony that they had taken a lawman and had him executed by the law would be a great jest.
Deacon Green made studious notes, probing for weaknesses in the transcripts, hunting for avenues to pursue. Gallen studied with him for a bit, but his eyes ached from lack of sleep, so he and Maggie went to his room to rest. Maggie just sat on the edge of the bed, holding him for a while, as Gallen considered.
If I were the greatest counselor in the world, Gallen asked himself, what would I do? He rested in Maggie’s arms for a long moment, waiting for some insight to fill him, to send knowledge coursing through his body until it seemed that understanding flowed from his fingertips. So often in the past, this technique had served Gallen well. But Gallen waited long, yet no insight came.
Finally, Gallen realized that the deacon’s expertise in such matters was far beyond his, so he closed the door to his bedroom, leaving Deacon Green to study and Orick to sit out on the couch talking with Gallen’s mother about the injustices committed by the northern sheriffs who were holding Orick’s good friend, a she-bear named Grits.
The house began to feel stuffy—with that wet, earthy smell that fills a house-tree in the evening—so he opened his window a crack, looked out. Twenty sheriffs surrounded the house, and Gallen’s opening of the window was the most exciting move he had made in hours. Four of them drew in closer, backlit by their campfires.
Gallen sat on his bed, and Sheriff Sully stuck his dark face through the windows. “Needing a bit of fresh air, are you?” he leered. “A bit winded, are you, from doing your business with that juicy little wife of yours? Well, I’ve got a bit of fresh news for you: guess what? I got on your jury. Isn’t that worthy of a laugh?”
“Every juror has to swear that he has nothing against me,” Gallen said, surprised at the undisguised malice in the sheriff’s voice.
“Oh, and I’ll swear it,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got nothing personal against you. It’s not your fault that you’re so good at what you do. Why, whenever a highwayman strikes, there’s always a bit of a bustle, folks wagging their tongues. ‘Why can’t our sheriffs protect us?’ they ask. ‘Why do we pay these louts three pounds a month, when for just a bit more, we could get Gallen O’Day up here to do the job proper?’
“And when one of us lads goes to a dance and asks an ugly young woman onto the floor, like as not she’ll say, ‘And who do you think you are that I should dance with you—Gallen O’Day?’ So you understand, Gallen, that it’s nothing personal, but after the trial, I for one shall be glad to be rid of you!”
Behind Sully, several other sheriffs laughed, as if this were all just part of some great meaningless hoax. They’d come for entertainment, and they didn’t care if they were cheering Sully on, or Thomas, or Gallen. It was all just fun.
But there is a look that a man gives you just before he seriously trie
s to kill you. It is a fixed stare with constricted pupils and a face that is set and determined. It’s a look that is both relaxed and calculating, and Gallen saw that look now in the eyes of Sheriff Sully. The man was jealous of him, so jealous that he thought it a small thing to kill Gallen.
The sheriffs turned away, walked back to their campfire. Gallen stood at the window, watching them. Gallen could smell the scent of fires. “That croaking old frog,” Maggie whispered. “I’d like to gouge out his eyes and use them for earrings.”
“That isn’t a ladylike thing to say,” Gallen whispered. A cold pain shot up the back of his spine and through his heart. Never had he felt so weak, so unable to defend himself.
So this is the way it ends for me, he wondered. He had done his job as a bodyguard, perhaps done it too well. Now, highwaymen with blood debts against him would stand as witnesses in his trial, and jealous lawmen would cast their jury ballots against him. And there was no way that he could win.
All of this time, Gallen had believed that others respected him, believed that by fighting so hard against the evils of the world he had won their favor. But now he saw that some of them only feared and hated him for what he’d done.
He laughed under his breath. He’d come home to Tihrglas after his adventures on far worlds, come home with the hope of going salmon fishing in the river, of resting and tasting the scent of the clean air under the pines. He had done it so often in his youth, casting his yellow wet-water flies out into the flood and jigging through the rippled stream until a salmon struck, bending his old hickory pole to the snapping point.
But he hadn’t been fishing now in years. Sometime a couple of years ago, he’d put the rod away, and now it looked as if he’d never have the chance to take it up again. Sometime, while trying to win honor and right the wrongs of the world, he’d given up the things he’d enjoyed most.
Gallen glanced into the living room. Deacon Green sat on the sofa, still studying the testimonies of the felons. The creases in his brow and the singular concentration with which he studied showed just how worried he’d become.
It was getting late, and Gallen looked out the window. People were still pouring into town to see the demon and angel in Thomas Flynn’s stable.
The trial of Gallen O’Day would be an added sideshow that few would want to miss. Even now, the sheriffs had a fire beside the road, not twenty feet from the door, and they sat together with their three witnesses. Perhaps two hundred observers had gathered around the house to listen while the false witnesses drunkenly railed against Gallen O’Day, telling how he’d summoned demons from hell, and how he’d laughed about it after.
Gallen studied the faces of the men. The two Flaherty brothers were difficult to miss. Mason was a tall man, hard and strong, and Gallen couldn’t even recall having seen him in the battle on the night that Seamus was attacked. The younger Flaherty, Argent, was one that Gallen recalled well. He had put a knife to the boy’s throat, tried to hold him hostage so that the robbers would back off, let Gallen and Seamus go free. Now, Gallen wished that he had killed the boy in cold blood when he’d had the chance. He doubted that he would be able to get either of the Flahertys to change their testimony.
The third man, though—he interested Gallen. His name was Christian Bean. He was a small man, fat and soft, with a rounded face accentuated by a thin beard. He kept more to himself, seemed almost afraid to talk. Gallen remembered him from the battle, too, but only dimly. The man was a coward who had hung back during the robbery.
Gallen looked up at the stars, thought for a moment of the planet Tremonthin and the young Tharrin woman whose whole world was in jeopardy. Gallen licked his lips, enjoying the way his pulse quickened. Gallen always felt most alive in battle, when the threat of death was imminent. Gallen smiled, for at the moment he felt the thrill.
The spectators at the front of the house began plying Christian Bean with liquor, and he railed against Gallen. Gallen could see the man’s face only by firelight-little piggy eyes that glanced worriedly, hunting the shadows around the house as he described the demon he’d seen, its face glowing like a blue star, the swords in its hand.
“It’s a shame you don’t have another witness in your behalf,” Maggie muttered absently from the bed.
With a start, Gallen realized that there had been another witness to the attack: the very demon that these men accused Gallen of summoning. Little did anyone realize that the demon was Gallen O’Day himself, in disguise. Everynne had sent him back in time after his journey, so that he would return from his long foray to other worlds before he’d even left his home.
And with a second shock, Gallen realized that Christian Bean didn’t fear Gallen or fear that his testimony would be controverted and shown to be a lie. He feared the fairy folk of Coille Sidhe who might yet come to Gallen’s aid. With that recognition, Gallen laughed aloud and rushed to Maggie’s side and kissed her. He knew what he had to do.
The wind came in blustery just after midnight, and the limbs of the house-tree swayed and cracked. Gallen wore his silver mantle, and his robe of changing colors had taken on a deep black to match the night. He wore his black boots and black fighting gloves, carried a single sword, and in his pockets he had the mask of Fale, a mask of palest silver-blue that shone like starlight.
“Are you sure you should be going out there?” Maggie whispered, as she tied the hood of his robe over his mantle. “It’s the only way I know to shake the witnesses,” Gallen said. “If I can scare them into admitting the truth, there will never be a trial.”
Maggie gave him a kiss for luck, then sent him on his way.
Under cover of darkness, and with the sound of the wind and the chattering of voices and the singing accompanied by lutes in the distance, Gallen climbed to the attic of the house-tree and slid open the service door. Slowly, and ever so quietly, he crept out on a limb, then reached back and closed the door behind.
There were people everywhere below him. There could not be less than a hundred just under the bough he was on. Some were sheriffs, but many were just curious onlookers.
Gallen closed his eyes and let the sensors on his mantle show him the scene in infrared. He climbed from limb to limb, until he was nearly over the little knot of sheriffs who sat beside the fire.
Taking a small dronon translator from his pocket, he clipped it to his lapel, then flipped off the translator so that its microphone would simply amplify his voice.
All night long, travelers had been forcing rum and beer onto the sheriffs and the witnesses, and Gallen sat listening to them talk, until at last Christian Bean began raging in a loud whiny voice. “Aye, that Gallen O’Day is half a devil himself. He’s more than a murderer. Mark my words: if he can pray to the devil once and raise hell itself, surely he can do it again—so none of you are safe!”
With those remarks, Gallen grabbed the mask of Fale from his pocket and quickly pushed the rubbery thing over his face. The nanotech devices within the mask immediately flowed into position, conforming to his face, and pulled energy from his body heat, releasing it as photons.
Gallen leapt from limb to ground, so that suddenly he stood in the midst of the crowd. With a roar, he drew his shimmering vibro-blade and pointed it at Christian Bean.
“Behold, a liar and murderer who shall himself soon be a denizen of hell!” Gallen shouted.
There were screams, and all about him, the people fled. The sheriffs were a swirl of motion as they stood, drawing arms. One of them clutched at his sword and stumbled backward, falling into the fire.
Christian Bean just sat, his face lit by the twisting flames of the campfire, his mouth opened wide, clutching a bottle of wine in one hand, a goblet in the other. He was shaking, and Gallen watched in dismay as he soiled his pants.
There was a great uproar, and people from all over town began rushing toward Gallen.
“I warned you,” Gallen said loudly, pointing his sword toward all three of the robbers, “that those who commit murder in Coille Sidhe wo
uld have to answer to me.” His voice carried over the town and reverberated off the walls of the stable. No one on this small world had ever heard such a shout. “Yet now you have returned, and you seek to bring death to a man through your false witness!”
The sheriffs faded back a few steps, leaving the robbers alone beside the fire. All around Gallen, the curious onlookers were quietly retreating, leaving a larger and larger circle.
Gallen moved toward the robbers, and the young Argent Flaherty stood, tried to back away. Gallen commanded him to stop with a roar, and the boy froze, knees shaking.
Gallen moved to within a dozen feet of the men, and suddenly the Lord Inquisitor rushed forward with Sully at his side, and the two put themselves between Gallen and the witnesses. The Lord Inquisitor looked up at Gallen with his piercing blue eyes, and of all the people in town, he did not seem frightened.
“What are you?” the Lord Inquisitor asked, raising a hand as if to stop Gallen.
And at that moment, Gallen realized that he felt odd. Wearing his mantle and the clothing of a Lord Protector, he somehow felt as if he had been endowed with power. Surely, the artificial intelligence within the mantle did give him knowledge beyond the understanding of men, and Gallen felt that he was no longer a common man.
“I am more than a man, less than God,” Gallen said.
“And I am Brother Shayne,” the Lord Inquisitor said softly. He seemed to be wary, and he looked about, trying to see in the distance behind Gallen. Gallen wondered if the Lord Inquisitor wasn’t signaling with his eyes for one of the sheriffs to rush him from behind, but the sensors on his mantle assured Gallen that none were so foolhardy. “You are an angel, then?”
Gallen did not consider. “I am the Lord Protector of this land. I come to protect the righteous, and to bring evil men to judgment.”
Gallen did not want to answer more questions, so he thrust his hand into a fold of his robes and pulled out the light globe he had taken from the corpses in Thomas Flynn’s stable the night before. He raised the globe aloft and squeezed so that a piercingly brilliant light burst over the town, and he stood as if in sunlight while all around him the townsfolk gasped and groaned, shielding their eyes.
Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Page 9