The Dog of the North (27 page)

Arren, whose head was fuddled from the wine, and had little appetite for further food or conversation, offered his polite farewells and retired to his chambers.

1

No building called the Darkstone was likely to promote the soul’s ease, and Mettingloom’s most notorious prison lived up – or down – to its sombre
name. It was not designed for the rabble: only political prisoners, or those accused of the most serious crimes, found accommodation there. The island on which it stood jutted up from the lagoon in
summer, and in winter was surrounded by a sheet of ice and snow. Escape, in any event only a theoretical possibility, would have required a lengthy swim in the summer; in the winter the escapee
would have to negotiate the holes in the ice concealed beneath the snow, with a mistake meaning a fatal plunge into the chill waters below.

It was here that Beauceron found himself brought immediately after his arrest. Escape was not an immediate prospect. Intrigue had brought him here, and it would have to take him out again. As a
well-known prisoner, he had a cell which was, if not luxurious, better than most of the other inmates enjoyed. He had a proper bed, a chair and a desk, and windows which closed. He would hardly be
growing fat on good living, but at least he would not freeze to death.

The gaoler, a seasoned professional named Tintazzo, agreed to take letters to various destinations at Beauceron’s request. It was apparent that he was indeed to have at least an appearance
of a proper trial. Essentially the evidence would come down to his word against Sir Goccio’s, since there was little if any direct proof. However, he knew that Davanzato would be sure to have
paid witnesses, and since the King was the final arbiter of the case, he could not expect the benefit of the doubt. An acquittal was unlikely without some external intervention. Now was the time to
find out who his friends were.

Beauceron was allowed no visitors over the next three days, but on the fourth morning Tintazzo appeared accompanied by Monetto. Beauceron thought that he had probably had more sleep than his
lieutenant.

‘Be of good cheer,’ he said as Tintazzo made his way out. ‘I am not dead yet.’

Monetto sat down and withdrew various papers. ‘The auguries are not good. You are accused of high treason against Fanrolio, by virtue of conspiring with Sir Goccio to raise an army against
the Winter King’s command.’

Beauceron nodded. ‘The charge is hard to rebut, in that it is true. The only real witness, however, is Sir Goccio. I am unclear as to the niceties of the law: is he too not guilty of
treason?’

‘I have been researching the question overnight. His crime is petty treason, because he is not Fanrolio’s man. You are accused of grand treason, conspiracy against a King to whom you
have sworn fealty. Both are serious offences, but yours considerably more so.’

‘Sir Goccio’s status as a witness must therefore be questionable.’

‘Davanzato has offered him a reduced sentence in return for cooperation. He does not intend to present you with a similar opportunity. In addition, there are further witnesses.’

Beauceron raised his eyebrows. ‘They can only be paid informants. I discussed the subject with no one but Sir Goccio.’

Monetto flicked through his papers. ‘There are various of Sir Goccio’s associates. I assume they have been bribed to support their master’s story. Most worrying of all, Lady
Isola is to be called as a witness. Think carefully: have you had any treasonable conversation with her?’

‘Most emphatically not. Do you think I would discuss such affairs with a woman, particularly one who nurtures such hostility?’

‘I imagine not, although such a comely person must have considerable wiles. You have not always been wise where ladies are concerned.’

‘I have never allowed such dalliances to retard my plans, and I have not started now. Am I to understand that Davanzato intends to prosecute the case himself?’

‘Just so. As Under-Chamberlain it is not just his right but his duty to do so.’

‘He has clearly been planning this for some time. I can only assume that Fanrolio is more amenable to my scheme than Davanzato had told me; otherwise why would he take the risk of
destroying me? He is not a man for unnecessary risk.’

‘The Bill of Trial seeks not only your execution – naturally – but the attainder of your goods. As the prosecutor he would be entitled to one-quarter of the proceeds. Even a
less avaricious man might be tempted.’

‘No doubt he has promised Isola it will pay off her ransom.’

‘She cannot trust him?’

‘She is desperate, and her judgement is overset by events. What has she to lose? She owes me no loyalty; quite the reverse.’

‘I have taken the liberty of engaging a legulier, one Mongrissore. Neither you nor I have the necessary knowledge to mount your defence. He is outside, if you wish to see him.’

‘What kind of man is he?’

Monetto grimaced. ‘He knows his business; and he puts a high value on his services. Meet him for yourself, reach your own judgement.’

Beauceron nodded. ‘Fetch him.’

Master Mongrissore was a man of late middle age, scanty white hair flying in all directions. Commanding as his fees might have been, they were not spent on his wardrobe, which consisted of a
threadbare black suit; nor did they appear to finance gourmandizing, for Mongrissore was rake-thin. Beauceron’s initial impression was not favourable, and he looked askance at Monetto.

Mongrissore pulled out of a valise tucked under his arm a jumble of documents. He resembled the legal papers among which he spent his days. His skin had the dry waxy pallor of parchment; his
untidy black suit rustled with a papery susurration when he moved; his small keen black eyes were like inkspots staining the margins of a page.

Mongrissore shook hands with greater firmness than his appearance might have implied. ‘Gratified to meet you, sir. We have much to cover, since Davanzato is pressing for an immediate
trial. I must assess your own state: what of your bowels?’

‘Bowels?’

Mongrissore clucked. ‘Regularity, man! Are you a five-a-day man, or once a week? You have a costive look.’

‘I fail to see the relevance of this line of inquiry.’

‘A skilled observer can learn more of a man from his bowels than from his eyes. I admit I am no coprognostic, but a little knowledge may go a long way.’

‘If you must know, my bowels move with daily regularity.’

‘And has this changed during your incarceration?’

‘No. Is this germane to my defence?’

Mongrissore scratched his chin, which appeared not to have been shaved that day.

‘I dislike explaining my reasonings, but you are clearly a man who will be satisfied with nothing less. The regularity of your movements, even under such difficult circumstances, argues
for a phlegmatic constitution. You are unlikely to panic under questioning, and I can plan my defence on the basis that you can testify if needs be. I learn also that you are impatient, truculent,
untrusting.’

‘All this from negligible information as to my digestion?’

‘The latter inferences I have drawn from your demeanour. Let me say that your situation is unpromising. Davanzato is a keen opponent, and his evidence is strong. You will have to show a
far greater faith in my judgement if you are to escape the noose.’

‘The “strong” evidence you refer to is fabricated.’

‘You must disabuse yourself of the notion that truth has any part to play in these proceedings. A treason trial concerns what can be proved, not what is true: there is often considerable
divergence between the two. What is true, of course, cannot always be proved; but in law, that which is proved may not always be true.’

‘I have not employed you for a lecture on jurisprudence, nor for commonplace epigrams. Your role is simple: to secure my acquittal.’

Mongrissore nodded. ‘Are you guilty?’

Beauceron raised his eyebrows.

‘I have no scruples of any sort,’ said Mongrissore. ‘I do not care one way or the other; however, my job is easier if I know whether I am obscuring the truth or revealing
it.’

‘In a limited, technical sense, I imagine I am guilty. I had allowed Sir Goccio to believe that I supported his proposal to raise an army against Croad, and that I would lead
it.’

‘And to whom have you communicated this knowledge?’

‘Other than yourself and Monetto, only to Sir Goccio himself.’

Mongrissore nodded. ‘Davanzato has depositions not just from Sir Goccio but also fourteen of his men, who claim a detailed plan was worked out at The Ill-Favoured Loon tavern; and from
Lady Isola, who deposes that you had expressed your dissatisfaction with King Fanrolio and your consequent intention to change your allegiance to King Tardolio.’

Beauceron poured himself a beaker of water. ‘These allegations are uniformly false. I may be guilty of the treason described but there is no evidence.’

‘Good, very good.’

Beauceron frowned. ‘I fail to see how the prospect of my being convicted on false testimony is “very good”.’

‘That is why I am the legulier and you the hapless accused. We can now spend our time undermining the witnesses involved. Any information you can provide me which will call into question
the motives of Sir Goccio, Lady Isola and most importantly Under-Chamberlain Davanzato will help us all.’

‘Monetto has a wealth of such facts to hand.’

Monetto gave a quiet smile. ‘The only difficulties will come in marshalling them,’ he said.

2

‘All hail His Puissant Majesty, the Winter King of Mettingloom, the Northern Reaches and Lynnoc: Fanrolio!’

Beauceron, already seated at a bench in the private judicial chamber alongside Mongrissore, craned his head as the King was announced. On Fanrolio’s attitude much would depend. Today he
was bedecked in his judicial robes of white and black. It was a treason trial, and by convention all those present were dressed only in monochrome. The only colour in the chamber was the ruddy wood
of the benches and table, and a sprawl of jauntily coloured folios in front of Mongrissore.

The judicial chamber was not large: it needed only to accommodate the accused – Beauceron and Sir Goccio – Mongrissore, the prosecutor Davanzato and his assistants, the two Lords of
Equity, and of course the King. The panelled walls were varnished to a high sheen and the ceiling painted a matt black, with stars picked out in white. The dark ceiling lowered oppressively and
seemed to force Beauceron down onto his bench. He shook his head to clear the impression: the furnishings’ effects were deliberate and calculated, and he could not afford to succumb to
them.

Fanrolio seated himself with infinite care on the silvered throne. Beauceron idly wondered if the monarch suffered from haemorrhoids, such was the deliberation with which he placed his
fundament.

‘This is a melancholy day,’ said the King in his customary quavering voice. ‘To find a noble knight of the Sunflower and our own Captain Beauceron brought before us in this
way. Under-Chamberlain Davanzato, you have marshalled the evidence: would you care to present it?’

Davanzato rose and bowed. He cut a dashing figure with his black robes set against his olive skin. His dark eyes flashed with diligence.

‘Your Puissance, I thank you. It gives me no pleasure to outline treasons against your person. The sooner the disagreeable matter is concluded, the best for all. I hope that the accused
will favour us in this matter by swiftly declaring their guilt, so that a due and proportionate sentence can be handed down. For reasons which will become apparent, I lay my charges first against
Sir Goccio, Knight of the Sunflower.

‘Sir Goccio, it is my contention that you have conspired to commit the act of petty treason against your just sovereign King Fanrolio, in concert with the low-born rogue Beauceron, once of
the Emmenrule, and a sworn man of our King. Your allegiance, sir, as we all know, is to King Tardolio. Nonetheless, like every subject of this realm, you owe duty, obedience and loyalty to the King
of the Season, regardless of any other oath you may have sworn. The penalty for the crime of petty treason is death, subject only to His Puissance’s mercy. What have you to say?’

Sir Goccio rose from his bench. Unlike Beauceron, he had chosen to appear without a legulier. He bowed to the King, the Lords of Equity and finally to Davanzato.

‘Before this court and before the King, I freely and humbly admit my guilt,’ he said. ‘I was approached by Captain Beauceron with a proposal that I should act as an
intermediary between himself and King Tardolio, with the purpose of raising an army against the city of Croad. This I did willingly, but foolishly.’

‘Were you aware,’ asked Davanzato in a neutral voice, ‘that in assisting Captain Beauceron to evade his oath of service to King Fanrolio, you committed a petty
treason?’

Sir Goccio bowed his head. ‘Sir, I was. My enthusiasm for battle, for glory, for Mettingloom, caused me to overlook my duty. With my comrades and Captain Beauceron, we drew up battle plans
from The Ill-Favoured Loon, a tavern known for its allegiance to the Sunflower cause.’

‘A melancholy tale,’ said Davanzato, ‘and one of a brave man, seduced from what was right and true by the silver tongue of a foreign rogue who played upon your good instincts.
Although I prosecute this case, I recommend mercy to my lords and to Your Puissance. Guilt is incontrovertible; only the penalty remains to be fixed.’

Mongrissore coughed. ‘Excuse me, good sirs,’ he said, rising. Beauceron looked sideways. Mongrissore had not expressed any previous intention to intervene in this trial. Not for the
first time Beauceron felt that Mongrissore’s appearance was not in his favour. His patched suit was the only one Beauceron had ever seen him wear; although at least today he had honoured
court and King with a shave.

Fanrolio blinked rheumily. Ulrado, the Lord of Equity from the Summer Court, fixed Mongrissore with a stern glance. ‘This is not your case, Legulier.’

‘Your pardon, my lord. However, Sir Goccio’s testimony is pertinent to the case in which I am retained. It is more seemly to tackle such points as they arise.’