8
The room descended into smattered conversations and the front row leaned closer for a better look. Othello was yelling through his gag, his beard and moustache trembling as he tried to tear it through with his teeth.
‘That’s a lie!’ Fletcher shouted on his behalf, despite Arcturus’s attempts to quiet him. ‘That was stolen from us weeks before, when those two monsters broke Othello’s ribs.’
‘Weeks before what?’ Rook asked, holding his hand up for quiet. The chatter silenced almost immediately, and Fletcher found himself under the scrutiny of the entire room.
‘Weeks. Before. What?’ Charles repeated.
‘Before … the attack happened,’ Fletcher replied, his mind racing. What had he just done?
‘So you know when the attack happened? You admit you were there?’ Charles demanded, sensing weakness.
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Fletcher answered lamely.
Arcturus lay a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and gripped him so hard that he had to force himself not to wince.
‘I told Fletcher when and where the incident allegedly happened. Does that answer your question?’ Arcturus said, staring Charles down. They stood there for a moment, like two wolves vying for supremacy. It was Charles who broke eye-contact first, though he went on the attack as soon as he did.
‘The murder weapon bears the emblem of the Thorsagers, so it could only belong to a male member of the family. Both Othello’s father, Uhtred, and his brother, Atilla, provided alibis for where they were on the night in question. Although Othello is a student at Vocans, the staff there could do no such thing for him. As such, it is quite clear that it was Othello who slaughtered the soldiers.’
The jury examined the object with interest, some whispering to one another. Fletcher knew this wasn’t good.
‘Thank you, Inquisitor Faversham, very compelling. Please bring out the next piece of evidence,’ Rook said, scribbling something down on the paper in front of him.
This time, Charles did not call anyone in. He removed a simple card from a pocket in his uniform, brandishing it high for all to see.
‘This is a membership card for the Anvils. It was found among Fletcher’s belongings after his arrest. We were lucky to find it – his room had been ransacked by a mysterious benefactor,’ Charles said, raising his eyebrows at Arcturus. ‘After watching the last trial and seeing the scroll in the defence’s possession, I think it’s safe to say we know who did it.’
Fletcher felt a twinge of confusion. The card had been given to him a long time ago, on his very first day in Corcillum. He knew little about the Anvils, only that they were a group of humans who were sympathetic to the dwarves and campaigned for their rights.
‘What does that have to do with anything? I was given that two years ago,’ Fletcher said, despite a hiss of frustration from Arcturus.
‘Inquisitors, would you give me a brief recess to speak to my charges?’ Arcturus asked, though this time he didn’t clamp his fingers on Fletcher’s shoulder.
‘Yes, why not?’ Rook said in a cheerful voice. ‘Maybe it will teach young Fletcher to keep his mouth shut. Not that it will matter in the end; it will be shut permanently before the week is out.’
Arcturus bowed stiffly and hunkered down beside Othello and Fletcher, waiting until the room was awash with conversation before he spoke.
‘Fletcher, in the year since you were imprisoned, there have been explosions and attacks on Pinkertons and civilians. Every time, the evidence has pointed to the Anvils.’
Othello grunted loudly, jerking his head.
‘Sorry, Othello. I’ll remove it, but you must promise there will be no more outbursts, from either of you. You’ll have a chance to defend yourselves after the Inquisition has made its case.’
Othello spluttered as the gag was cut.
‘That tasted like a gremlin’s loincloth,’ he gasped, spitting the gag away from him.
‘Why don’t you explain to him the significance of the Anvil card?’ Arcturus said, handing Othello a flask from his hip. Othello took a few deep gulps, then turned to Fletcher.
‘It’s good to see your face, Fletcher. I only wish our reunion was under different circumstances.’ He gripped Fletcher’s arm and drew him closer. ‘There’s a lot that’s happened while you’ve been … away. Tensions between humans and dwarves have never been higher, and it’s all thanks to these supposed attacks by the Anvils. Membership of their organisation is now illegal and many of their leaders have gone into hiding.’
‘Why are the Anvils doing this?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Surely it’s only making things worse?’
‘We believe there is a traitor in the Anvils, the same person who told the Forsyths about the council meeting and got us into this mess in the first place,’ Othello whispered.
Rook cleared his throat.
‘I thought you said “brief”, Captain,’ he said, tapping his wrist.
‘Listen to me, now that I have you together,’ Arcturus whispered, ignoring Rook’s gaze. ‘There’s no time or reason to fabricate a story. You have no knowledge of the events and you will remain silent throughout. Is that understood?’
‘Now, Captain,’ Rook ordered, waving the guards over. Arcturus stepped back, his hands raised in surrender.
‘See, that wasn’t so hard,’ Rook laughed, shooing the guards away. ‘I think the card speaks for itself, wouldn’t you agree?’
Fletcher tried to ignore the nods coming from the jury. Were he and Othello already guilty in their eyes, or was there a chance?
‘Bring in the witness. He will give his testimony and then I shall question the accused,’ Rook ordered, before turning to Arcturus.
‘You may make your defence tomorrow, Captain, but if you wish to put anyone on the stand, he or she must testify today. We will get all the questioning out of the way so we can have a quick verdict in the morning.’
Arcturus’s jaw clenched but he remained silent. Fletcher wondered who Arcturus’s witness could be. Seraph, perhaps?
Jakov led a soldier into the room, wearing the charcoal uniform of the Forsyths. Fletcher did not recognise him, but didn’t think he was one of Grindle’s soldiers. They had all been hard, muscular men, while this one was young and skinny, barely older than Fletcher himself. He took his seat at one of the witness podiums.
‘State your name for the jury,’ Charles ordered.
‘I am Private John Butcher of the Forsyth Furies,’ the soldier said in a confident voice. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Fletcher and Othello.
‘Tell me, John. What did you see on the night in question?’
‘We were on a night training exercise, when we heard gunshots. Five men were dead when my squad arrived, so we searched for the attackers. I was separated from my group in the darkness. That was when I saw them.’ John finally looked at Fletcher and Othello, pointing to each of them with a steady finger. ‘I held them at musket-point, hoping reinforcements would arrive in time. It was then that I was paralysed by a Mite’s sting and they escaped. That’s the last I saw of them. My squad found me several hours later.’
‘Thank you, John. That will be all,’ Rook said. John stood and saluted, before marching out of the room. Fletcher watched his stiff back with a heavy heart. He recognised the boy now. The worst part was, it was all true.
‘That concludes the prosecution’s evidence,’ Rook said, lifting his notes to read aloud. ‘In summary. We have the motive – membership of the Anvils for Fletcher, and as for Othello …’ He paused, then lifted another sheet of paper. ‘Well, Othello, he has a rap sheet as long as my arm. Assaulting a Pinkerton, resisting arrest, spreading anti-human propaganda. A known troublemaker.’
‘Circumstantial!’ Arcturus said loudly, looking to the jury.
‘Nonetheless – motive!’ Rook growled, daring Arcturus to disagree. Fletcher’s heart sank further as Rook handed the sheet of paper to the jury to pass around. Othello was guilty of none of those charges. He had simply taken the blame, and the beatings, for his twin brother, Atilla.
‘We know the murder weapons, from the burns on the bodies from Fletcher’s Salamander to the discovery of the Thorsager tomahawk,’ Rook continued, nodding at the weapon on the table. ‘Finally, we have a reliable witness who places them at the scene. Now, we shall interrogate the accused. Guards, bring the dwarf to the witness stand!’
Othello struggled to his feet as the shackles were removed, then shuffled to the podium. He glared at Rook, his moustache bristling as he wrinkled his lip in disgust.
‘Where were you on the night of the attack?’ Rook asked, steepling his fingers.
Othello stared at Rook defiantly. He crossed his arms with a clatter of chains.
‘Why did you attack those men?’ Rook demanded, leaning forward. ‘Did you plan it, or was it a spur of the moment killing?’
Othello’s gaze never wavered. He was like a statue, unblinking and still, but for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
‘Well, it looks as if your gag did the trick, Jakov,’ Rook said, braying with laughter. ‘He’s been struck dumb!’
There was a soft chuckle from behind, and Fletcher turned to see old King Alfric smiling.
‘Still, he does look at me in a distinctly disrespectful way, wouldn’t you agree, Charles?’ Rook said, the humour suddenly gone from his tone.
‘He does indeed. Incredibly disrespectful. Slovenly in appearance, too. Beard unkempt, hair all over the place,’ Charles replied, rubbing his chin. ‘His grooming does not show this courtroom the respect it deserves.’
They were play-acting now, Fletcher could tell. It was like watching a poorly performed pantomime, and it filled him with dread – this was preplanned.
‘Jakov, why don’t you come here and give it a trim,’ Charles said, beckoning the large guard over.
Othello’s face paled. He tried to stand, but Charles slammed his hands on to the dwarf’s shoulders, keeping him in the chair. Ordinarily, the brawny dwarf would have had no trouble escaping Charles’s grip, but the chains impeded him, leaving him swaying back and forth.
‘You can’t!’ Fletcher shouted, tugging at his manacles. ‘It’s sacrilege to cut a dwarf ’s hair!’
He heaved on them until the metal bit his skin, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his fingers.
Arcturus turned to King Harold, but the monarch sat in silence, his arms crossed. Lord Forsyth, Didric and Lady Faversham were grinning with savage abandon, and old King Alfric was whispering excitedly into Didric’s ear.
‘This is against his civil rights,’ Arcturus said, appealing to the jury. ‘This is illegal!’
‘Dwarves have no rights,’ Rook laughed, as Jakov walked to the podium. ‘We shall make him presentable for the court. A haircut never hurt anyone.’
‘You will not do this!’ Arcturus bellowed, his finger flashing blue as he raised it. The click of the muskets gave him pause, and the guards shuffled forward, the guns pointed at his chest. He sank to his knees beside Fletcher as Jakov withdrew a curved blade, stepping beside Charles and Othello.
‘Don’t watch,’ Arcturus whispered, gripping Fletcher’s wrist to stop him pulling at the sharp metal cuffs. ‘They want to see you suffer.’
Fletcher stared at Othello as he struggled, jerking left and right and gnashing at the hands with his teeth. It made him look like an animal, and the jury shook their heads in disgust.
‘I am beyond suffering,’ Fletcher replied at last, dry-eyed. All he felt was anger, raging hot within him. He could barely stop himself from blasting the manacles from his hands and charging the podium. But he knew it would be suicide, and exactly what his enemies would have wanted.
Jakov’s meaty palm held Othello in place as the blade was raised.
‘Hold still,’ he growled, grasping the dwarf ’s beard. ‘Wouldn’t want an uneven haircut, would you.’
Othello’s head dropped to his chest, the fight gone from him as the first cut was made, the snick of the knife sharp in the silence of the room. He held Fletcher’s gaze as a tuft of hair floated to the ground.
A slow tear trickled down his cheek, but Othello did not cry out. The blade flashed again and again, and each time it felt as if it had been stabbed into Fletcher’s chest. That tear was the last. Othello bore the rest of the assault in stoic silence, and Fletcher willed him all his strength and courage.
‘Good enough, Inquisitors?’ Jakov said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The beard was trimmed now, almost as short as Rook’s.
‘Hmmm. The ponytail. I’ll keep it as a souvenir,’ Charles said, lifting it with his hand. Othello closed his eyes as the knife swished again.
‘Perhaps I should fashion it into a shaving brush,’ Charles laughed, flicking it back and forth like a horse’s tail.
‘Far too dirty for that,’ Rook replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Now the moustache. All of it – I’ve always wondered what a dwarf looks like witho—’
But he never finished his sentence. The doors at the back of the room slammed open, unleashing a gale of rain and whistling wind. A Griffin stalked through the doorway, emerging from the darkness with a screech. There was a uniformed rider astride it, her black hair plastered across pale cheeks. She lifted the goggles from her face, to reveal a pair of grey eyes that surveyed the scene with cold anger.
‘Captain Lovett,’ Fletcher breathed, hardly believing it possible. The last time he had seen her, she had been in a coma, only able to communicate through her Mite, Valens.
Lovett rode down the centre of the room, leaving a trail of dripping water and ignoring the aghast looks from the crowd on either side. Still astride the regal beast, she stopped beside Jakov and snatched the knife from his hand. Rook, momentarily lost for words, suddenly found his tongue.
‘Captain Lovett. How dare you ride into a court of law! Dismount at once or be found in contempt!’
Lovett let the knife fall to the floor, a look of disgust plain on her face.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Rook snarled, standing up from the high table.
‘Can’t,’ Lovett replied, tossing her hair. ‘I’m paralysed from the waist down.’