The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(90)

None of that mattered now. She focused instead on shaping the right words, clear and concise.

“And these men . . . I cannot speak to the how or why, but they were in that valley. They admit to attempting to influence the acts that happened there. That the magicians may have tried to kill them after cannot be proven”—though it was likely, and a pity they didn’t succeed?—“but that it was without cause is blatantly untrue; whatever happened in that valley, they were part of it. And that they do not speak of that part, their culpability, makes their claim of insult nothing save falsehood.”

The words poured out of Isobel now, and the relief she felt as her mouth moved was akin to slipping into the hot water of a bathhouse. Her mouth, her tongue, her throat forming the words, her breath pushing them out, but the words themselves came from deeper than she could reach, drawn not only from her thoughts or the sigil in her palm but the heat curling up along her bones.

She was the devil’s gaze cast over the Territory, the great and the small alike. But something else looked through her as well.

“And that is your observation?” The judge had listened to what she said, showing no more emotion after that single slip, waiting for her to say that yes, that was her observation, and be done.

“It is my observation and the judgment of the Devil’s Hand.”

She had not meant to say that, had not opened her mouth to say it, and yet the words came, falling solid as stone into the room.

The twitch in the judge’s jaw was the only sign she had that her words affected him. She could not override his decision, whatever it might be. This was not a matter for her—for the boss—to decide. But she had just confirmed his suspicion that the Master of the Territory was watching.

She had grown up under the boss’s eye, his hand a comfort on her shoulder. It was difficult for her to remember that to some, he was mysterious, unknown, unpredictable. Frightening.

And now, to everyone here, so too was she.

To give the judge credit, the twitch and the flicker of his eyes was the only sign he gave, then his face shuttered again, unreadable.

“Mister Kasun?”

Gabriel slid his arm from around her shoulders and stood up. She was so accustomed to seeing him on horseback, or sprawled on his kit once they made camp, that she could have picked him from a crowd a hundred paces away, and yet the man in front of her suddenly seemed a stranger. Gone was the casual slouch of his shoulders or the easy way he placed his boots, like he knew the ground would rise up to meet him. This man’s boots were planted solid on the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, chin up and hair slicked back out of his face.

“I was not privy to certain details Isobel observed, nor the means by which she determines truths. However, I have observed her in detail over the past months and will place my word that she speaks the truths as she observed them.”

The judge sniffed once, not entirely displeased. “Eastern advocate, are you, boy?”

“Trained for it, sir. Not currently practicing.”

There was some joke there that the two men got—three, from the snort that came from the States’ marshal still sitting on the bench across the room.

“And you give your word on her.”

“As her mentor, yes, your honor, I do.”



Gabriel had never had cause to give his word before a Territory judge before, although he’d seen it done, when he was younger: the settlement he’d grown up in had been fractious enough that a judge had made a point of stopping by twice a year to settle things before they got out of hand. Those had been noisy affairs, yelling in two or three languages, depending on who was before the bench, and usually ended with a round of drinking that would inevitably start the next round of arguments.

It was quiet in this bench-hall once they’d finished giving their observations. The judge had not retreated to his quarters, as Gabriel’d half-expected, but rather leaned against the far wall, his eyes hooded, occasionally rubbing his bare scalp with one hand as though to stimulate his thinking.

The road marshal paced, her bootheels a steady, sharp slap against the planking, then a pause as she wheeled, and the slap slap slap again. He wasn’t sure if it was soothing or prone to drive him mad if she kept it up much longer. The woman who’d gotten Isobel into trouble, whatever her name was, had disappeared at some point. A wise choice?—it may not have been her fault, but he couldn’t hold her blameless, either.

Next to him, Isobel was watching the Americans. They were sitting still, not looking at each other, a marked distance between the two of them. The judge had spoken to them, quietly, before he heard from the marshal or Isobel, but if they’d spoken since then, Gabriel hadn’t noted it. Then again, he’d had other things to worry about.

Her nose hadn’t started bleeding again, and her voice’d been steady when she spoke, no stutters or hesitations, but the memory of too-cool skin and too-fast pulse haunted him.

“What happened out there?” He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t feel her shift to look at him.

“I don’t know. It’s still hazy.” Her voice was soft but certain. “Lou showed me a ward post. They were . . .”

“Native work, yeah.” Mayhap his original thought had been true, that the foundation had taken insult at the Devil’s Hand come too close into things that didn’t concern him. Mayhap that’s all there was to it, his deeper concerns baseless.