The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(13)

He summoned Ignatius, and pulled the imp into his arms. His wet skin was all gooseflesh, but the warm Salamander flattened himself against Fletcher’s chest, breathing a toasty gust of heated air across his face.

‘We’re not out of this yet, Ignatius. But at least you don’t share my fate. If I die you’ll fade back into the ether, safe and sound.’

Ignatius mewled miserably and wrapped his tail around Fletcher’s bare midriff.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get out of this somehow.’ He tugged at the Salamander, but Ignatius stubbornly held on.

‘Come on, little guy, I know you’re happy to walk around buck naked all day, but I’m not. The guards would get quite a show if they came in now.’

Ignatius slipped off reluctantly and contented himself with exploring the confines of their new cell, sniffing suspiciously at the chairs, as if they might suddenly attack.

As Fletcher struggled back into his sodden clothes there was a knock on the door and Arcturus strode in, his face grim and pinched with worry.

He gave Fletcher a forced smile and said, ‘You look like a drowned rat. God knows what Berdon’s going to think when he sees you.’

‘He’s coming?’ Fletcher said, hardly able to believe it.

‘Yes. His case was right after yours. After Rook’s little performance, the judge was inclined to release Berdon temporarily to see you today, even though he must spend the next two nights in jail. A silver lining to a very dark cloud.’ Arcturus pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

‘Arcturus, thank you,’ Fletcher said, clasping Arcturus’s hands. ‘For everything. You’ve given me back my life.’

Arcturus gave him a fleeting smile, but soon his face was dark and foreboding once again.

‘I wouldn’t speak so soon. It’s bad, Fletcher. You’re accused of killing Lord Forsyth’s troops, in support of a failed dwarven rebellion. They have evidence – witnesses that say both you and Othello were at the scene, even evidence that you harbour anti-royal sympathies. I’m told Othello was arrested a few nights ago … I didn’t even know he was here. I’m sorry Fletcher, this is all my fault. They distracted us with Didric’s trial, while they planned this one.’

Fletcher collapsed in a chair and buried his face with his hands. Somehow, the accusation hadn’t sunk in until now. Ignatius nudged his leg, growling with worry.

‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire,’ Fletcher murmured, filled with the dread of returning to his cell. ‘I remember that night. We were there, Arcturus.’

‘That’s not the worst of it. The Inquisition run all military trials and, as an officer cadet of the king’s army, you are eligible for one. Not to mention the fact that there will be a jury, who I suspect will have all heard of your murder charge, if they haven’t been paid off by the Triumvirate—’

‘Hang on, tell me more about the Triumvirate,’ Fletcher interrupted.

‘As I said, it’s Lord Forsyth, Lady Faversham and Didric,’ Arcturus replied grimly. ‘Didric met them when Lord Faversham came to heal his burns, and he found out they own the exclusive weapons contract to the northern frontier. Faversham introduced Didric’s family to the Forsyths – they were allies from the beginning, before you even set foot in Vocans. Together, the three families now run most of the prisons and weapons manufacturing in Hominum – which is why they’re aggressively anti-dwarven. They’re determined to do anything to drive them out of the firearms business. Unfortunately, they have the Inquisition and the Pinkertons deeply in their pockets, and the friendship of old King Alfric.’

‘An evil alliance if there ever was one,’ Fletcher muttered.

‘Yes, and a powerful one. They also have a particular vendetta against you. Somehow you managed to offend all three families, what with Didric’s face, foiling the Forsythled plots last year and your supposed claim to be Lord Faversham’s son.’

‘How are we supposed to get out of this?’ Fletcher asked, running his hands through his wet hair.

‘The only way we can win this is by proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are innocent, so that the jury will find it impossible to convict you. Now tell me, what do they have on you?’

But Fletcher didn’t get a chance to reply. The door burst open, revealing the burly figure of Berdon. Fletcher barely had time to stand up before he was wrapped in a bear hug, lost in his adoptive father’s scent of leather and coal-dust.

‘Son … my son …’ Berdon sobbed.

He pulled away and grasped Fletcher’s face, examining it through sparkling eyes.

‘You’re taller. Almost up to my beard,’ he said, half laughing and half crying. ‘You’re a man now. Still can’t grow a proper moustache, though.’

Fletcher grinned and hugged him again, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t find the words to describe how much he had missed the amiable giant.

‘There’s so much I have to tell you,’ Fletcher murmured.

‘Your friend, Othello, has told me all of it,’ Berdon replied, ruffling Fletcher’s hair. ‘A year is a long time, and I’ve been working with his family to get you a fair trial. I hear you’re quite the warrior.’

Fletcher shuffled his feet and shook his head with embarrassment.