The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(15)
Behind Fletcher, there were generals and nobles on the front rows, adorned in their military regalia. A cloud of smoke stained the air above, as many of them puffed on long-stemmed cheroots, whispering in each other’s ears as if they were at the theatre.
Lord and Lady Faversham were sitting on the front bench. Lord Forsyth was seated close by, his large, imposing figure taking up two spaces on the bench. Beside him sat an elegant blond lady who Fletcher could only assume was his wife. Didric and his father were nearest to Fletcher, dressed in velvet suits, with heavy gold rings weighing down their fingers.
All of them tracked Fletcher and Arcturus with hate-filled eyes as the guards shackled him to the floor again. He resisted the urge to shudder and instead lifted his chin; he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear. Arcturus returned their gaze levelly, though Fletcher could see his hand trembling.
‘Be upstanding for Inquisitors Damian Rook and Charles Faversham!’ a guard shouted.
Rook swept into the room, followed by a hook-nosed man with dark eyes and jet-black hair. His skin was as pale as Rook’s was jaundiced, and he was so skinny as to be bordering on the skeletal. The two Inquisitors took their seats at the high table and stared regally around the room.
‘I haven’t been in the same room as my father and half-brother since I was fifteen years old,’ Arcturus murmured, nodding at the dark-haired Inquisitor.
Fletcher stared at Charles, comparing the man’s face to his own. If Arcturus’s theory was correct, Fletcher was Lord Faversham’s illegitimate son, just as Arcturus was, making Charles their half-brother. He saw little resemblance to his own face, though Charles’s hair was as thick and black as his own.
‘Bring in the co-conspirator!’ Charles snapped in a high, reedy voice.
The doors slammed open and Jakov entered the room, pulling Othello behind him. The dwarf was festooned with chains, so many that he could only shuffle a few inches at a time. There was a dirty rag gagging his mouth and an eye was swollen shut, bruised the ugly purple of an overripe plum.
Uhtred followed at their rear, his face dark with anger. He walked with his fists clenched, the swinging gait of a man ready for a fight.
‘What have you done to him?’ Arcturus demanded, as Jakov shackled Othello next to Fletcher.
‘He was insubordinate,’ Jakov grinned, ‘so we gave him a few love taps and a gag to keep him quiet. It’s the only thing these half-men understand.’
‘Leave it, Captain,’ Uhtred growled under his breath, pulling Arcturus aside. ‘There’s no use reasoning with these animals. Let the jury see, maybe it will elicit some sympathy.’
‘I doubt it,’ Arcturus whispered, as Jakov nodded to one of the jury members and sauntered out.
‘Only one of us can speak in the boys’ defence. I think you would be best placed to do it, after the job you did at the last trial,’ Uhtred said, giving Othello a rough kiss on the top of his head. ‘I won’t watch. I don’t trust myself to keep calm. It was all I could do not to rip that brute to shreds. Good luck … I’ll see you when it’s over.’
Before Arcturus could reply, Rook cleared his throat; the room went from a gentle murmuring to silence. Fletcher caught one last look at Uhtred’s receding back, then the side doors were slammed shut.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ Rook proclaimed, sweeping his hand theatrically. ‘It is not often that we Inquisitors have the chance to preside over a case of treason. After all, it is the most heinous of crimes, punishable by death.’
This time, Fletcher felt a strange dullness at the threat of death. Somehow, it seemed a better fate than spending his life imprisoned in that cell.
‘I want a swift trial today; I know we all have places to be,’ Rook said magnanimously. ‘We, the Inquisition, will act as prosecutors and arbiters in this case. It will be up to the jury to decide the guilt of the accused. If you don’t mind, we will get straight to the point. Inquisitor Faversham, please state the facts.’
Charles looked down his nose at Fletcher, shuffling his notes.
‘During a night-training exercise, five of Lord Forsyth’s men were murdered. One had burns on his face, consistent with a Salamander attack, a rare demon owned exclusively by Fletcher. We believe that he was accompanied by Othello Thorsager, who helped perpetrate the massacre.’ Charles pointed at the shackled dwarf, who could do nothing in response but stare back. ‘It was an attack motivated by the desire to overthrow King Harold, the first step in a dwarven rebellion. If Fletcher had not been arrested for the attempted murder of Lord Cavell, we might be in the midst of civil war right now.’
‘An arrest that was not justified,’ Arcturus countered. ‘Fletcher was cleared of all wrongdoing. Lord Cavell is fortunate that he has not been charged with attempted murder himself.’
‘Ah, Arcturus, you speak at last,’ Charles sneered, holding up a hand as Rook took a breath to shout at the captain. ‘Do us the courtesy of holding your tongue until after we have given all of our evidence.’
‘Then get on with it, rather than talking about disproven accusations.’
Charles ignored him and stepped down from the high table.
‘We have three pieces of evidence. The first, the weapon Othello Thorsager used in the attack. The second is proof of Fletcher’s affiliation with dwarven dissidents. The third and final piece of evidence is witness testimony. I believe that these three pieces shall prove their guilt, with a swift beheading of both perpetrators to follow. Though I know Inquisitor Rook is keen to suggest the more … traditional death by way of hanging, drawing and quartering. Perhaps fortunately for the accused, the method of execution shall be decided by the jury.’