The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(5)
‘Did I ask for your opinion, bootlicker?’ Didric spat, brandishing the pistol. ‘Do not presume to speak to me unless spoken to first. Get back to work.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ the man said, bowing low. Didric shoved him away with his boot, sending the man sprawling in the mud.
Fletcher was disgusted by the way his nemesis held himself, as if he were above them all. He turned on Didric as the final vestiges of paralysis left him.
‘You have the guards calling you lord?’ Fletcher said, layering his voice with contempt. ‘I bet they laugh at you behind your back. You’re nothing more than a jumped-up gaoler, you pompous arse.’
For a moment Didric stared at him, his face slowly turning red. Fletcher suspected nobody had spoken to him like that for a long time. Then, to his surprise, Didric burst out laughing. The hoarse cackle echoed across the courtyard, turning heads as Didric heaved with mirth.
‘Do you know why they call me lord, Fletchy?’ Didric gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘It’s because I am a lord. Lord Cavell.’
3
Fletcher stared at Didric in horror. Suddenly, small details he had overlooked came into focus. The heavy signet ring on Didric’s little finger. The uniforms of the guards, so specifically coloured and heavily armoured; they were Didric’s private army – a privilege the king afforded only to the nobility.
There was even a coat of arms sewn on to the chest of Didric’s jacket, depicting the bars of a jail, with two crossed swords behind them, emblazoned in the same yellow and black that his soldiers wore. A fitting emblem.
Didric cocked his head, obviously taking pleasure in Fletcher’s dismay. Fletcher, in turn, tried to remain expressionless, though it was almost impossible. He was overcome with disgust.
‘While you have been rotting away in a prison cell, I have been at Vocans, in my very own luxurious suite. No commoners’ quarters for me,’ Didric boasted, his lopsided smile widening. ‘Lord Forsyth was kind enough to give me Rubens, a demon that had been in his family for generations. Of course, it is not my only demon, but it got me started. In fact, you might be interested to know that the Tournament is in just a few days’ time. I really should be training, but I couldn’t miss this – not for all the world.’
‘Let’s just get it over with,’ Fletcher snarled, looking around for the courthouse. ‘You talk too much.’
‘Oh very well. I’m surprised you’re in such a hurry to get back to your prison cell. If I were you, I would savour the next few hours of fresh air and natural sunlight, Fletcher. It will be your last.’ Didric pointed the way, before pressing the pistol into Fletcher’s back.
The courthouse had been converted from the old village hall, a large oval-shaped building complete with a steeple and large oak doors. Its walls were freshly painted in white and the sigil of the Judges was emblazoned over the door – a black gavel and block that loomed ominously as Didric led him through the wide open doors.
The inside of the room reminded Fletcher of a church, with low benches on either side, filled with people. At the end of the centre aisle, two guards stood waiting with chains and manacles. Behind them, a grim-faced judge, resplendent in black robes and a powdered white wig, stared out from a high table.
‘It was genius to convert this place into a courthouse,’ Didric whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Now we can take the accused straight from sentencing to prison. Of course, it’s never usually this full. You’ve drawn quite a crowd!’
Fletcher tried to ignore the staring faces on either side, crushed with self-consciousness in the solemn silence of the room. He realised that the clothes that clung to his body were barely more than stinking rags, for there was little he could do to wash with the limited water they gave him in prison. His hair hung in greasy locks around his face and his adolescent beard and moustache grew in sparse, scruffy patches. He imagined if he looked in the mirror, he would hardly recognise himself.
Didric led him down the aisle as if he were part of some macabre wedding party, proudly displaying his captive. Fletcher darted quick looks to his left and right, hoping to see Berdon, but if he was there, Fletcher could not find him. Finally, they reached the pulpit.
‘Chain him,’ the judge ordered in a high, reedy voice. Fletcher allowed the guards to shackle him to the floor, like a bear being baited in a pit. Soon, they would unleash the hounds.
He stood in silence, waiting for what was next. He had no cards to play here, no way out. His best bet would be to try to escape after the sentencing. It might be difficult if Didric took him back to his cell personally. Even so, Fletcher knew one thing. He would rather die fighting than be left to rot in that cell.
‘Bring out the defence.’ The judge motioned at the doors to his left. A guard knocked twice, then opened the doors with a ceremonial flourish. A tall, battle-scarred man in blue officer’s uniform stepped through.
‘Arcturus!’ Fletcher cried, all sense of decorum forgotten. Arcturus gave him a grim smile and a tiny shake of the head, as if to tell him to be quiet.
‘Silence,’ the judge ordered, pointing a long, bony finger at Fletcher. ‘One more outburst from you and we shall have you gagged.’
‘My apologies, your honour,’ Fletcher said, as Arcturus came to stand beside him. ‘I did not mean to disrespect your courtroom.’