The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(33)

To his right, Othello, Uhtred and five white-haired dwarves sat in stony silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. It seemed the father and son had been made elders in the past year, perhaps for their respective contributions to the alliance with Hominum, or the high standing they held among their peers.

There were ten elves, including Sylva, who must have been representing her clan chieftain father. All were high elves and all but three were female. Each of them wore the same heavy armour Sylva did, though the colouring varied to match the banners above their chairs.

‘Well, now that we are all here, let us begin,’ King Harold announced in a loud, clear voice, banging his fist on the table for attention.

Fletcher was stunned by the change in the man. His voice had taken on an edge and his authority suddenly weighed heavily on the room.

‘We have three problems to solve today. The first, and most pressing, is the morale problem – among dwarves, men and elves alike.’

He pointed at Sylva and softened his tone.

‘You elves delayed our alliance for almost a year, because you were angry at the injuries Sylva sustained in our end of year Tournament, and at the hands of a council member’s son, no less. This animosity remains, in both wood elf and high elf alike. Do I tell a lie?’ he asked.

‘No, you are quite right,’ Sylva said, standing and looking at the other chieftains. ‘Though I have done my best to explain that all the students were put at equal risk.’

‘Quite so,’ Harold said, waving his hand for her to retake her seat. Sylva narrowed her eyes as Zacharias and Alfric exchanged amused glances, but sat back down. Harold was an excellent actor.

‘As for the dwarves, the terror attacks by the Anvils have caused much hatred between our peoples. I tried to assuage dwarven anger by rescinding the population and property laws, but it has had little effect,’ the king continued.

‘What use is being allowed to own our own land if your nobles will not sell to us?’ one of the dwarven elders asked in a quavering voice.

‘If they own the land, it is not my decision who they sell or rent it to,’ Harold replied. ‘Most nobles are reluctant to part with their lands at the best of times. I am no tyrant, they can do as they wish.’

‘The population laws are little use when our menfolk are away training,’ Uhtred added. ‘Fewer dwarven children have been sired this year than any other.’

Harold sighed loudly, then moved on, ignoring him.

‘Humans have their own reasons to hate the elves, after the expensive war you forced us into. If this gets any worse, there will be infighting among our soldiers. Dwarves, men and elves, at each other’s throats. A disaster that could lose us the entire war. Do you agree that this is a serious problem?’

There were nods of assent from around the table.

‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ Harold said, easing himself back into his seat. ‘The next two problems can be explained better by another. Lord Forsyth, if you please.’

Zacharias stood and turned to the entrance.

‘Send in the boy!’ he shouted.

There was the rasp of blades being uncrossed, then a dark-haired young man stumbled into the room. He was skinny as a rake, so much so that his garments hung from him like a ship’s sails on a windless day. His eyes were sunken, and he was tanned a deep, dark brown, as if he had been working in the sun all his life.

‘Freshly escaped from an orc internment camp,’ Zacharias said, dragging the boy into the torchlight. ‘Fourteen when he joined up, fifteen when captured and sixteen now. For two years he’s been one of their slaves, carrying their firewood, catching their fish, building their monuments, making their weapons.’

The boy avoided the watchers’ eyes, instead looking at his feet.

‘Like a gremlin, but bigger, weren’t you?’ Zacharias barked, making the boy jump. ‘Go on, speak up.’

The boy opened his mouth, but all that came out was a nonsensical stammer. Zacharias slapped him on the back of his head, and the boy cringed.

‘To think you were once a Forsyth Fury. Snivelling wretch! Speak or I’ll beat it out of you!’

He raised his hand threateningly and the boy spoke, the words tripping over his tongue in his rush to get them out, his accent as thick and common as Fletcher had ever heard.

‘There were ten of us, doin’ the ’eavy liftin’ when the gremlins couldn’t manage it, sire. Me and nine other lads. But there was another. A woman. Noble, I reckoned. Older too. Ain’t never got a good look at ’er – the orcs kept us away from ’er cage mostly. ’Alf starved, she was. Never said a dicky, not even when I snuck ’er some food. Gone mad, bein’ alone so long. But ’er clothes. Officer’s uniform, from the old days. That’s ’ow I knew she was one of your lot.’

There were whispers from the nobles, then the red-haired noblewoman stood and spoke in a soft, lilting voice.

‘Elizabeth Cavendish. It must be her. She and her demon, a Peryton, went down behind enemy lines twelve years ago. Ophelia, could it be?’

Lady Faversham looked up, for she had been in deep thought.

‘You are right, Boudica. I never saw Elizabeth killed; it was the Peryton that was struck by the javelin. She could be alive, though she fell from a great height. I only wish I had been able to fly to her aid, but the Wyvern riders were in full pursuit. Perhaps they kept her. Tortured her. To discover our secrets.’