Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (7 page)

The courtroom was even more crowded than it had been before, but despite this, a hush hung in the air. A double row of benches had been added near the judge’s high table, where ten men and women sat, resplendent in red robes. They watched Fletcher with animosity, as if he might attack them at any moment.

Behind Fletcher, there were generals and nobles on the front rows, adorned in their military regalia. A cloud of smoke stained the air above, as many of them puffed on long-stemmed cheroots, whispering in each other’s ears as if they were at the theatre.

Lord and Lady Faversham were sitting on the front bench. Lord Forsyth was seated close by, his large, imposing figure taking up two spaces on the bench. Beside him sat an elegant blond lady who Fletcher could only assume was his wife. Didric and his father were nearest to Fletcher, dressed in velvet suits, with heavy gold rings weighing down their fingers.

All of them tracked Fletcher and Arcturus with hate-filled eyes as the guards shackled him to the floor again. He resisted the urge to shudder and instead lifted his chin; he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear. Arcturus returned their gaze levelly, though Fletcher could see his hand trembling.

‘Be upstanding for Inquisitors Damian Rook and Charles Faversham!’ a guard shouted.

Rook swept into the room, followed by a hook-nosed man with dark eyes and jet-black hair. His skin was as pale as Rook’s was jaundiced, and he was so skinny as to be bordering on the skeletal. The two Inquisitors took their seats at the high table and stared regally around the room.

‘I haven’t been in the same room as my father and half-brother since I was fifteen years old,’ Arcturus murmured, nodding at the dark-haired Inquisitor.

Fletcher stared at Charles, comparing the man’s face to his own. If Arcturus’s theory was correct, Fletcher was Lord Faversham’s illegitimate son, just as Arcturus was, making Charles their half-brother. He saw little resemblance to his own face, though Charles’s hair was as thick and black as his own.

‘Bring in the co-conspirator!’ Charles snapped in a high, reedy voice.

The doors slammed open and Jakov entered the room, pulling Othello behind him. The dwarf was festooned with chains, so many that he could only shuffle a few inches at a time. There was a dirty rag gagging his mouth and an eye was swollen shut, bruised the ugly purple of an overripe plum.

Uhtred followed at their rear, his face dark with anger. He walked with his fists clenched, the swinging gait of a man ready for a fight.

‘What have you done to him?’ Arcturus demanded, as Jakov shackled Othello next to Fletcher.

‘He was insubordinate,’ Jakov grinned, ‘so we gave him a few love taps and a gag to keep him quiet. It’s the only thing these half-men understand.’

‘Leave it, Captain,’ Uhtred growled under his breath, pulling Arcturus aside. ‘There’s no use reasoning with these animals. Let the jury see, maybe it will elicit some sympathy.’

‘I doubt it,’ Arcturus whispered, as Jakov nodded to one of the jury members and sauntered out.

‘Only one of us can speak in the boys’ defence. I think you would be best placed to do it, after the job you did at the last trial,’ Uhtred said, giving Othello a rough kiss on the top of his head. ‘I won’t watch. I don’t trust myself to keep calm. It was all I could do not to rip that brute to shreds. Good luck … I’ll see you when it’s over.’

Before Arcturus could reply, Rook cleared his throat; the room went from a gentle murmuring to silence. Fletcher caught one last look at Uhtred’s receding back, then the side doors were slammed shut.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ Rook proclaimed, sweeping his hand theatrically. ‘It is not often that we Inquisitors have the chance to preside over a case of treason. After all, it is the most heinous of crimes, punishable by death.’

This time, Fletcher felt a strange dullness at the threat of death. Somehow, it seemed a better fate than spending his life imprisoned in that cell.

‘I want a swift trial today; I know we all have places to be,’ Rook said magnanimously. ‘We, the Inquisition, will act as prosecutors and arbiters in this case. It will be up to the jury to decide the guilt of the accused. If you don’t mind, we will get straight to the point. Inquisitor Faversham, please state the facts.’

Charles looked down his nose at Fletcher, shuffling his notes.

‘During a night-training exercise, five of Lord Forsyth’s men were murdered. One had burns on his face, consistent with a Salamander attack, a rare demon owned exclusively by Fletcher. We believe that he was accompanied by Othello Thorsager, who helped perpetrate the massacre.’ Charles pointed at the shackled dwarf, who could do nothing in response but stare back. ‘It was an attack motivated by the desire to overthrow King Harold, the first step in a dwarven rebellion. If Fletcher had not been arrested for the attempted murder of Lord Cavell, we might be in the midst of civil war right now.’

‘An arrest that was not justified,’ Arcturus countered. ‘Fletcher was cleared of all wrongdoing. Lord Cavell is fortunate that he has not been charged with attempted murder himself.’

‘Ah, Arcturus, you speak at last,’ Charles sneered, holding up a hand as Rook took a breath to shout at the captain. ‘Do us the courtesy of holding your tongue until after we have given all of our evidence.’

‘Then get on with it, rather than talking about disproven accusations.’

Charles ignored him and stepped down from the high table.

‘We have three pieces of evidence. The first, the weapon Othello Thorsager used in the attack. The second is proof of Fletcher’s affiliation with dwarven dissidents. The third and final piece of evidence is witness testimony. I believe that these three pieces shall prove their guilt, with a swift beheading of both perpetrators to follow. Though I know Inquisitor Rook is keen to suggest the more … traditional death by way of hanging, drawing and quartering. Perhaps fortunately for the accused, the method of execution shall be decided by the jury.’

Fletcher saw Othello’s clenched fists, and he gave Fletcher a wide-eyed look. It was a terrible death, one that did not bear thinking about. Fletcher changed his mind. Imprisonment didn’t seem so bad after all.

‘Captain Arcturus, do you have any evidence, or witnesses, to call upon?’ Charles inquired innocently, his eyes sparkling with malice.

‘Since the charges were only brought against Fletcher an hour ago and I was unaware of Othello’s arrest, I don’t think you’ll be surprised that I find myself unprepared,’ Arcturus said, sarcasm dripping from his words.

‘If I remember correctly, you were petitioning King Harold himself for Fletcher to have a swift trial. I thought you would be happy!’ Charles said, equally sarcastic.

‘There is a big difference between a year and an hour, as you well know, Charles. Fortunately, witnesses and friends are flying in, and they are not too far away.’ Arcturus glared up at him. ‘At least one of them shall speak on Fletcher and Othello’s behalf, if they received my message in time.’

‘Excellent!’ Charles said, clapping his hands together. ‘Then you won’t mind the prosecution giving evidence first. Before we begin, I would like to pay my respects to King Harold.’

There was a smattering of applause, and Fletcher’s ears pricked up. Charles smiled and continued:

‘And of course, I cannot forget his illustrious father, the founder of the Inquisition, leader of the Pinkertons and overseer of the Judges – old King Alfric.’

Fletcher turned around to see two men in the crowd, sitting beside the Triumvirate. He had barely noticed them before, for they were dressed in much the same way as the other nobles in the crowd, but now he understood the meaning of the circlets resting on their heads.

‘Less of the old,’ Alfric called out in a cracked voice, eliciting an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.

Alfric’s son, King Harold, looked to be in his thirties, the same age as Arcturus. The gold circlet he wore rested on a mantle of wavy blond hair, above a handsome face and piercing grey eyes. In contrast, old King Alfric wore a silver circlet, with a long mane of white hair and an aquiline nose. He stared impassively around the room, though his eyes narrowed when they settled on Fletcher.

‘Now, I will call upon Sergeants Murphy and Turner, the lead investigators, to bring in the first piece of evidence,’ Charles announced, accompanied by a barked order from Rook.

Othello growled beneath his gag as the two Pinkertons came into the room, brandishing a small object wrapped in a white cloth. They handed it to Charles, flashing Othello and Fletcher a nasty smile. They did not linger long, instead doffing their peaked caps to the jury and strolling back out through the side door.

Charles waited until they had left the room, then pinched the white cloth between two fingers.

‘Our first piece of evidence,’ Charles cried, removing the cover with a flourish. ‘A tomahawk, belonging to Othello Thorsager!’

The room descended into smattered conversations and the front row leaned closer for a better look. Othello was yelling through his gag, his beard and moustache trembling as he tried to tear it through with his teeth.

‘That’s a lie!’ Fletcher shouted on his behalf, despite Arcturus’s attempts to quiet him. ‘That was stolen from us weeks before, when those two monsters broke Othello’s ribs.’

‘Weeks before what?’ Rook asked, holding his hand up for quiet. The chatter silenced almost immediately, and Fletcher found himself under the scrutiny of the entire room.

‘Weeks. Before. What?’ Charles repeated.

‘Before … the attack happened,’ Fletcher replied, his mind racing. What had he just done?

‘So you know when the attack happened? You admit you were there?’ Charles demanded, sensing weakness.

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Fletcher answered lamely.

Arcturus lay a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and gripped him so hard that he had to force himself not to wince.

‘I told Fletcher when and where the incident allegedly happened. Does that answer your question?’ Arcturus said, staring Charles down. They stood there for a moment, like two wolves vying for supremacy. It was Charles who broke eye-contact first, though he went on the attack as soon as he did.

‘The murder weapon bears the emblem of the Thorsagers, so it could only belong to a male member of the family. Both Othello’s father, Uhtred, and his brother, Atilla, provided alibis for where they were on the night in question. Although Othello is a student at Vocans, the staff there could do no such thing for him. As such, it is quite clear that it was Othello who slaughtered the soldiers.’

The jury examined the object with interest, some whispering to one another. Fletcher knew this wasn’t good.

‘Thank you, Inquisitor Faversham, very compelling. Please bring out the next piece of evidence,’ Rook said, scribbling something down on the paper in front of him.

This time, Charles did not call anyone in. He removed a simple card from a pocket in his uniform, brandishing it high for all to see.

‘This is a membership card for the Anvils. It was found among Fletcher’s belongings after his arrest. We were lucky to find it – his room had been ransacked by a mysterious benefactor,’ Charles said, raising his eyebrows at Arcturus. ‘After watching the last trial and seeing the scroll in the defence’s possession, I think it’s safe to say we know who did it.’

Fletcher felt a twinge of confusion. The card had been given to him a long time ago, on his very first day in Corcillum. He knew little about the Anvils, only that they were a group of humans who were sympathetic to the dwarves and campaigned for their rights.

‘What does that have to do with anything? I was given that two years ago,’ Fletcher said, despite a hiss of frustration from Arcturus.

‘Inquisitors, would you give me a brief recess to speak to my charges?’ Arcturus asked, though this time he didn’t clamp his fingers on Fletcher’s shoulder.

‘Yes, why not?’ Rook said in a cheerful voice. ‘Maybe it will teach young Fletcher to keep his mouth shut. Not that it will matter in the end; it will be shut permanently before the week is out.’

Arcturus bowed stiffly and hunkered down beside Othello and Fletcher, waiting until the room was awash with conversation before he spoke.

‘Fletcher, in the year since you were imprisoned, there have been explosions and attacks on Pinkertons and civilians. Every time, the evidence has pointed to the Anvils.’

Othello grunted loudly, jerking his head.

‘Sorry, Othello. I’ll remove it, but you must promise there will be no more outbursts, from either of you. You’ll have a chance to defend yourselves after the Inquisition has made its case.’

Othello spluttered as the gag was cut.

‘That tasted like a gremlin’s loincloth,’ he gasped, spitting the gag away from him.

‘Why don’t you explain to him the significance of the Anvil card?’ Arcturus said, handing Othello a flask from his hip. Othello took a few deep gulps, then turned to Fletcher.

‘It’s good to see your face, Fletcher. I only wish our reunion was under different circumstances.’ He gripped Fletcher’s arm and drew him closer. ‘There’s a lot that’s happened while you’ve been … away. Tensions between humans and dwarves have never been higher, and it’s all thanks to these supposed attacks by the Anvils. Membership of their organisation is now illegal and many of their leaders have gone into hiding.’