“Riots? Why?”
“Are you kidding? You really don’t know?”
Fen held up his hands. “I’ve been out of touch. What are people rioting about?”
“Lots of things. The Ankharans for one. People don’t trust them, they don’t like how much power they have, they don’t like how much time the Fist spends with them. They don’t like this talk of crossing the sea to invade a nation we’ve never heard of. They don’t like the slavery.” His face darkened. “I don’t like the slavery. The gods know I’ve no love for the Maradi. But wasn’t it enough that we defeated them and burned half their city? Did we have to enslave them too? They’re being used to help build the new ships, you know. The Ankharan shipwrights, the ones that shipped in while we were gone, they work the slaves night and day. The work never stops. They’re dying like flies, Fen. It’s sickening. And it’s not just work that’s killing them. Some of the corpses coming out of the shipyards are withered and dried up, like those prisoners the sorcerers drained to clear the walls of Marad.
“There’s rumors that the Fist is doing it too, sucking the lives out of slaves. Whether it’s true or not, everyone can see how he’s changed. He’s become dark and angry. Unpredictable. One day he’s racing about filled with energy, and the next he’s completely black. He killed a supplicant, a merchant who’d come to the palace complaining that the Ankharans had seized his entire warehouse and taken all his goods. Killed him right there in the throne room with his sword!” Cowley shook his head. “People are scared, Fen. They know our king isn’t himself. They know bad things are happening.”
“No wonder they are rioting.”
“Every night.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is.”
Silence then, while Cowley stared at Fen as if expecting something. But Fen had no idea what. “It’s good to see you,” he said at last, uncomfortable in the silence. “I don’t get visitors much. It helps.”
Cowley leaned closer, his expression concerned. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?” Cowley looked Fen up and down. Fen was suddenly acutely aware of how he must look. He hadn’t had a chance to bathe since before the attack on Marad. His beard and mustache had grown out. His clothes were filthy. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Cowley sighed. “Because you never tell me anything. I always have to drag it out of you. ‘I’m Fen,’” he said in a fair imitation of Fen’s voice. “‘I don’t need any help. I can do everything by myself.’”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. So let’s try again. How are you doing? How are you holding up?”
Fen rubbed his eyes and slumped down onto his cot. “Not so good.” He realized his hands were trembling, and he clasped them together to try to stop it. It did no good. “I’m going a little crazy in here. There’s nothing to do but think.”
“You still can’t get to your power, I take it.”
“No.” And then the words started to come pouring out. All the fears and frustrations that had built up during his time in here. Fen told Cowley about the icy wall inside him. “I can hear Stone power, on the other side of the icy wall. It’s faint, but I know it’s there. But I can’t get through to it. I’ll never be able to. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make the smallest dent in it.” He wrapped his arms around himself. He always felt so cold. “I’m losing hope,” he said in a small voice. “I find myself wishing the trial were today. Anything would be better than this. I thought the Fist would visit, that I’d get another chance to try and get through to him. But he hasn’t. I’ve heard nothing. If I can’t get my power back, and I can’t talk to him, then what hope is there?” He turned his face away, ashamed to let his friend see his despair.
Cowley put a hand on Fen’s shoulder. “There may be a third option.”
Fen glanced up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Your name comes up. More and more.”
Fen stared at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“People know who you are, Fen. They know why you’re in here.”
“They do? How?”
“Word spreads. People talk.”
“But surely…I’m in here for treason. Doesn’t that—”
“Some buy that, sure,” Cowley said. “But a lot of people know you’re in here because you tried to stop the Ankharans. They’re seeing through the lies. And a lot of them see you as a hero, Fen.”
Fen was stunned. “A hero? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. I’ve seen your name painted on walls. More than once.”
“That seems…it’s hard to imagine.”
“The riot last night? You want to know what caused it? It was because the Fist had scores of people arrested. They were publicly beaten. A few died.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Someone painted ‘Free Fen’ on the wall of the castle. It sent the Fist into a rage. He wanted the culprits found. He sent out the city watch. He sent out the army. He went out himself. He stood up in front of a huge crowd in Brim’s Plaza and screamed at them all, told them he’d flay everyone if that was what it took.”
Fen felt sick inside.
Cowley gripped Fen’s arm and lowered his voice. “People would follow you if they had the chance, Fen. A lot of the soldiers would. If we got you out of here, they’d rally to you. I think half the army would come over right away.”
Fen was already shaking his head as the full implications of what Cowley was saying sunk in. “No. No. You’re talking about civil war. I won’t be responsible for Samkarans killing Samkarans. There must be another way. With Maphothet gone, if I could just talk to the Fist for a few minutes.”
“He’s not coming. Even if he comes, it won’t do any good. He’s lost to us. He’s not the man he was.”
“I swore an oath to him. You swore an oath.”
“The man we swore that oath to is gone. He’s not coming back.”
“I don’t believe that. In camp that first night after we defeated Marad, he came to see me. I almost got through to him then. If Maphothet hadn’t showed up, I would have. But now that Maphothet is gone…”
“It’s too late. He’s too corrupted now. Even without the Ankharans around—and there are still two of them here—he’s not coming back. Not ever.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve looked into his eyes. You haven’t. He’s gone mad.”
“I can’t believe that. I won’t.” Fen cast about, looking for a straw to clutch. “I’m still alive. If the Fist is so far gone, why hasn’t he executed me yet?”
“I don’t know. But he will. Your only chance is if we get you out of here.”
“I’m not going,” Fen said stubbornly. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t take the lifeline Cowley was throwing out to him. Only that he’d sworn an oath of allegiance to the man, and he could not take that oath lightly, however much the Fist had changed. And, even more important, he still clung to the hope of reaching him. He was certain the man who’d become like a father to him was still in there somewhere, and he was the only person who could reach him.
The cell door opened and Robbert came in. “Wats is going to be coming back soon. You have to go.”
Cowley stood up. “Think about what I said, Fen. It’s going to happen with or without you.”
Fen was left alone again in his cell with his thoughts. A civil war? The thought horrified him. Samkarans turning on each other in violent conflict? It would tear the city apart. There was no way he could be part of such a thing. He would do everything in his power to keep it from happening.
And what was that? he asked himself. What could he actually do but sit in here and rot? He was helpless, as useless as a two-legged chair.
He sighed, laid down on the cot, closed his eyes, and wished for sleep to claim him, even if it was filled with nightmares.
Chapter Eight
Fen was drifting along in the timeless gray zone between sleep and wakefulness, when he heard the door down the corridor bang open and someone approaching. Not someone. At least three or four people. With difficulty he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.
His cell door opened, and several figures entered, the first one carrying a lantern. Fen put up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden light. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s time.” The voice belonged to Wats.
“Good,” Fen said. And he meant it. He was sick of being in here, sick of the darkness and the solitude. It was clear the Fist would never come. He’d failed, and that was all there was to it. All that was left for him was to face his death with courage, and that didn’t seem so hard.
“We’ll see about that,” Wats said grimly. “Secure him.”
Fen was grabbed roughly, and manacles were clamped on his wrists. He was jerked to his feet and held by men on either side, while a fourth jailer bent and attached another pair to his ankles. Wats held the lantern up close to Fen’s face. “Now we’ll see. We’ll see what you’re made of for real.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Fen said.
Wats’ eyes narrowed, and Fen braced for the blow, but then he shook his head and turned away. “Bring him.”
He turned and left the cell. Fen tried to follow, but the chains on his feet thwarted him, and he fell forward. The jailers kept him upright and half carried him through the door and down the corridor.
It was a bright, sunny day outside, and Fen had to close his eyes against the blinding glare. He was hustled into a waiting carriage. Wats and another jailer squeezed in after him. Wats banged on the ceiling and yelled at the driver to get moving.
Gradually, Fen’s eyes adjusted, and he could see better. It helped that the interior of the carriage was dim, made so by the curtains covering the windows. He wondered why they were taking him to his trial in a carriage. That wasn’t normal. Usually prisoners were ferried to the court in an open wagon, which made it easier for citizens to hurl abuse and garbage at the accused.
But when they got to Justice Square, where the courthouse was, Fen understood why. The square was packed with people. Thousands of them, filling it completely. The city watch had turned out in force, and there were a large number of soldiers backing them up, but their numbers were dwarfed by the crowd.
If the jailers had thought that by hiding Fen in a carriage they would be able to sneak him into the courthouse unnoticed, they were sadly mistaken. The carriage had barely entered the square before the crowd began to surge toward it. Because of the curtains, Fen couldn’t see them all that well, but what he saw wasn’t pleasant. Snarling faces, shouted curses, waving fists.
At first, he thought all their ire was directed at him, but he soon realized that while many people were yelling at him, a greater number were yelling at the soldiers and city watch. He even heard a group of people chanting “Free Fen!” as the carriage rolled by them. It surprised him. Before this he hadn’t really believed what Cowley said, how he’d become a symbol of resistance. He’d thought it was something Cowley said to try and convince him to escape. But it was real after all. What did that mean? How had it happened? He didn’t like it all that much, being the face of a growing rebellion. It wasn’t something he would ever have deliberately sought out.
The going was slow, and the carriage was frequently rocked, sometimes violently, by the press of the crowd. Fen looked over and saw Wats had his truncheon gripped tightly in one fist, his face pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He didn’t look nearly so certain of himself now.
“They’re not here for you,” Fen said to him. “They’re here for me.”
Wats glared at him and raised the truncheon. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
The carriage stopped in front of the courthouse, and the door opened. A watch captain stuck his head in. “Move it!” he yelled. “We won’t be able to hold them for long!”
For a moment Wats froze, and Fen saw his eyes darting around like a rat looking for a hole to bolt into. Then he jerked his head at the other jailer, who grabbed hold of Fen’s manacles and jumped out. With a snarled curse, Wats followed.
A roar went up from the crowd as Fen stumbled out into the light. A triple line of city watch and soldiers were trying to hold open a lane leading to the doors of the courthouse. They were thrown backwards as the crowd surged forward, their lines buckling, close to collapsing. The watch captain was shouting something, but Fen couldn’t hear him over the roar of the crowd. Stones and empty bottles arced through the air, one striking a soldier in the face, opening a cut on his cheek.
Hands closed on Fen, and he was half-carried, half-dragged to the courthouse doors. It was all a blur of sound and fury. Fen felt something strike him on the back. A watchman to his right cried out and went to his knees as a man in the crowd struck him with a knot of wood on the side of the head. Steel flashed, and a woman screamed.
Then the courthouse doors slammed shut behind them, the heavy wood blocking out much of the noise. Wats wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to smile. “Easy as a barmaid’s buttons,” he said, but his pallor belied his words.
They passed through the anteroom and down a short, narrow hallway with a door at the end. At the end of the hallway waited the bailiff, wearing a doublet of red silk and a yellow sash, a short black coat over it. A short rod with a crystal on one end was in one hand. He was a small, nervous-looking man with a thin mustache and gray hair. There was a sudden banging on the outer doors and fresh shouting, and he flinched, nearly dropping the rod.
“Come, come,” he said to Fen. “The appointed time is approaching, and delays anger the magistrate.” To the jailers he said, “You’re not needed. You wait out here.” He opened the door and ushered Fen through. The door closed behind them, and the bailiff breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he told Fen. “There’s no control, no order. It’s a terrible day for Samkara.” He seemed disappointed when Fen didn’t agree with him.
The courtroom was an oval amphitheater, the floor sunken and tiled in slate. A wall twice the height of a man enclosed the floor, preventing prisoners from escaping. A half dozen guards were spaced around the perimeter, all wearing black livery—on which was emblazoned an executioner’s axe—and holding halberds. Closed helms obscured their faces.
At the top of the wall on the side Fen entered through were tiers of public seating. More guards in black livery were stationed behind the top row of public seating, though instead of halberds they carried short swords and cudgels. The magistrate’s bench—a huge, unadorned block of black mahogany—sat at the apex of the oval, a flag with the red fist on a pole to the side. To Fen’s left was a section of seating that was fenced off from the rest, the area reserved for the king and other important persons.
The public gallery was filled with people, hundreds of them. Some booed as Fen entered. Others cheered and called his name. A scuffle broke out in the audience, and two guards rushed down and broke it up quickly, applying their cudgels freely. The two men involved were dragged out, one of them bleeding from a head wound.
Curtains behind the reserved seating were pulled back and the Fist entered, followed by several generals and an aide. A few ragged cheers greeted him. Others in the audience glared at him sullenly. The Fist took his seat on the ornate chair set close to the railing on top of the wall. His followers arranged themselves behind him and remained standing.
Even though he was a good thirty paces away, Fen could see that the Fist looked haggard. His movements were slow, those of an old man. He looked thin, and his color was all wrong, almost gray. It hurt Fen to see him like this, but it also gave him hope. Did this mean he hadn’t fed on a slave recently? Maybe not since Maphothet left?
Without realizing it, Fen took a step towards him. But his progress was stopped almost immediately as one of the guards moved forward and pressed the bladed edge of his halberd to Fen’s chest.
“What are you doing?” the bailiff said, grabbing Fen’s arm and pulling him back. “You’re only making it worse for yourself. Why would you do that?”
Without taking his eyes off the Fist, Fen allowed himself to be pulled back to his original spot. He willed the Fist to raise his head and look at him, but the man had his gaze turned down.
“There’s a way things are done here,” the bailiff said in an aggrieved voice. “You’d do well to remember that, or it will go poorly for you.”
A door behind the magistrate’s bench opened. “All rise!” the bailiff cried, holding up his rod. There was a rustle as everyone except the Fist stood up. He slumped back in his chair and rested his chin on his fist. His face was in shadow, still turned down.
The magistrate entered the courtroom. He was an elderly man, with thick jowls and no neck. His robe was black velvet and reached the floor. Around his neck on a heavy gold chain hung the symbol of his office, a blindfolded man holding an axe in one hand and a key in the other. Fen realized that he recognized the man, though it took a moment before he was able to place him. He’d been at the rooftop restaurant the night he and Cowley stopped the bandits who were robbing the place, the night before the army marched on Marad.
The magistrate took his seat. The audience sat as well. There were papers set out before him, and he looked over them for a moment. “Read the charges,” he said in a gravelly voice. His eyes flicked to Fen. If he recognized Fen, he gave no sign.
The bailiff took several steps toward the bench. From a pocket inside his coat, he took a scroll. He held it up and read from it.
“The prisoner, formerly a lieutenant in the royal army, is accused of treason against king and country.” He rolled the scroll up and tucked it away. He bowed to the bench and backed up to stand beside Fen again.
“The evidence against the accused?” the magistrate said. His eyes roamed the floor. “Where is that blasted prosecutor?”
The door behind Fen opened, and the prosecutor entered. He was wearing a blue velvet tunic and puffy, knee-length trousers, silk hose and shiny black shoes with pointed toes. A scarlet cape billowed out behind him as he walked. He was a tall, imposing man with a lantern jaw and long, iron-gray hair. He walked out to the center of the floor and bowed, first to the Fist, and then to the magistrate.
Chaos Trapped Page 9
