The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(2)
But the most torturous thought of all was knowing that his adoptive father Berdon was close by, in the village above him. He remembered when the prison transport had brought him back to Pelt in the dead of night. He had peered through the cracks in the armoured wagon, desperate to catch a glimpse of his childhood home. But before he could get a proper look, the gaolers threw a sack over his head and dragged him away.
As Fletcher lapsed into miserable silence once more, Ignatius growled restlessly before snorting a tongue of flame that singed the straw beneath them.
‘Wow, we are impatient today!’ Fletcher exclaimed, powering up a tattooed finger with a blast of mana. ‘OK, you asked for it. Let’s see how you like the telekinesis spell.’
He allowed a thin stream of mana through his fingertip, the spiral symbol glowing violet until a strip of air shimmered above it. Ignatius began to back away, but Fletcher whipped his hand at the mischievous demon, curling the ribbon of energy around his belly and flinging him upwards. The demon splayed his claws and dug them into the ceiling, showering Fletcher with a trickle of dust. Before Fletcher had time to react, Ignatius hurled himself down, twisting in midair like a cat with his claws and tailspike pointed at Fletcher’s face. It was only through a desperate roll that Fletcher avoided it, then spun on his heels to find the room cast in darkness. Ignatius had slashed the wyrdlight during his attack, snuffing it out like a candle.
‘So, that’s how you want to play it,’ Fletcher said, powering up his index finger, the one without a tattoo. This time, he etched in the air, using one of the rarer symbols he had learned from Baker’s journal. He twisted his finger so it was pointed directly at his face.
The cat’s-eye symbol looked almost exactly like its namesake, a thin oval within a circle. Through trial and error, Fletcher had learned the spell had no effect until its light was shined into his retinas.
The glowing symbol gave away his position, as did the flash of yellow that soon followed, but Fletcher rolled to the side so Ignatius would lose him in the darkness. He could feel his eyes slowly changing, his pupils elongating into feline slits. It was not long before Fletcher’s vision brightened and he could make out Ignatius’s figure, crawling towards his previous position like a lion stalking a gazelle. Though Ignatius had far better night-vision than Fletcher did, in the pitch black of the cell even the demon was struggling to navigate.
‘Gotcha!’ Fletcher yelled, diving across the room and bundling the demon into his arms. They tumbled back into the straw, and Fletcher laughed uproariously at the demon’s barks of protest.
The door burst open and the room filled with light, blinding Fletcher’s sensitive eyes. He scrabbled to hide the books beneath the straw, but a boot kicked out, slamming into the side of his head and throwing him against the wall.
‘Not so fast,’ a voice rasped.
There was the tell-tale click of a flintlock being pulled back and Fletcher felt the cold metal of the weapon’s barrel pushed against his forehead. As the effects of the spell faded, he could make out a hazy, hooded figure crouched beside him, holding an elegant pistol.
‘One twitch from you, and I blast you into oblivion,’ said the voice. It was hoarse, like a man dying of thirst.
‘OK,’ Fletcher said, slowly raising his hands.
‘Ah-ah,’ the figure tutted, pressing the muzzle harder against his temple. ‘Are you deaf? I’ve heard of what you can do with those tattooed fingers. Keep your hands by your side.’
Fletcher hesitated, aware that this would probably be his best chance of escape. The gunman gave Fletcher a husky sigh of exasperation.
‘Rubens, give him a little taste of your sting.’
Fletcher caught a flutter from the depths of the man’s hood, then a bright red Mite buzzed out and alighted on his neck. He felt a sharp pain, then a cold sensation spreading through his body.
‘Now I know you won’t be playing any tricks,’ the figure croaked, standing up so he was silhouetted against the torchlight from the open doorway. ‘Speaking of which, where is that Salamander of yours?’
Fletcher tried to twist his head, but it seemed locked in place. At the mention of the word Salamander, Ignatius stirred from beneath him, and Fletcher knew that the demon was preparing to attack. He quelled Ignatius’s intentions with a stern pulse through their mental link. Even if they managed to overpower the man, Fletcher wouldn’t be able to crawl out of the cell door, let alone pull off an escape.
‘Ah, he’s in the straw there. Well, keep him quiet, if you want to keep your brains inside your skull. It would be such a shame to kill you, after all the preparations we have made.’
‘Pr-pr-preparations?’ Fletcher managed to stutter, his tongue clumsy and numb from the Mite’s venom.
‘For your trial,’ the figure replied, holding out a hand for Rubens to perch on. ‘We delayed it as long as we could, but it seems your friends have been very persistent in their petitions to the king. A shame.’
The figure stowed the Mite within the confines of his hood once more, as if he could not bear to be apart from him. The skin of his hand was smooth, almost feminine, with carefully manicured fingernails. The man’s boots were made from hand-stitched calfskin, with fashionable, figure-hugging trousers above them. Even the hooded jacket was made from black leather of the finest quality. Fletcher could tell the stranger was a wealthy young man, most likely the firstborn son of a noble.