Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (2 page)

‘Pr-pr-preparations?’ Fletcher managed to stutter, his tongue clumsy and numb from the Mite’s venom.

‘For your trial,’ the figure replied, holding out a hand for Rubens to perch on. ‘We delayed it as long as we could, but it seems your friends have been very persistent in their petitions to the king. A shame.’

The figure stowed the Mite within the confines of his hood once more, as if he could not bear to be apart from him. The skin of his hand was smooth, almost feminine, with carefully manicured fingernails. The man’s boots were made from hand-stitched calfskin, with fashionable, figure-hugging trousers above them. Even the hooded jacket was made from black leather of the finest quality. Fletcher could tell the stranger was a wealthy young man, most likely the firstborn son of a noble.

‘I will allow you one more question, then I must take you to the courtroom. Take your time, so the paralysis can wear off. I don’t want to have to carry you there.’

Fletcher’s mind flashed to his friends, to Berdon, and to the state of the war. But he had no way of knowing if the stranger would have the answers he sought. Did they know each other? He pictured the other summoners that he had met at Vocans, but none of them had a hoarse voice. Could it be Tarquin, playing a cruel trick on him? One thing was for sure: his opponent would keep the upper hand as long as he remained anonymous.

‘Who. Are. You?’ Fletcher asked, forcing each word out through numbed lips.

The fact that he could speak at all meant that Rubens had pricked him with only a low dose of venom. He still had a fighting chance.

‘Haven’t you worked it out yet?’ the stranger rasped. ‘That
is
disappointing. I thought you would have guessed by now. Still, I do look quite different than when we last spoke, so you are hardly to blame.’

The figure crouched again, leaning forward until Fletcher’s vision was filled with the dark confines of his hood. Slowly, the man pulled it back, revealing his face.

‘Recognise me now, Fletcher?’ Didric hissed.

Didric leered with a lopsided smile, leaning back so his face would catch the light. The right side was waxy and mottled red, with the edge of his lip burned away to reveal a flash of white teeth. His eyebrows and lashes were gone, leaving him with a wide-eyed appearance, as if he were constantly alarmed. Patches of his scalp were almost bald, covered only by a sparse scattering of hair that pushed through the melted flesh beneath.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Didric said, stroking the ruined skin with a long, tapered finger. ‘The night you did this to me, my father paid through the nose for a summoner to be brought in to perform the healing spell. Lord Faversham, as a matter of fact. Funny that he was unknowingly cleaning up his own son’s mess, wouldn’t you agree?’

Fletcher was dumbstruck, though whether it was the paralysis, or shock, he didn’t know. How had Didric heard about Fletcher’s supposed relationship to the Favershams? A lot had changed in a year.

‘In truth, I should probably thank you,’ Didric said, brushing the long hair on the unburned side of his head to cover the melted scalp. ‘You are the reason for both the best and the worst things that have happened to me this past year.’

‘How?’ Fletcher choked, watching Rubens crawl on to Didric’s chest. Didric wasn’t a summoner … was someone else controlling the Mite, to trick him?

‘It’s all thanks to you, Fletcher.’ Didric gave him a lopsided smile and flared a wyrdlight into existence, casting the room in electric blue light. ‘It is a phenomenon that has occurred only once before in recorded history, though legends of it have always pervaded the summoning world. A magical attack that brings the victim close to death will occasionally pass the gift on to them. Something about the way the demon’s mana interacts with the body. Your Salamander’s flames may have charred my vocal cords and ruined my face, but they imparted a priceless gift as well. For that, I thank you.’

‘There’s no way.’ Fletcher’s mind reeled from the implication.

‘It is true,’ Didric stated, stroking Rubens’s carapace. ‘It happened with another noble family, centuries ago, in a sibling argument gone wrong. Manticore venom, straight into the younger brother’s bloodstream. A lethal dose that should have killed him. Instead, he inherited the gift.’

Didric grinned at the horror on Fletcher’s face. He was enjoying this.

‘Come, it is time for your trial. Don’t worry, you’ll be back in your squalid hole soon enough. I can’t wait to lock you back in here and throw away the key.’

Fletcher staggered to his feet, swaying slightly as his muscles shivered and tensed from the venom. A trial … justice, finally? He felt the faintest glimmer of hope, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

He pointed his tattooed palm at the straw, where Ignatius was hiding. The pentacle on his skin burned violet, and the demon dissolved into threads of white light that glided into his hand. It was best to keep the demon infused within him, so nobody could separate them. He didn’t want to imagine being imprisoned without his little companion.

‘You first,’ Didric said, jerking the pistol towards the open doorway.

Fletcher stumbled out of the cell. For a moment he delighted in his newfound freedom, enjoying the feeling of walking more than a few paces in one direction. Then the cold tip of the pistol’s muzzle was pressed into the back of his neck.

‘Try not to make any sudden movements. I wouldn’t want to blow your head off before the fun begins,’ Didric snarled, as they walked down a long, stony corridor. Doors identical to Fletcher’s own cell were embedded in the walls. It was deathly quiet, the silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps.

Didric halted him at a staircase also built into the wall. On either side, the corridor stretched for hundreds of feet, before disappearing into gloomy darkness.

‘We keep the most dangerous prisoners here, people like you – rebels, murderers, rapists. The king pays us handsomely to keep them here, against the cost of a bucket of water and one meal a day. It’s a beautiful thing.’

Fletcher shuddered, imagining what it would be like being alone in the cell, with no Ignatius, books or spells to keep himself sane, and the knowledge that he would never leave there again. He felt a flash of pity for the lost souls trapped inside, horrendous though their crimes might be. Then he realised that he could very well be joining them soon, forever entombed in the deep bowels of the earth. Icy tendrils of fear gripped his heart.

‘Keep moving,’ Didric spat, prodding him up the stairs. They spiralled upwards as they did on the inside of a dwarven home, though at intervals there were barred doors, with a guard holding them open. On and on they went, until Fletcher’s knees ached under the strain. He had tried his best to exercise in the confines of the cell, but so many months without walking or enough food had left him weak and malnourished. He did not know if he could survive another year in such conditions, let alone a lifetime.

Didric pushed him through a large set of doors at the top of the staircase and into a crowded courtyard. Around them, guards formed up in rows, performing musket and bayonet drills. Their uniform was a wasp-like black and yellow, a mix of chainmail and light leather. There were enough of them to be Didric’s own private army.

Fletcher gulped in deep breaths of fresh air. He revelled in the light of the open sky once more, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his face. His head spun with vertigo at the expanse above him, but he opened his arms wide and felt the cool breeze on his skin. It was heavenly.

Didric shoved Fletcher ahead of him and they made their way through a large set of iron gates and on to the street. Fletcher was surprised to find that he knew where they were. He turned and took in the prison behind him, recognising some of the features built around it. It was Didric’s former mansion.

‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ Fletcher said drily.

‘Yes, the old stomping ground. It was time for an upgrade, what with my new station in life. What do you think of our new quarters?’

Didric pointed upwards. The village of Pelt was built at the base of the Beartooth Mountains’ largest peak. It shadowed the village at sunset, towering over them like a vast monolith. Fletcher followed Didric’s finger and saw that the tip of the peak no longer existed. Instead, a castle had been built in its place, all crenellations, towers and arrow slits. Cannons lined the walls, the black holes of their barrels menacing the village, as if they might open fire at any moment. It was more a fortress than a home.

‘The safest place in Hominum, stocked with enough supplies to endure a siege of ten years. The elves could betray us, the orcs could invade Hominum – the prisoners could even take over the village, and it wouldn’t matter. The greatest army in the world couldn’t breach those walls, even if they could climb the sheer cliffs on either side.’

‘You sound paranoid, Didric,’ Fletcher replied, though Didric’s words had taken him off guard. ‘Like you have something to hide.’

‘Only our immense wealth, Fletcher. My father doesn’t trust the banks. He should know, he used to be a banker.’

‘A crooked moneylender does not a banker make,’ Fletcher replied. The boy stiffened but prodded him on, ignoring the jibe.

As they walked down the deserted streets, Fletcher saw poverty everywhere.

Many of the houses and shops were empty shells, while others had been converted into jails. Rough, dirty faces were pressed against the bars, silently watching Didric’s strutting figure with hatred in their eyes. The entire place stank of misery and desperation; it was a far throw from the industrious little village Fletcher had grown up in.

Didric’s father, Caspar Cavell, had become the richest man in the village by lending to the needy and the desperate, tricking them into signing ironclad contracts that would end up costing them far more than they borrowed. It looked as if the Cavells had called in all that was owed, taking their debtors’ savings and kicking most of the citizens of Pelt out of their homes in order to build the prison.

Disgusted, Fletcher slowed and flexed his fingers, fighting the temptation to punch Didric’s face in.

‘Move,’ Didric snarled, slapping Fletcher across the back of the head with his free hand.

Fletcher burned with anger, but his hands were still numb. The paralysis was dulling his reactions. Even if he were at his best, he doubted his chances at wrestling away the gun pressed into the small of his back. He would have to wait.

They reached the front gates which led out of the village, and Fletcher’s stomach lurched. Berdon’s hut was gone! But that was not the only thing unusual about the scene. The area around the front gates had been flattened, with racks of pikes, bayonets and swords replacing the houses. Stranger still, there seemed to be a queue of men lining up by the gates in front of a long, low table piled with red uniforms.

No. Not men.

‘Dwarves!’ Fletcher breathed.

Hundreds of them, even more than he had seen at the dwarven war council. They wore traditional dwarven garb – heavy leathers with canvas shirts. They seemed rougher than the dwarves Fletcher had encountered before, their braids loose and uneven, the clothing stained with mud, grime and sweat. Their faces were dark and brooding, and they talked among themselves with low, angry voices.

‘They’ve just marched over Beartooth to collect their new gear,’ Didric said, smiling, ‘after two years of keeping the northern front safe from the elves. It’s taken a long time for the elven war to end, though I wish it was longer. The peace talks were delayed when the elven clan leaders saw the state of that she-elf after the Tournament at Vocans. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’

Images of the broken and bruised figure of Sylva came unbidden to Fletcher’s mind, but he held his tongue. He knew that he couldn’t trust anything Didric told him about her.

‘My lord!’ a guard shouted, bringing Fletcher back to reality. ‘This reprobate tried to murder you. It isn’t safe. Let us escort him for you.’

‘Did I ask for your opinion, bootlicker?’ Didric spat, brandishing the pistol. ‘Do not presume to speak to me unless spoken to first. Get back to work.’

‘As you wish, my lord,’ the man said, bowing low. Didric shoved him away with his boot, sending the man sprawling in the mud.

Fletcher was disgusted by the way his nemesis held himself, as if he were above them all. He turned on Didric as the final vestiges of paralysis left him.

‘You have the guards calling you lord?’ Fletcher said, layering his voice with contempt. ‘I bet they laugh at you behind your back. You’re nothing more than a jumped-up gaoler, you pompous arse.’

For a moment Didric stared at him, his face slowly turning red. Fletcher suspected nobody had spoken to him like that for a long time. Then, to his surprise, Didric burst out laughing. The hoarse cackle echoed across the courtyard, turning heads as Didric heaved with mirth.

‘Do you know why they call me lord, Fletchy?’ Didric gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘It’s because I
am
a lord. Lord Cavell.’