The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(23)

Rook banged his gavel as the room began a murmured discussion, with many of the crowd standing, to better see which prisoner had spoken.

‘I’m sad to say I agree with Captain Arcturus,’ Rook sneered. ‘We have no time for impassioned speeches and grandiose last words. Keep your tongue still or Jakov shall gag you as he did the dwarf.’

‘I want to confess,’ Fletcher said, turning back to him.

‘Don’t do it,’ Arcturus yelled out. ‘We can still win this, we can still wi—’ His voice was muffled as he was tackled off his feet and slammed into the ground; Jakov’s bulky frame straddled his chest and a meaty palm clapped over his mouth.

Another guard stepped purposefully towards Lovett, but there was no need. Fletcher could see Zacharias Forsyth whispering in her ear, and the glint of something sharp and metallic pressed against her ribs. It only strengthened Fletcher’s resolve. He hated these bloodless, indifferent men – they were nothing but empty vessels, slaves to their own desires.

‘Say that again,’ Charles said, his voice breathless with excitement. ‘Say it so the whole room can hear it.’

The room was loud again, and Fletcher felt the combined gaze of the most powerful men and women of Hominum. He did not flinch – it needed to look convincing.

‘I confess to the murders of the five men,’ Fletcher bellowed, shocking the crowd into silence. ‘Yes, that’s right, I did it. It was me and no other. I stole Othello’s tomahawk that night and went out looking for trouble. Little did I know Othello had seen me take the axe and followed me.’

He stuttered, the words he had rehearsed so carefully like hot coals in his mouth. With every syllable, he brought himself closer to death.

‘Af— After he had tracked me for almost an hour, the soldiers saw him on their patrol and decided that a dwarf would make for good target practice. I heard the gunshot and went to investigate. When I arrived, I saw that they had shot Othello through the leg.’

He took a deep breath, knowing the next words would condemn him. Yet, in the final act, his nerve returned, and he spoke with conviction once again.

‘I killed them all while he was barely conscious on the ground. I did it in cold blood – they didn’t even see me coming. Othello had nothing to do with it. I am the guilty one here.’

The words rang in the silent room.

Rook scribbled furiously, barely looking up from the table. But Charles’s glee faded from his face, as he realised what was happening.

‘The … the dwarf. He also …’ Charles stuttered. There was a curse from behind and Fletcher allowed himself a grim smile, recognising Didric’s throaty tone.

‘We must confer,’ Charles said, seizing the gavel from the high table and banging it against the side. He hurried up the steps and there was a hushed conversation between the two Inquisitors, but Fletcher could not hear it over the whispers of the crowd. He noticed a great deal of glancing at the Triumvirate and the old king Alfric, confirming his suspicions. Othello was the real target for the trial. His own death was just the icing on the cake, and now they would find it a poor meal.

Suddenly, a new voice broke through the crowd.

‘We have our verdict.’

It was one of the jury, a tall, imperious-looking lady with grey, scraped back hair and tortoiseshell spectacles. She held a small pile of torn paper in front of her, and Fletcher’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. The jury had voted while the Inquisitors were distracted.

‘A moment, if you please,’ Charles said, holding up a finger.

‘We do not please,’ the jury lady snapped. ‘You would do well to remember that it is the defence’s turn to speak, and Fletcher has clearly dismissed his representative and pleaded guilty. It is we who make the decisions in this courtroom and we may rule whenever we like. I only ask whether the dwarf has anything to say, before I read it out.’

Othello hesitated, looking searchingly at Fletcher’s face. After a moment he looked away, indecision creasing his brow. For ten beats, the future of Hominum rested in the hands of a single dwarf. Then he shook his head, unable to say the words aloud.

‘In that case, our first ruling is this. We find Othello Thorsager … not guilty. He is a victim of circumstance, nothing more.’

Othello barely reacted, instead gripping Fletcher’s wrist and drawing him close.

‘What was the plan?’ Othello whispered. ‘This doesn’t make any sense.’

He stared into Fletcher’s eyes with sudden intensity. This time, they told the truth that Fletcher’s mouth could not.

‘No …’ Othello said, tightening his grip as Fletcher’s eyes began to water. Fletcher did not need to be strong any more. Othello was safe now.

‘You said there was a plan,’ Othello croaked, grasping Fletcher’s clothes like a drowning man. ‘The king was going to save you.’

‘This was the plan,’ Fletcher said, smiling bitterly at the dwarf through blurred eyes. ‘You’ll understand one day. This is bigger than us.’

The jury’s verdict hit his ears, each word like a hammer blow to his chest.

‘Fletcher Wulf is found guilty of all charges. He shall be hung by the neck until dead.’





11


The verdict echoed in the rafters like a death knell, and Fletcher supposed it might as well have been. Silence weighed heavily on the room; some people were shocked, others waited for his reaction.