Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (9 page)

‘Yes … I can see that,’ Rook said.

He grinned at his jibe, and Fletcher heard Lord Forsyth snort with laughter.

Captain Lovett ignored him and turned to the jury.

‘Listen to your conscience, not these charlatans,’ she said, pointing a finger at the two Inquisitors. ‘These boys are victims of circumstance, nothing more.’

‘That’s quite enough, Captain,’ Rook snapped. ‘My patience wears thin. One more word …’ He nodded at the nearest guard, who raised his rifle, the barrel wavering slightly under her griffin Lysander’s steely-eyed gaze.

‘Now, do you have any other witnesses that you would like to call forth, or can we call it a day?’ Charles asked.

Captain Lovett turned to Arcturus, and Fletcher heard her whisper.

‘Sir Caulder was held up by the guards outside.’

Arcturus paused for a moment, then shook his head.

‘No … that is all,’ he announced, then turned to Lovett and said in a low voice. ‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference, no matter what he has to say.’

Rook grinned as he caught Arcturus’s words and raised his gavel.

‘Well, it’s nice to see that we are in agreement on that point. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning, when we will hear your defence. We should have a verdict by the afternoon … and the convicts dead by evening.’

They didn’t let Fletcher stay with Othello, though he knew that he was not far away when they threw him back in his cell – he could hear Uhtred’s angry bellows through the wall. The words were muffled, but there was the splinter of broken furniture and yells from the guards. A few moments later, Jakov burst through the door, and Uhtred was hurled to the ground at Fletcher’s feet.

‘You can calm down in here,’ Jakov snarled, wiping a trickle of blood from his face. His lip was cut and a red bruise was blossoming on the corner of his jaw. ‘Raise your hand to the guards again and I’ll give you the same beauty treatment I gave your son.’

Fletcher advanced on him, flaring a fireball into existence as he did so.

‘Get out,’ Fletcher snarled. ‘Or
I’ll
give
you
the beauty treatment I gave Didric.’

The door slammed shut before Fletcher had even finished speaking. The fireball spun above his finger and for a moment he was tempted to blast the door apart. Unlike the steel entrance in the underground cell, this one was made of wood.

‘Thank you, Fletcher,’ Uhtred groaned, dragging himself up into the chair. He clutched his side and winced, turning his back on the door.

‘He’s a monster, both inside and out,’ Fletcher growled, absorbing the fireball’s mana back through his fingers. He would need all the mana he could get if he had a chance to escape, but now was not the time.

‘Come here. I have something to tell you.’ Uhtred’s words came in short bursts – his injuries had to be worse than Fletcher thought: beneath his beard it was difficult to see the damage his brawl with Jakov had wrought. Fletcher pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

‘I won’t let you and my son die here. I have a plan,’ Uhtred growled. ‘We’re going to break you out.’

Fletcher couldn’t think of a reply, but his heart sank. No good could come from this.

‘The dwarven recruits are not far from here. I will fetch them and we will storm the village.’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Fletcher said in a low hiss, looking fearfully at the door. ‘The consequences would be catastrophic. All the goodwill you have won with King Harold, gone. The end of peace between dwarves and men. You would throw this country into civil war, and you would lose.’

‘No, Fletcher. Our soldiers have been armed and trained now. We have Othello here to capture demons for our own summon—’

‘So what?’ Fletcher snapped, cutting him off. ‘You forget, I heard your debate at the war council. Nothing has changed since then.’

‘But it has, Fletcher. We will take Didric’s castle. It has enough supplies to last a decade and the king would not waste his troops laying siege to it. The cannons will be enough to dissuade an attack from Hominum’s flying battlemages, the Celestial Corps, and we can use the money there to trade with the elves. We will carve out our own kingdom.’ Uhtred’s eyes were unfocused, but his words shocked Fletcher to the very core. The dwarf had believed in peace, like Othello, but something was broken within him now. Fletcher only hoped he could repair the damage.

‘What about Thaissa and Briss, and all the other dwarves in Corcillum? Have you considered what would happen to them?’

Uhtred was silent, twisting his callused hands in his lap. Fletcher continued.

‘Arcturus and Lovett are here, do you think they would stand by idly as you openly rebel? Or would you kill them too? The king and his father are also present, not to mention dozens of nobles, each one a powerful summoner in their own right. As for the castle, it’s heavily defended day and night because of the convicts. If you say the Celestial Corps can’t beat its cannons, what hope do your dwarves have? Your soldiers would die bravely, but it would be dwarven blood that stains the earth tomorrow, and none other.’

Uhtred blinked, tears running down his face. The anger that had gripped him so tightly abandoned him, leaving only pain behind.

‘I have failed my people,’ Uhtred gasped, his broad shoulders heaving. ‘I have failed my son.’

Fletcher put his arm around the dwarf’s hefty shoulders. It filled him with fury to see the Thorsagers brought so low, but he pushed that feeling aside. It was compassion that was needed now.

‘Don’t let what those scumbags did to Othello jeopardise everything you and he have achieved. This is what they want. Remember, the king—’

‘The king has abandoned us!’ Uhtred bellowed, hitting the table with his fist. ‘He watched! He watched as they did that to my boy. My brave, kindhearted boy.’

There was a polite cough from the doorway behind them. Fletcher froze, the hairs on his neck standing on end. If it was a guard, their conversation was enough to have Uhtred executed for treason right alongside them. He powered up his telekinesis finger, keeping his back to the door. One blast would be quick and dirty enough to incapacitate whoever it was.

‘Come now, Fletcher. If you attacked me now, you really would be committing treason. Unfortunately for you, a young battlemage would have little chance against a king.’

Fletcher spun to see King Harold, leaning against the door. His eyebrows were creased in consternation but there was a glimmer in his eye that Fletcher couldn’t place.

‘I’m sorry about what happened in there. If I could have prevented it, I would have. If you let me explain, you will understand,’ Harold said.

‘Please do,’ Fletcher replied, struggling to keep his tone civil. The monarch’s authority barely deserved his respect, if beneath that authority such actions could go unchallenged, let alone unpunished.

‘There can be no explanation for your indifference,’ Uhtred said, standing up and limping past Harold.

‘Uhtred …’ Harold began.

‘You can speak to me tomorrow, after the trial is over. I’d like to hear your explanation, with the death of these innocent boys on your conscience,’ Uhtred growled, slamming the door behind him.

There was an awkward silence in the room, as Harold stared after the dwarf. Finally, the king sighed deeply and pulled up a chair beside Fletcher. He removed the circlet from the cap of golden curls on his head and put it on the table, before rubbing his temples.

‘I am going to tell you a story, Fletcher. A story that you may have heard some, but not all, of,’ Harold said, his eyes closed. He spoke in a low voice, as if wary of being overheard.

‘When I was but a boy, Hominum was in trouble. My father had raised taxes so high that the poor could barely feed themselves and even the nobility had to tighten their purse strings. He spent the money on frivolous things – great feasts, statues, paintings – he even built a sumptuous palace in the centre of Corcillum. The people were unhappy, the nobles even more so. It was not a question of
if
a revolt would happen, but
when
. So, he abdicated his throne to me, just as I graduated from Vocans. Taxes were cut, the common folk had a new king and peace was restored once more.’

Fletcher was vaguely aware of the tale, but he did not understand how this had anything to do with the trial.

‘You see, I am king in name alone. My father holds all the power. He controls the laws through the Judges and manages the army and nobility through the Inquisition. He can put down any troublemakers via the Pinkertons. When he gave me the throne, he believed I would do as I was told: and he had those three branches of government in place in case I did not. It was a publicity stunt, nothing more.’

Fletcher was stunned. In that instant, the king had diminished somehow. His presence weighed less heavily on the room.

Harold opened his eyes and gave Fletcher a level look.

‘My father is a bigot, a racist and a sadist. Yet, I … I grew up among tutors and scholars and was raised by my dwarven nannies.’

Fletcher had heard the stories about old King Alfric and the anti-dwarven laws that had existed during his rule. But to hear his own son speak of him in that way was shocking … the old king must be a real monster.

As Harold wrung his hands, Fletcher couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Why would the king tell him all this? He had no desire to be a pawn in someone else’s game.

‘I even spent a great deal of time with the elves on diplomatic missions, back when we were at peace,’ the king continued. ‘I am nothing like that man, though we share the same blood. Sometimes, I wonder if my mother’s death is what made him so hateful …’ Harold’s voice trailed off, and they sat in silence for a while longer.

‘I feel for you, truly. But I find it difficult to believe. What about the agreement with the dwarves, and the peace with the elves? What about the war? They say those were all your policies,’ Fletcher asked, unable to hold himself back.

‘The king’s council. It was my way of clawing back some power. I tricked my father into creating it, telling him the council would help deal with the boring, administrative tasks involved in running Hominum.’ Harold chuckled to himself and rapped his knuckles on the table.

‘A voting system was introduced, one that my father, Alfric, believed he could control, given his friendship with most of the council. But I had my own allies. As their parents died from old age and from protecting their borders, my younger friends inherited their positions. I managed to push through these new laws using that conduit. That was why last year’s Tournament was so important – it was my father’s idea to offer a council seat as a prize. If one of Zacharias Forsyth’s children had won, the balance of power would have swung in my father’s favour, for the Favershams and Forsyths remain on his side. I owe you thanks for preventing that.’

‘What does this have to do with Othello and our trial?’ Fletcher asked.

‘My father still believes I am as hateful as he and his friends are, that the laws I have introduced are for reasons of practicality, not morality, even if he disagrees with them. If he knew the extent to which I am against him … he would start a civil war and take power once again. I am trying to hold Hominum together, and the safety of its people balances precariously. We are barely holding off the orcs as it is. If there were civil war between my father and me, or if the dwarves were to rebel, or the elves to decide to invade, our armies would fall and the orcs would rampage across the Empire, slaughtering everyone in their path.’

‘So you can’t get involved in our trial, because your father would get suspicious if you did. You can’t give us a pardon?’

‘I can only give pardons to the nobility, but yes, even if it
were
possible, I could not, not without a good reason,’ Harold replied. ‘But, I am not here just to explain my actions. I have to tell you what will happen if Othello is executed tomorrow. The generals, nobility and common soldiers would be told a dwarven officer had been found guilty of murdering five men and committing treason. The dwarven recruits would find out that an innocent dwarf, the son of the great Uhtred Thorsager himself, has been executed for defending himself against a group of racist soldiers. Can you imagine what would happen?’

‘There … there would be riots … the humans and dwarves would murder each other,’ Fletcher gasped, horrified. He had been so concerned for himself and for Othello, he had not realised the wider ramifications of the trial.

‘The dwarves would be slaughtered, but not without first putting up a fight that would cripple our army,’ Harold said grimly. ‘The elves might end their alliance, after seeing what we did to the dwarves. And all the while, the albino orc would be gathering his forces, ready to send his hordes at our beleaguered and distracted army. All this, from one dwarven death. Yet all the Triumvirate can think of is their damned weapons business and getting their revenge on you. All my father cares about is putting the dwarves and elves in their place. I’m damned if I help you and damned if I don’t. It’s civil war with my father or a dwarven rebellion.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Fletcher asked desperately, grabbing Harold’s hand.

The king looked sadly at Fletcher, and grasped him like a drowning man.

‘There is nothing I can do. But there
is
something you can do.’ His eyes bore into Fletcher’s, burning with hope.

‘I’ll do anything. I’m a dead man anyway,’ Fletcher said. It felt good, to have a purpose, a plan of any kind. For a moment, he allowed himself a flicker of hope.

Harold took a deep breath.

‘Confess to treason tomorrow. I’ll make sure your death is quick.’