Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (6 page)

But one sound remained. A slow clap, coming from the back of the room. It continued, getting louder as it approached them. The judge made no move to quell the noise, furrowing his eyebrows and watching with interest.

‘Very well done: most entertaining,’ came a sardonic voice.

Inquisitor Rook strode into view, a lopsided sneer on his face. He wore the uniform of the Inquisition, a long black coat not unlike a cassock, with a military flair. Fletcher felt his stomach twist with dislike at the sight of the man. Rook was a racist and a bigot, and bore a deep hatred of Fletcher.

‘I must say, you’ve outdone yourself, Arcturus. A masterful performance. For a second there I thought you had lost but, my oh my, did you turn it around at the end.’ Rook continued clapping slowly, smiling and nodding to the crowd.

‘Ahem, Inquisitor Rook. I would ask that you be seated so that I can release the boy. You have no jurisdiction over a common-law court. This is not a military tribunal.’ The judge’s voice was firm, but it had an edge of fear to it that Fletcher didn’t like.

Rook nodded thoughtfully to himself, walking past the podiums and allowing his fingers to trail along them.

‘I understand, your honour. Forgive me for intruding, but I would not remove the manacles just yet. I have another charge to bring against Master Wulf here.’ Rook’s eyes flashed menacingly as he spoke, though his face remained a picture of innocence.

‘This is preposterous,’ Arcturus growled, striding in front of Rook. ‘What possible charge could you have to bring against the boy?’

Rook sauntered back as a group of soldiers trooped into the room, carrying a set of heavy chains.

‘The worst crime of all,’ he snarled, grasping Fletcher by the back of his neck. ‘High treason.’

They took Fletcher to a holding cell, complete with a table, chairs – even a washbasin and soap. They removed his chains, holding their noses, then left the moment he was free. As soon as the door closed, Fletcher began to scrub his face and wash out his long, greasy hair. It was amazing to have more than a small bucket of drinking water to work with.

After ten minutes of pawing at his scalp, he moved on to the rest of his body, darting quick glances at the door in case anyone came in. As he jumped up and down to dry off, he dipped his jerkin and breeches into the basin for good measure, to wash away a year’s worth of dirt and grime. By the end, the water was a filthy brown colour, but Fletcher felt renewed.

He summoned Ignatius, and pulled the imp into his arms. His wet skin was all gooseflesh, but the warm Salamander flattened himself against Fletcher’s chest, breathing a toasty gust of heated air across his face.

‘We’re not out of this yet, Ignatius. But at least you don’t share my fate. If I die you’ll fade back into the ether, safe and sound.’

Ignatius mewled miserably and wrapped his tail around Fletcher’s bare midriff.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get out of this somehow.’ He tugged at the Salamander, but Ignatius stubbornly held on.

‘Come on, little guy, I know you’re happy to walk around buck naked all day, but I’m not. The guards would get quite a show if they came in now.’

Ignatius slipped off reluctantly and contented himself with exploring the confines of their new cell, sniffing suspiciously at the chairs, as if they might suddenly attack.

As Fletcher struggled back into his sodden clothes there was a knock on the door and Arcturus strode in, his face grim and pinched with worry.

He gave Fletcher a forced smile and said, ‘You look like a drowned rat. God knows what Berdon’s going to think when he sees you.’

‘He’s coming?’ Fletcher said, hardly able to believe it.

‘Yes. His case was right after yours. After Rook’s little performance, the judge was inclined to release Berdon temporarily to see you today, even though he must spend the next two nights in jail. A silver lining to a very dark cloud.’ Arcturus pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

‘Arcturus, thank you,’ Fletcher said, clasping Arcturus’s hands. ‘For everything. You’ve given me back my life.’

Arcturus gave him a fleeting smile, but soon his face was dark and foreboding once again.

‘I wouldn’t speak so soon. It’s bad, Fletcher. You’re accused of killing Lord Forsyth’s troops, in support of a failed dwarven rebellion. They have evidence – witnesses that say both you and Othello were at the scene, even evidence that you harbour anti-royal sympathies. I’m told Othello was arrested a few nights ago … I didn’t even know he was here. I’m sorry Fletcher, this is all my fault. They distracted us with Didric’s trial, while they planned this one.’

Fletcher collapsed in a chair and buried his face with his hands. Somehow, the accusation hadn’t sunk in until now. Ignatius nudged his leg, growling with worry.

‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire,’ Fletcher murmured, filled with the dread of returning to his cell. ‘I remember that night. We were there, Arcturus.’

‘That’s not the worst of it. The Inquisition run all military trials and, as an officer cadet of the king’s army, you are eligible for one. Not to mention the fact that there will be a jury, who I suspect will have all heard of your murder charge, if they haven’t been paid off by the Triumvirate—’

‘Hang on, tell me more about the Triumvirate,’ Fletcher interrupted.

‘As I said, it’s Lord Forsyth, Lady Faversham and Didric,’ Arcturus replied grimly. ‘Didric met them when Lord Faversham came to heal his burns, and he found out they own the exclusive weapons contract to the northern frontier. Faversham introduced Didric’s family to the Forsyths – they were allies from the beginning, before you even set foot in Vocans. Together, the three families now run most of the prisons and weapons manufacturing in Hominum – which is why they’re aggressively anti-dwarven. They’re determined to do anything to drive them out of the firearms business. Unfortunately, they have the Inquisition and the Pinkertons deeply in their pockets, and the friendship of old King Alfric.’

‘An evil alliance if there ever was one,’ Fletcher muttered.

‘Yes, and a powerful one. They also have a particular vendetta against you. Somehow you managed to offend all three families, what with Didric’s face, foiling the Forsythled plots last year and your supposed claim to be Lord Faversham’s son.’

‘How are we supposed to get out of this?’ Fletcher asked, running his hands through his wet hair.

‘The only way we can win this is by proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are innocent, so that the jury will find it impossible to convict you. Now tell me, what do they have on you?’

But Fletcher didn’t get a chance to reply. The door burst open, revealing the burly figure of Berdon. Fletcher barely had time to stand up before he was wrapped in a bear hug, lost in his adoptive father’s scent of leather and coal-dust.

‘Son … my son …’ Berdon sobbed.

He pulled away and grasped Fletcher’s face, examining it through sparkling eyes.

‘You’re taller. Almost up to my beard,’ he said, half laughing and half crying. ‘You’re a man now. Still can’t grow a proper moustache, though.’

Fletcher grinned and hugged him again, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t find the words to describe how much he had missed the amiable giant.

‘There’s so much I have to tell you,’ Fletcher murmured.

‘Your friend, Othello, has told me all of it,’ Berdon replied, ruffling Fletcher’s hair. ‘A year is a long time, and I’ve been working with his family to get you a fair trial. I hear you’re quite the warrior.’

Fletcher shuffled his feet and shook his head with embarrassment.

‘Othello’s father, Uhtred, is a decent blacksmith,’ Berdon continued, filling the silence after a brief pause. ‘You’re a good judge of character, son.’

‘They’re good people,’ Fletcher said, nodding through blurred eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have made it through Vocans without them.’

Berdon took the seat behind Fletcher and began teasing out the tangles in his hair with a comb from his pocket. Ignatius sniffed suspiciously at his feet, unsure of what to make of the big man. Berdon looked down and ruffled Ignatius’s head, leaving the demon with an affronted look on his face. He spat a puff of smoke, and Berdon chuckled as the Salamander stalked off, his snout in the air.

‘Haven’t seen this little tyke in a while. I hope you’ve been looking after him,’ Berdon said.

‘More like he’s been looking after me,’ Fletcher said, warning Ignatius to behave with a thought.

Arcturus, who had been sitting awkwardly next to them, coughed politely.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but the trial starts soon and we’ve had no time to prepare your defence. Othello and his father will be joining us at the trial. They have told me what happened the night of the dwarven council meeting.’

‘Best get you cleaned up while you speak with Captain Arcturus here,’ Berdon murmured. ‘You never were one for self-grooming.’

‘Thanks … Dad.’ The word felt unfamiliar in his mouth, but Berdon’s huge smile told Fletcher he had said just the right thing.

‘May I?’ Berdon asked Arcturus, pointing at a slim knife scabbarded on his belt.

‘By all means.’ Arcturus smiled, handing it to him.

Berdon brandished the knife, then trimmed away Fletcher’s wispy moustache and beard with deft swipes of the blade. He considered Fletcher’s long hair for a moment, then shrugged and handed the knife back to Arcturus.

‘We’ll deal with the length later,’ Berdon said, lifting the comb once again.

Arcturus cleared his throat and for a moment Fletcher thought he saw a tear in the man’s eye. He turned away to sheath his knife, and Fletcher wondered if he was mistaken, for when he looked back it was gone.

‘Let me recap, and you can tell me anything Othello and Uhtred might have left out,’ Arcturus said.

‘Go ahead,’ Fletcher said.

‘You and Sylva followed Othello when he snuck out to attend the dwarven council meeting. Someone betrayed the meeting’s location and Lord Forsyth’s men gathered outside to ambush them, under the pretence of preventing a rebellion. You were able to warn the dwarves before the soldiers could attack, but killed five men as you, Sylva, Othello and Atilla made your escape from the area. Atilla was injured and you carried him to the infirmary at Vocans, guided by Captain Lovett through her Mite, Valens. On the way, a young soldier accosted you but was incapacitated thanks to the Mite. Does that about cover it?’

‘That about covers it …’ Fletcher replied, wracking his brains. It was hard to think clearly with Berdon combing his hair. It brought back memories of when Berdon had done the exact same thing as they sat by the warm glow of the hearth in their old hut, listening to the crackle of its flames.

Sensing Fletcher’s mood, Ignatius returned and gave Berdon a reluctant lick across the knuckles. Then he snorted and spat, pawing at his tongue with his claws.

‘Coal dust,’ Berdon said, grinning at the little demon. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

Ignatius buried his head in the basin-water to wash out his mouth, then tumbled on his back and retched at the taste of the murky brown liquid.

Fletcher laughed at the demon’s antics, but then Arcturus’s grave expression brought him back to reality.

‘Can you think of anything else? Anything at all,’ Arcturus asked.

‘Grindle and four of his men might be witnesses,’ Fletcher said, thinking of the huge thug that had tried to kill Sylva and later attack the dwarven council meeting. ‘I doubt they will use them though, they’re an evil-looking bunch. There’s no other evidence I can think of – we’ll only know when we get in there.’

Arcturus shook his head, rubbing his eyes as he tried to think. ‘I’ve had no time to prepare our case. They’ll execute you and Othello for this, Fletcher. That’s the only punishment there is for treason – hanging or beheading.’

Fletcher’s stomach twisted at the reminder. He caught himself rubbing his neck and forced his hands back to his lap. Beads of cold sweat formed on his back, and all of a sudden his chest felt tight and constricted.

‘They want to take down you and the dwarves in one fell swoop, I know that much,’ Arcturus continued. ‘Even the whiff of a rebellion will have the dwarven council arrested and every dwarven weapon and forge seized. The Triumvirate’s weapons business would lose its biggest competitor, leaving only Seraph and his family to contend with. They’ll throw all of their resources at this. We just need time to come up with a plan.’

As he spoke, there was a knock on the door from one of the guards.

‘Fletcher Wulf. They’re ready for you.’