The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(18)

‘Nonetheless – motive!’ Rook growled, daring Arcturus to disagree. Fletcher’s heart sank further as Rook handed the sheet of paper to the jury to pass around. Othello was guilty of none of those charges. He had simply taken the blame, and the beatings, for his twin brother, Atilla.

‘We know the murder weapons, from the burns on the bodies from Fletcher’s Salamander to the discovery of the Thorsager tomahawk,’ Rook continued, nodding at the weapon on the table. ‘Finally, we have a reliable witness who places them at the scene. Now, we shall interrogate the accused. Guards, bring the dwarf to the witness stand!’

Othello struggled to his feet as the shackles were removed, then shuffled to the podium. He glared at Rook, his moustache bristling as he wrinkled his lip in disgust.

‘Where were you on the night of the attack?’ Rook asked, steepling his fingers.

Othello stared at Rook defiantly. He crossed his arms with a clatter of chains.

‘Why did you attack those men?’ Rook demanded, leaning forward. ‘Did you plan it, or was it a spur of the moment killing?’

Othello’s gaze never wavered. He was like a statue, unblinking and still, but for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

‘Well, it looks as if your gag did the trick, Jakov,’ Rook said, braying with laughter. ‘He’s been struck dumb!’

There was a soft chuckle from behind, and Fletcher turned to see old King Alfric smiling.

‘Still, he does look at me in a distinctly disrespectful way, wouldn’t you agree, Charles?’ Rook said, the humour suddenly gone from his tone.

‘He does indeed. Incredibly disrespectful. Slovenly in appearance, too. Beard unkempt, hair all over the place,’ Charles replied, rubbing his chin. ‘His grooming does not show this courtroom the respect it deserves.’

They were play-acting now, Fletcher could tell. It was like watching a poorly performed pantomime, and it filled him with dread – this was preplanned.

‘Jakov, why don’t you come here and give it a trim,’ Charles said, beckoning the large guard over.

Othello’s face paled. He tried to stand, but Charles slammed his hands on to the dwarf’s shoulders, keeping him in the chair. Ordinarily, the brawny dwarf would have had no trouble escaping Charles’s grip, but the chains impeded him, leaving him swaying back and forth.

‘You can’t!’ Fletcher shouted, tugging at his manacles. ‘It’s sacrilege to cut a dwarf ’s hair!’

He heaved on them until the metal bit his skin, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his fingers.

Arcturus turned to King Harold, but the monarch sat in silence, his arms crossed. Lord Forsyth, Didric and Lady Faversham were grinning with savage abandon, and old King Alfric was whispering excitedly into Didric’s ear.

‘This is against his civil rights,’ Arcturus said, appealing to the jury. ‘This is illegal!’

‘Dwarves have no rights,’ Rook laughed, as Jakov walked to the podium. ‘We shall make him presentable for the court. A haircut never hurt anyone.’

‘You will not do this!’ Arcturus bellowed, his finger flashing blue as he raised it. The click of the muskets gave him pause, and the guards shuffled forward, the guns pointed at his chest. He sank to his knees beside Fletcher as Jakov withdrew a curved blade, stepping beside Charles and Othello.

‘Don’t watch,’ Arcturus whispered, gripping Fletcher’s wrist to stop him pulling at the sharp metal cuffs. ‘They want to see you suffer.’

Fletcher stared at Othello as he struggled, jerking left and right and gnashing at the hands with his teeth. It made him look like an animal, and the jury shook their heads in disgust.

‘I am beyond suffering,’ Fletcher replied at last, dry-eyed. All he felt was anger, raging hot within him. He could barely stop himself from blasting the manacles from his hands and charging the podium. But he knew it would be suicide, and exactly what his enemies would have wanted.

Jakov’s meaty palm held Othello in place as the blade was raised.

‘Hold still,’ he growled, grasping the dwarf ’s beard. ‘Wouldn’t want an uneven haircut, would you.’

Othello’s head dropped to his chest, the fight gone from him as the first cut was made, the snick of the knife sharp in the silence of the room. He held Fletcher’s gaze as a tuft of hair floated to the ground.

A slow tear trickled down his cheek, but Othello did not cry out. The blade flashed again and again, and each time it felt as if it had been stabbed into Fletcher’s chest. That tear was the last. Othello bore the rest of the assault in stoic silence, and Fletcher willed him all his strength and courage.

‘Good enough, Inquisitors?’ Jakov said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The beard was trimmed now, almost as short as Rook’s.

‘Hmmm. The ponytail. I’ll keep it as a souvenir,’ Charles said, lifting it with his hand. Othello closed his eyes as the knife swished again.

‘Perhaps I should fashion it into a shaving brush,’ Charles laughed, flicking it back and forth like a horse’s tail.

‘Far too dirty for that,’ Rook replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Now the moustache. All of it – I’ve always wondered what a dwarf looks like witho—’

But he never finished his sentence. The doors at the back of the room slammed open, unleashing a gale of rain and whistling wind. A Griffin stalked through the doorway, emerging from the darkness with a screech. There was a uniformed rider astride it, her black hair plastered across pale cheeks. She lifted the goggles from her face, to reveal a pair of grey eyes that surveyed the scene with cold anger.