Tempest (16 page)

“Please,” Colm sobbed, too exhausted to do more than curl in on himself as he spoke. “Please, I'm not lying. I have no magic, I don't know any magic. I've always been able to do it, I can't control it… Please, please stop.”

Honored Srain frowned. “I thought we had progressed past this, Colm. I'll give you a few minutes to think, and then we begin again.” He left, and the door shut behind him. Colm lay on his back and tried desperately to regain his breath, to convince his body that it wasn't actually seared down to the bone, no matter how much it felt that way.

The hours passed in a painful pattern: Honored Srain asked questions, Colm answered them the only way he knew how, and each time he paid for it with a fresh touch of agony. Eventually he was given a break, just enough time to wonder if perhaps it was over at last, if maybe the priest would do him a favor and release him, or even if they'd just move onto a different type of torture that didn't make his bones feel like they'd been turned to molten glass.

Colm felt ashamed at his weakness, at how frail his spirit was to bow under the pressure so fast, but to him, it felt as though decades had already passed. Pain, protestations, questions…no time to sleep, no food, no water except what was thrown on him… By the time Honored Srain actually did call an end to the interrogation, Colm was so out of his head that he didn't even realize it at first.

“Astonishing,” Honored Srain said, almost to himself. “You must be a partial, and you didn't even know it. That's the only explanation that doesn't hinge on your possessing a more diabolical intelligence than I can credit you with, Colm. I'll have water and fresh clothes brought to you, and then you'll be taken to the King's Hall of Justice for your sentencing.”

Sentencing? What? “What…”

“You were doing magic, Colm Weathercliff, whether you knew it or not. That is an offense in this city, and you must pay the price for that.” Honored Srain got to his feet and sighed. “It's a shame we had to go through all this, but the truth will out, even if it's a truth we don't yet realize.” He reached out to touch Colm's head, and Colm instinctively jerked it out of the way before he could make contact. “It's just a blessing, my son,” Honored Srain said gently, and he spoke the words and made the sign against Colm's forehead, and the terrible thudding of Colm's headache seemed to lessen a little.

“There, the Four still smile upon you. That's well, Colm Weathercliff.” Honored Srain left the cell, and left the door open too, but Colm was still too exhausted to even think about standing.

The priest didn't come back, but the watchman did. He stripped Colm with efficiency and poured another bucket of water over him to wash off the worst of the filth, then sat him down on the stool that had been left behind and helped him pull on a new pair of trousers and a jerkin, neither of them particularly soft or well made, but at least they were dry. He shoved Colm's feet back into his boots, and turned him toward the stairs. “March, boy.”

“Have fun having a future,” the voice from one of the cells said petulantly, and the watchman turned around and clanged his truncheon loudly against the door.

“That's enough out of you,” he snapped, and then took hold of Colm's arm and half pushed, half carried him up the stairs.

The light, even in the stone hallway, was bright enough to hurt Colm's eyes. His legs felt as weak as minnows, and he dreaded the thought of going out into the crowds again and being seen this way.

Apparently, the clergy dreaded the idea as well, because instead of being led through the streets, he was ushered into a closed coach, something Colm had never been inside before. The seats were padded and covered with leather, and the coach's windows were covered by velvet drapes. Honored Srain was already there, and he looked critically on Colm as the watchman pushed him inside.

“You still look rather frightful, my son.” Colm didn't say anything back, just stared at the floor as the coach rolled into motion. The priest sighed. “Haj, you couldn't take the time to brush his hair back from his face or lace up the boots?”

“I didn't want us to be late for the magistrate, sir,” the watchman—Haj—said, but he bent himself to the task of jerking the boots closed and tying the laces. Honored Srain reached for Colm's face again, and Colm finally pushed himself to act.

“I can do that,” he said hoarsely, and used his fingers to comb his hair back from his face. It was just beginning to dry, and still fairly malleable. He tucked the front strands behind his ears and tried to hide the shaking of his hands.

“Better,” Honored Srain said approvingly. “Although it does reveal some of the rather unfortunate injuries you sustained during our quest for knowledge, but I don't suppose it can be helped. Better you look like you took a bad tumble than like some madman who can't be bothered to take proper care of himself.” The priest seemed to be waiting for Colm to say something.

“Thank…” He wet his lips. “Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome, my son.” Honored Srain looked away, then seemed to think better of it. “Once we're in the magistrate's quarters, don't speak unless you're told to,” he said. “And don't move until you've been directed to do so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” They were simple enough directions. Colm felt that even he should be able to handle them.

The ride to the King's Hall of Justice wasn't long, and Colm was whisked away there just as quick and sure as he'd been at the cathedral. They entered a long, tall corridor of sandstone with doors on the left-hand side, and at the next to last door, Honored Srain knocked. “Enter,” a voice called out from within, and they did so.

The room was larger inside than Colm had imagined, or would have imagined if he'd had the presence of mind to be wondering about it. There was a tall desk against one wall, a chair with leg shackles in the corner of that same wall, and a series of benches stretching back into the room, each one filled with people. Some of them Colm recognized, like Lew and Carroll and the owner of the trawler that had turned Colm away in the beginning. Most of them were people he'd never seen before, though. In the very front row were Megg and Nichol, and Megg shot to her feet as soon as he came in the door.

“What is this?” she demanded angrily even as tears filled her eyes. “It wasn't enough to snatch the lad up off the street like a thief, you had to beat him as well?”

“Keep your silence, Mistress Searunner, or you'll be taken out of this chamber,” the man behind the desk said. He wore an ornate blue-and-gold robe and was flanked by two more guards, and it didn't take more than a moment for Colm to see the family resemblance between this man and Jaime Windlove, his fair, handsome son. This, then, was Magistrate Windlove, the man everyone wanted to be on the good side of.

“Gran, sit,” Nichol pleaded. Hearing their voices almost made Colm's knees buckle, but he managed to keep himself upright. He couldn't look straight at them. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep his composure.

“You finished with him in good time,” the magistrate commended the priest.

“Only thirty hours' worth of interrogation, barely worth my presence,” Honored Srain agreed. “But with cases that involve accusations of magic, it pays to be careful.”

“Will he need the shackles?”

“Oh, I don't think so, Magistrate. He's shown no violent tendencies at all. Still, it wouldn't do for him to run about and make a scene once the witnesses come in.” Honored Srain looked at Colm. “Do you think you need the shackles to keep you calm, my son?”

“No, sir,” Colm said quietly.

“Very good.”

Haj led Colm over to the chair and pushed him against it until he sat down, his joints aching. Everything ached.

“Today, we have heard testimony for and against the accused, Colm Weathercliff, in the matter of the illegal use of magic to increase his catch,” Magistrate Windlove said tersely. He looked tired, and Colm wondered how long this court had been in session without him. “Circumstantial evidence leads me to believe magic has been involved, although not necessarily deliberately. Honored Srain, what are your findings in the matter?”

“Colm Weathercliff is an exceptionally truthful young man,” Honored Srain said, and if Colm hadn't been so exhausted and cowed, he would have laughed at the irony of it. “What he didn't realize until the Four showed him the truth is that he is a partial.” A few people in the crowd gasped, but mostly there was a murmur of general acknowledgment.

“Partially what apart from human I don't know, and it doesn't really matter,” Honored Srain continued. “Men cannot help what their forebears have wrought upon them. His ability is entirely unconscious, but it does afford him an unfair advantage in his trade.”

“Thank you, Honored Srain.” Magistrate Windlove looked over at Colm. “Colm Weathercliff, your punishment for the illegal use of magic is that, in order to keep you from unduly enriching yourself at the expense of your fellows, you are forbidden to practice the trade of fisherman at sea, as well as a fine of ten silvers for taking up the court's time with this matter.”

Colm's mind reeled. The silvers he had, if only just from saving his money, but what was he supposed to do with himself if he wasn't a fisherman? The water was where he felt at peace, the only place he was comfortable in his own skin. What would he do without it?

“Ridiculous!” Megg said, standing up with her hands on her hips. Nichol tried to ease her down again, but she wouldn't have it.

“I take it you want to speak again, Mistress,” Magistrate Windlove said. “If that's the case, then you'll ask my permission, and politely, before continuing.”

“May I speak freely, Magistrate?” Megg asked with chilling precision.

“You may, but briefly. This day has dragged on for all of us.”

Megg took a deep breath, then began. “My nephew Colm is guilty of nothing but being good at his trade. He may be a partial, but if each of us traces our lineage back far enough, who isn't? My own husband was a partial, and our love was no less strong because of it.”

“He left you for the sea!” a man in the back shouted. “What's that say about the strength of his devotion, eh?”

“He left me because he was dying and it was the only way he could live!” Megg retorted even as the magistrate called for order. “I would rather he live on in the sea than be returned to it as ash. The point is, Colm has never done anyone here wrong, not with his words or actions. He worked a small boat that took a small catch, and the sea is plenty large for everyone here. Moreover,” she continued, “when accusations fed by drink and jealousy are given consideration they don't deserve, well, I must say that I fear for the state of justice in Caithmor, Master Windlove.”

“That's
Magistrate
Windlove, Mistress,” he corrected her with a frown. “Are you finished, then?”

“Aye, I suppose I am,” she said, sounding just as tired as the magistrate now.

“The sentence stands. Although, the next man in this group who comes to me with tales of woe, know that I'll hold you personally responsible for paying the fees of whatever trial you provoke,” Magistrate Windlove added, glaring around the room. “Is that understood?”

“Aye,” came the chorus of voices, some chastened, others edged with triumph.

“Then leave this place in peace.”

“The blessings of the Four upon all of you,” Honored Srain added.

As soon as the magistrate stood up, signaling the sentencing was officially over, Megg and Nichol were off the bench and by Colm's side.

“Oh, love,” Megg sighed, the tears coming back now. “Look at you, look at your beautiful face.” She gently touched the edge of the welt on his temple, and Colm's breath hitched with pain.

“Bastards, the lot of 'em,” Nichol growled, looking over his shoulder at Lew, who was slinking out of the room. “They only spoke against you today because they lost the chance to have you work on their own ships and saw a chance to remove the competition. That damn fool Lew gave you up without a fight, not a word of defense or to say he was wrong. He never deserved you.”

“It doesn't matter,” Colm said.

“It
does
matter—”

“But can we speak of it another day?” he begged. Colm wasn't above begging, not right now, not to his own family. “I'm so tired, all I want is to lie down and sleep.”

“Of course you do,” Megg said, her voice full of tender solicitousness. “Let's get you home, love. Back to the Cove, safe and sound. And don't worry about the fine. I'll get it out of Lew if I have to beat him black and blue with my ladle. It's his fault you're in this to begin with.”

“No, it's not,” Colm sighed. “Not really. It's my own fault.”

“You can't help the way you're made,” Nichol said with a frown.

“But I could have helped what I did with myself,” Colm replied, his nerves desperately frayed and his throat aching from the effort it took not to cry. He needed to get out of here. “Please, I'm so tired.”

“Home, then,” Megg said, stroking her gnarled hand through Colm's hair. It was the only part of him that didn't seem to hurt. “Home, and sleep.”

The walk back to the Cove felt entirely too long, as if someone had picked it up and moved it another mile down the docks. Nichol slung Colm's arm over his shoulder and Colm didn't resist, despite knowing it made him look weak. Megg glared at everyone who so much as glanced at them, keeping all comers at bay until they were finally back at the inn.

“Take my bed for now,” Megg told Colm as he and Nichol stumbled across the courtyard, legs shaking with exertion. “It's cleaner than Nichol's, I imagine, and you won't have to go up all those damn stairs.”

“I can't—”