The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(38)

His resolve strengthened and he turned back to the task at hand. Sir Caulder and Berdon would want to know he was OK.

‘Take us to Pelt, Captain,’ Fletcher said, gripping the saddle and pointing at Beartooth’s highest peak. ‘Let’s see how fast this Griffin can go.’



As they spiralled slowly in their descent, Fletcher was surprised to see new structures built outside Pelt’s gates. Ramshackle huts spread out like scattered pebbles, poorly constructed from mud, straw and sparse branches. There was a clearing in the centre, where a host of men and women had gathered, and Fletcher could see Berdon’s imposing figure standing at their head, with Sir Caulder by his side. In front of them stood a line of Didric’s guards, their yellow and black uniforms stark against the muddy ground.

‘Land there,’ Fletcher shouted, pointing his finger between the two groups.

As they neared the crowd, Fletcher could hear yells of anger; he saw pitchforks, bricks and spades held high. Trouble was brewing, and they were going to arrive right in the thick of it.

Lysander landed in a spray of mud, spattering the guards closest to them as Fletcher leaped to the ground, leaving Lovett to take off again and circle above, her steely gaze leaving no doubt as to whose side she was on. Athena followed in her wake, ready to swoop down at the first sign of trouble.

‘Lord Raleigh,’ one of the guards shouted, ‘I respectfully ask you to stand aside. We are here on orders from Lord Cavell. These squatters are to leave his lands immediately.’

Fletcher ignored him and walked closer to Berdon and Sir Caulder. He raised his palm and Ignatius materialised beside him, spitting a warning plume of flame as the nervous guards began to raise their muskets.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked, wishing that he had his khopesh with him.

‘They’re trying to turn us out,’ Berdon said. ‘This is our settlement.’

‘And we aren’t leaving,’ one of the women from the crowd bellowed. ‘You won’t make us homeless a second time.’

There was a cheer of support from those around him, and the mob surged forward, stopping just short of Berdon’s arms. Fletcher recognised her as Janet, the leatherworker who had made his jacket.

‘Most of Pelt have been living in this settlement since Didric and his father called in their debts to build the prison,’ Berdon explained to Fletcher as they looked on. ‘But Didric was granted the land we built on when he was made a noble and he’s been trying to get us off it ever since.’

‘I had no idea,’ Fletcher murmured, shaking his head in disgust.

‘It’s not going to end well,’ Sir Caulder grunted, pulling his sword from his scabbard and prodding at the closest of the angry villagers. ‘Those guards will start firing any minute. Berdon tells me this is the first time they’ve brought their muskets.’

‘Aye, son, I think this is revenge for your victory at the trial,’ Berdon agreed, then peered over his shoulder. ‘I can’t hold them back much longer.’

Fletcher looked at the approaching soldiers. He was to blame for this; he had to fix it. But how?

The homes around him were nothing more than filthy hovels, for the penniless villagers could not afford proper building materials. There was no well for water, no walls to keep out wolves and thieves. The villagers themselves wore ragged, dirty clothes, their unwashed faces streaked with grime. Even Berdon was poorly dressed, and Fletcher could see now that he had lost weight too – his once meaty frame turned to lean, corded muscle.

This was what Didric had reduced them to, turning once proud hunters and artisans into slum-dwelling vagrants. And now, left with no more than a roof over their heads, Didric would take away even that from them.

‘He’ll pay for this,’ Fletcher whispered, as a stone arced over his head. It landed a few feet from the guards, but suddenly muskets were raised high and fingers tightened on triggers.

‘They can’t kill all of us, lads,’ Janet bellowed again. ‘Our homes are all we have left!’

‘It’s not worth dying over!’ Fletcher shouted. The mob’s shouting reduced to a murmur as they turned their eyes on to him.

‘We have nothing else,’ Janet replied, curling her lip and spitting to show her contempt. ‘Without these “homes” we’d be begging for food on the streets of Boreas, if the Pinkertons don’t run us out of the city first. Half of us will freeze to death before the year is out.’

Her words struck Fletcher hard. It was so easy to think that they could rebuild their lives, find jobs elsewhere. Yet he could still remember that fateful night two years ago, when he himself had been forced to leave Pelt. The fear, the doubt. Even then, he’d had money, clothes, weapons. These people had nothing. He wished that he could help them, but he had barely anything to give.

‘Cat’s got your tongue has it, Lord Raleigh?’ Janet mocked. ‘That’s right, we know all about your heritage now. Get off your high horse and stand aside. This is where we make our stand. There’s nowhere else.’

But there was. The realisation dawned on him, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It would be hard work, and he would not be there to help them. But he owed these villagers. Owed Berdon.

‘Wait! There is somewhere you can go!’ Fletcher shouted. Ignatius snarled as the guards took a step closer. ‘Raleighshire. You can resettle there.’