“King-Slayer!”
The word was hurled down at him from someone in the upper balcony. A commoner perhaps, not afraid of the repercussions of casting that barb at him now.
“KING-SLAYER!!”
The shouts began in earnest. The silence shattered utterly by the screams and bellows of nobles and commoners alike, a cacophony of animosity, frustration and hatred all rolled into one word and forged into a weapon that thrust deeper and more painfully into Ian than any steel weapon could ever manage.
He bowed his head against the attack, his heart broken. The public had tried and convicted him already. The rumormongers and rumor-mills had been busy, no doubt everyone in Belyne knew about his alleged crime. How quickly would the news spread to neighboring cities, countries?
Ian reached the center box and waited for Mustache to ceremoniously open the low door. He could have done it himself, but tradition dictated the guard must do it for him. In some cases, it was the last bit of courtesy granted to a prisoner before they were condemned.
Would it be his last too?
The room fell silent again as Mustache opened the door. Everyone was waiting to hear him speak, Ian realized.
“Upon entering the accused box,” Mustache began in a monotone drone, “do you solemnly swear to speak only the truth?”
Ian licked his dry lips. “I do.”
The room erupted again with shouts of ‘liar’, ‘fraud’, and ‘king-slayer’ being bantered about until a group of commoners high up began to stomp their feet. Others within the courthouse took up the rhythm and soon, the entire amphitheater shook. Ian struggled to step up into the box. The short length of chain threatened to topple him, but he managed to get inside without falling. Mustache closed the door behind him and stepped away.
Ian moved to the center of the small platform and leaned against the wood railing, gripping it tightly, and remembered seeing so many other prisoners do the same thing. The oak board was worn smooth beneath his palms. He could almost feel the ghostly presence of the men and women who had stood there before him. Some innocent like himself. Others guilty.
Had they all trembled as badly as he?
He wished there was a bench or chair, but he knew without looking there was none. The prisoner must stand during the entire proceeding. It was one of the things King Henrik had told him the first time he had walked into the impressive courtroom. Over the years, he had seen several weakened prisoners faint from exhaustion. He bowed his head and quickly offered a prayer to the One. Please make me strong and help me to speak the truth.
With a great sigh, he looked up at the empty row of chairs placed upon the raised dais. The king and the noble lords who had sat there in judgment of Lord Orrington would have left immediately after the prisoner, retiring for a glass of wine, or perhaps a quick bite of bread and cheese, or a visit to the nearby lavatory. Sometimes a lord would sit upon the dais for several cases in a row, but each prisoner was brought in first and allowed to stare at the empty seats while the gallery heckled them mercilessly.
Ian studied the seven chairs and wondered who his judges would be. The king, of course, would sit upon the central throne, placed one step higher than the others, but the other six were reserved for randomly chosen nobles. Often, two or three days each week he would sit upon one of those chairs and judge the accused, but today he had the misfortune of standing in the box.
Suddenly, he realized, he didn’t know if any of his friends were in the gallery behind him, willing to stand as his witnesses. He turned and quickly scanned the rows of angry faces shouting insults.
He spied Cecily almost immediately. She looked resplendent in an emerald and gold gown, with her long, blonde tresses piled high on her head and decorated with emerald ribbons and delicate gold chains woven throughout. He tried to catch her eye, but she stubbornly refused to look at him. There was a dark shadow about her eyes that even her powder could not completely hide. Had she lost sleep over him or, the muscle in his jaw tightened, had she lost sleep pleasing her new lover?
Who was it, he wondered? Was it Lord Orrington or Lord Ragget? He almost smiled when he realized that if her lover had been Lord Orrington she would be without him now. He also wondered which of the king’s laws the pompous lord had broken to deserve his punishment of lifelong banishment. Dueling held that penalty, but no one except himself and Wynston knew about the challenge. Besides, the duel had been scheduled for the day following his visit to the castle, and he had already been locked up for days . . .
Hadn’t he?
Ian hesitated. He still didn’t know how long he’d been imprisoned. He scratched his jaw. There was only a shadow of stubble. Had it been less time? His inability to determine his period of confinement troubled him. If it had been only a day or two, why had it seemed so much longer?
He started to turn away from Cecily when he realized Tyran and his tutor, Alysea were sitting beside her. What was Tyran doing here? His eyes were red as if he’d been crying and . . .
Tyran was saying something, but the noise within the amphitheater was drowning out his words.
“Tyran, I can’t hear you!” he called out sharply.
“Quiet!” Pockmark snapped.
Ian gritted his teeth. Tyran was shifting wildly in his chair trying to say something, something about Wynston? Ian shook his head and held his hand up to his ear. “I still can’t hear you!”
Suddenly, Cecily turned and scowled darkly at Tyran. He ducked his head and slouched in his chair, but Ian noticed that his son’s eyes never left him. Alysea reached out and put a comforting hand on top of Tyran’s, but his expression remained sullen.
“Face forward!” Mustache growled.
Ian bravely offered Tyran a smile and turned to confront the dais. A moment later, Sir Walter Merriday stepped into the courtroom and the stomping and shouting slowly died. The city administrator’s long white hair shone brightly against his official crimson robes. “Lords and Ladies of Yordic, ladies and gentlemen of Belyne, commoners . . .” he turned toward Ian, “and accused, King Edmund Henry Rutherford the first.”
King Edmund lumbered into the room, limping noticeably from his wounded hip. He had entered from the doors to Ian’s left, so as he turned to step onto the dais, his stitched right cheek was visible to all. A soft murmur arose in the gallery behind Ian. He sighed at the childish and exaggerated way the audience reacted to the wound.
They had to have seen it when he was out here earlier.
Edmund ignored the bowing and scraping that was occurring all around him and quickly took his seat. He fixed a level stare on the gallery, his pale green eyes somehow catching everyone’s gaze all at once.
“There will be order within this room at all times,” he said icily, and then he refocused his attention on Ian. “From everyone.”
The crowd stilled. Ian gripped the wood rail more tightly. Once, years ago, he had seen a prisoner snap the railing in half. The accused was found innocent of the crimes he faced, but Lord Ragget had insisted upon a hefty fine for the damage done to governmental property. When the accused was unable to pay, Lord Ragget demanded prison time.
Ian paid the fine himself and dismissed the man with a quick wave of his hand. Turning back, he briefly saw a look of pure hatred on the Yordician lord’s face, but he simply smiled and called for the next case. Before the next prisoner was brought in, the panel of judges adjourned. Outside the courtroom, Ian found Ragget waiting for him.
“You think to undermine my authority?” Ragget asked him pointedly.
Ian shook his head. “The man was innocent and scared.”
“You Gyunwarians stick together, don’t you?” Ragget continued. “You think you can come into our country and subjugate our judicial system . . .”
At that point, Ian had turned and walked away, leaving the Chief Inquisitor fuming behind him.
Ian eased his grip on the railing and tried to remain calm, but found he was failing miserably.
Five nobles filed briskly int
o the room. Ian was surprised to see that all of them were either his friends or business associates. Lord Pilarro, Lord Arbassi, Lord Roth, Lady Kindacaid, and finally Lord Baumgarden. Lady Baumgarden was one of Cecily’s friends, but surely four of these five were more inclined to believe his statements. For a moment his heart lifted. Perhaps he would stand a chance.
But then he realized that none of the first four would look at him. They took their seats and stared off into the gallery avoiding eye contact with him completely. Ian’s heart fell. Only Lord Baumgarden was willing to match his gaze, and the look Ian received told him, he was not an ally.
Edmund frowned at the last empty chair. “Sir Merriday, where is our sixth . . .?”
Lord Devin Ragget swept through the door and strutted casually over to the last chair. He affected a caring smile to the gallery, shot Ian a faux grin and with a dramatic flourish, took his seat.
Ian swallowed dryly. Lord Ragget was sitting in judgment of him today?
He prayed the executioner’s axe was sharp, so his head would come off cleanly on the first strike.
chapter 51
Lipscombe watched in stunned silence as Josephine stood on the bench and shot the incoming arrows out of the sky. His crooked cock swelled. A moment later, he was stirred out of his amazement when the carriage shot over the cliff’s edge and soared through the air in his general direction!
“Mister REMMI . . .!” Lipscombe bellowed and pointed.
The new helmsman followed his direction but there was no time to evade. For a split second, Lipscombe held his breath. It was going to be fucking close . . .
The carriage crashed into the starboard hull near the waterline just behind the mizzenmast. A shudder ran through Sharkbait and a spray of water soared skyward dousing Lipscombe and his archers. Lipscombe wiped the seawater from his face before he leaned over the starboard railing and searched the sea. Where was that damn bitch?
She wasn’t in the fucking water! His gaze traveled up the side of the cliff until he found her, dangling a few feet below the edge. “Fall you bitch, fall!” he screamed.
The young man, who had been with her on the carriage, appeared above her. He dropped onto his belly, reached over the side and grabbed her arm.
“Drop her! Drop her! Drop her, you fuck!” Lipscombe snarled.
But the bastard held on and hauled her up to safety. Once she regained her feet, she turned and stared down at him from the cliff’s edge. She’d made an impressive attempt on his life and for that she deserved some respect.
Fuck that! He offered her an insulting hand gesture and a show of his naked buttocks.
But only because she was too far away to shoot him again.
Mister Townsand joined him at the railing. Lipscombe pulled up his trousers.
“Have someone go below deck ‘nd see if we’re takin’ on water.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Mister Townsand shouted the orders. Minutes later the good word came back. The hull was sound. Lipscombe laughed. His luck still held.
He danced a little jig, badly, because his wounded ass cheek still hurt. Then, he waited until the last city tower had disappeared from the horizon before he turned away from the stern rail and eyed the man at the helm.
“Mister Remmi . . .” he called out sharply.
The new helmsman gave him a furtive stare. “Aye, Captain?”
Lipscombe drew his sword and viciously cut the man’s throat. As Remmi fell away, spraying the air with his blood, the deadweight of his body carried the wheel around. Lipscombe sheathed his sword, stepped over the body and calmly caught the spinning wheel with one hand. Within minutes he had the ship back on its proper course.
“Mister Townsand, toss this here spy into th’ sea ‘nd have one of th’ boys swab th’ deck.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Lipscombe gripped the wheel tightly in his callused hands and a wide smile stretched across his narrow face. Lord Ragget would have to wait a bit longer to learn the secret of the Northern Reef.
Besides, the uptight Yordician Lord might just get it into his head to try and off him once the secret was known, and that wouldn’t do. He had plans, which meant he couldn’t be bothered by looking over his shoulder and worrying every night if he’d be assassinated. In a couple of years, he intended on sailing away and living out the rest of his life on an island, with a harem of beautiful women tending to his every fucking need . . .
And a healthy chunk of Ragget’s wealth to purchase anything else he might want.
Lipscombe laughed. He had already picked out his little island and had hidden a couple of chests in the caves offshore too.
“People have underestimated ye yer entire life, Natham,” he whispered to himself. “‘Nd ye will continue t’ prove them wrong until th’ day ye decide t’ die.” He laughed again. “Yep, until th’ day ye decide t’ curl up ‘nd die.”
Him die? He snorted at the absurd thought. Fuck that!
chapter 52
“We’ve been down here for a long time,” Lumist whispered in the dark. “Surely Ian’s trial has started already.”
“Shhhhh,” Theodora cautioned. “Izabella will come for us once the wardens are finished searching the infirmary.”
“That could take hours,” Kylpin said softly. “We need to be at the courthouse to testify on his behalf.”
The sound of boots overhead silenced them all. Lumist felt Theodora’s arms tighten around him. Philson had carried him down to the root cellar beneath the infirmary, a dark, pungent series of rooms where the healers grew and collected various herbs to aid in their healing talents. The movement had been very painful, but with Theodora sitting behind him, holding him, her magical fingers soothing the pain in his side, he was able to breathe again.
But as the heavy boots drew closer to the cellar door, he found himself holding his breath, and praying to the One that their hasty hiding spot would not be found.
“Sir allow me to show you to the mental ward,” they could hear Izabella directly overhead. “This way, sir, come along.”
“What is this?” a gruff voice demanded. “Where does it go?”
“That is nothing, sir,” Izabella replied, “just an old cellar we once used to store the dead bodies before the necropolian workers began making their rounds more regularly.”
“Show me.”
“But, sir, there is nothing down there,” Izabella tried.
“Then it won’t take long to inspect, will it?”
Kylpin eased his sword out of his sheath and stooped near the bottom of the stairs, his head rubbing against the dirt ceiling.
“Kylpin, don’t,” Theodora whispered. “You cannot help your friend, dead.”
Kylpin turned toward the healer. “I cannot help him imprisoned either.”
“They are not searching for Philson,” she said. “He’s hidden further back, so if we surrender peacefully, we will still have someone on the outside able to rescue us.”
Above, they heard Izabella fumbling with the lock.
“Kylpin, I’m afraid she’s right,” Lumist whispered. “Dead, we fail Ian completely. While we’re still alive, the truth is alive too.”
Kylpin grimaced, and reluctantly sheathed his sword. Overhead, they heard the lock fall to the floor and the door open. Moments later, a dozen wardens swarmed down the stairs.
“We surrender,” Theodora said, but she kept her healing hands in contact with Lumist.
Kylpin allowed his sword belt to be removed.
“Search the rest of the cellar,” the leader, a broad-shouldered sergeant, called out. He stood on the bottom step and eyed the three harshly. “I was advised there was a fat Gyunwarian half-breed with them as well.”
Kylpin shot Lumist a hard stare, but the old knight simply shook his head. Perhaps twenty years ago he would have charged into the fray, battling to the bitter end, but not today. Today, he would use his brain and wits to stay alive.
“What are the charges against us?” he asked.<
br />
The sergeant turned and paced over to him. “Conspiracy, Sir Tunney. Conspiracy against the crown.”
Lumist frowned. “And with whom did we conspire?”
The sergeant’s face hardened. “Ian Weatherall, the King-Slayer.”
“Lord Ian is standing trial now, isn’t he?”
The sergeant nodded.
“Then perhaps you should take us to the courthouse straight away, so we may stand trial with him,” Lumist suggested.
The sergeant’s face split into a wide grin. “You know, it’s funny you should say that. Lord Ragget thought you might.” He crouched down and leaned in close. “But he ordered us to take you directly to the royal dungeon, and when he’s finished interrogating Ian in the accused box, he promised to pay you a visit.”
Lumist’s hopes of helping Ian, which just moments before were soaring, now crashed quickly around him. Glavinas hadn’t just betrayed their location, he had told Ragget everything!
“Damn Glavinas,” he muttered under his breath.
“I told you I thought he was mad,” Theodora whispered in his ear.
“He may be a madman now,” Lumist said, fighting down the urge to vomit, “but if I ever escape, he will be a dead man. I promise you that, here and now. Lord Glavinas Roth is a dead man.”
Theodora bowed her head. “I think he already is . . .”
chapter 53
“I wish to protest the panel,” Ian said after Ragget sat.
A murmur of surprise erupted around the room. King Edmund lowered the scroll he was skimming and looked down at him from his lofty perch. “You will address the court when directed to do so, mister.”
Ian noticed the harsh tone and the slight toward his noble rank but decided to press forward with his plea. “Begging the court’s permission, I wish to protest the panel.”
The king glanced at the other six members and a faint smile touched the corners of his lips. “Are you trying to stall the inevitable, mister?”
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