“Gods’ eyes, Simon,” the magistrate growled. “You look worse than usual. Those colors. Did you swallow a peacock?”
“I could not disappoint our illustrious guest,” the prosecutor replied, bowing again to the Fist, who still hadn’t looked up.
“Get on with it already.”
“Thank you, magistrate. I shall. I know your time is valuable and I will not—”
“Prosecutor!”
The prosecutor bowed again and coughed into his fist. He had a neatly trimmed, pointed beard, and he stroked this, as if contemplating something deeply.
“Samkara is a great nation,” he said, his voice carrying easily to every corner of the room. Clearly, he had done this many times. “A proud nation, with a proud history. We have overcome much in that history. Famine. Disease. Bloodthirsty neighbors. But the greatest threat to us has always been our ruthless neighbor, Marad. Indeed, it was not so many years ago that Marad conquered our great nation, brought us to our knees and pillaged us. It is the blackest day in our history.”
He lowered his head, as if overcome with emotion and unable to continue. He stood this way until the magistrate spoke up. “We get it. Move it along already. This chair makes my back hurt.” He looked over at the Fist. “Begging your pardon, sire. I’m not so young anymore and posturing angers me more than it used to.”
The Fist raised one hand without looking up. After a moment, the prosecutor continued.
“But the Maradi never counted on the unbreakable will of the Samkaran people, and the implacable ferocity of our beloved Fist,” he said, bowing to the Fist again. Cheers from the audience met his words, although a number of people were conspicuously silent. The prosecutor allowed himself a small smile, as if pleased with himself. “We rebuilt after that dark day, nourishing ourselves on the knowledge that our time would come. And come it did. After years of toil and sacrifice, we raised an unstoppable army and marched on Marad. At last our day of retribution was at hand!” He raised his voice at the end and flung his arms wide, clearly expecting the audience to cheer. Some did, but not all of them, and his expression darkened.
He paced the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, his demeanor serious. When he was near Fen, he stopped and looked up, surveying the audience and the Fist. He stroked his beard. “But in the midst of all this a cancer was growing. There was, among our valiant troops, one who had begun to hate, one whose envy and jealousy had hollowed him out from the inside until he was no more than the husk of a man. This man, this jealous, bitter little man, could not bear what he saw happening. And what was it that was happening? He was losing his place, pushed aside from his favored status by our noble allies from across the sea. His bitterness ate at him like acid, and when our victorious troops entered the city of Marad, he saw his chance. With murder in his heart, he attacked our noble allies when they were otherwise engaged in fighting against our mortal enemy.”
In the pause after his words the room was mostly silent.
“The man I am speaking of stands before you now. It is this man!” The prosecutor turned and pointed dramatically at Fen. Some people booed and yelled curses at Fen, but most were silent. The prosecutor scowled, clearly upset by the audience’s refusal to play along with his performance. He turned to face the magistrate.
“For his crimes, for siding with the enemy against the nation of Samkara, I ask you to find the accused guilty. I ask you to sentence him to death on the executioner’s block. Let his death be a warning to all future traitors.”
The magistrate picked at something in his teeth as he stared at the prosecutor for a few long moments. “Is that it, Simon?”
The magistrate bowed. “That is all, magistrate.”
“I hate when you do that, you know. It’s not a stage, it’s a courtroom.”
The prosecutor shrugged as if this were something he had no control over.
The magistrate looked around the courtroom. “I don’t see any of our noble allies here today.” He put a slight emphasis on the word noble, as if he found them anything but. “Do you have any witnesses to the attack?”
“I do,” the prosecutor replied. To the bailiff he said, “Call the sergeant.”
The bailiff went to the door and called for the witness. A moment later Sergeant Ely shuffled into the courtroom. His uniform was clean, and it looked like he’d bathed and shaved recently, but still he managed to look slovenly. He walked out onto the floor, saluted the Fist—who didn’t acknowledge him at all—then turned to the magistrate and saluted him as well.
The magistrate scowled at him. “Don’t salute me. I’m not a soldier.”
“Yes, sir,” Ely said, and started to salute again, but stopped himself. He shifted his feet and looked around. When he did, his gaze fell on the packed gallery, with everyone staring at him. His eyes widened, and he took a step back. He looked like he wanted to flee.
“Sergeant,” the prosecutor said. Ely turned to him. “Tell us what you saw on the night in question.”
“Question?” Ely said, his face scrunching up. “It was the night we sacked Marad. Ain’t no question about that.” A couple of people in the audience laughed when he said that, and he froze, his eyes darting this way and that.
“I mean,” the prosecutor continued, “what did you see the accused do that night?” He pointed at Fen in case there was further confusion.
“Oh, right.” The sergeant squared his shoulders and took a breath. “The Ankharans was working their magic, like, and I seen him come running at them all of a sudden swinging his sword.” He nodded when he was finished.
“Is that it?” The prosecutor had clearly been expecting more.
Ely pondered this. “Pretty much. What else would there be?”
“Everything. Anything. What stopped him from killing any of them, for instance?”
“Oh.” Ely thought again, then brightened. “It was me.”
Fen looked at the magistrate, wondering if he was believing this. The magistrate’s expression was unreadable.
“I suppose that makes you something of a hero, doesn’t it?” the prosecutor said.
Ely threw his shoulders back. “I suppose it does.” He shot Fen a triumphant look.
“You can go.” Ely started to salute, thought better of it, and headed for the door. The prosecutor looked up at the magistrate. “My case is complete, magistrate. I yield the floor.” He bowed and stepped back.
The magistrate looked down at Fen. “Do you have something you want to say in your defense, son?” he asked, not unkindly.
The bailiff pushed him forward before he could speak. “Approach the bench,” he hissed under his breath.
Fen shuffled forward, the bailiff gripping his elbow. The chains on his ankles didn’t allow anything else. He was tempted to say nothing. It didn’t really matter what he said. He was going to be found guilty no matter what. But then his natural stubbornness reasserted itself. If he was going to die, first he would say his piece. He looked up, not at the magistrate, but at the Fist.
“I did it,” he said. “I attacked the Ankharan sorcerers. I tried to kill them. And if I had a chance, I’d try again.”
“Are you crazy?” he heard the bailiff whisper, but he ignored him. The courtroom had gone dead silent.
“I did it for you, my Fist. I did it for Samkara. They’ve poisoned you. They’ve poisoned our nation. They are our enemies. When I took my oath as a soldier, I swore to defend my king and my country against all enemies. With my life, if necessary. You may execute me, but I will never break that oath. So long as I live, I will do all in my power to protect my people from harm.”
As he spoke he stared at the Fist, willing the man to look at him. But the whole time the Fist sat unmoving, staring down at the floor, though one hand curled into a fist.
When he finished speaking, the audience erupted. It was as if his words had broken an invisible dam holding them in check. People leapt to their feet, cheering wildly. He heard cries of “Free Fen!” A few spat at him an
d hurled abuse. Fights broke out almost immediately. The magistrate banged his fist on the bench and yelled for order, but it had no effect.
It took some time, and the guards broke a number of heads, but finally they got the crowd settled down. Fen watched the Fist. At no time did the man look up. When order was restored, the magistrate spoke again.
“By your own words you have condemned yourself.” The words seemed to pain him. “I have no choice but to name you traitor and find you guilty of the charge.” He glanced over at the Fist, plainly hoping for some intervention there, but none was forthcoming. He looked back at Fen. “You are sentenced to be executed. The sentence will be carried out first thing tomorrow morning.”
The audience erupted yet again, even louder this time. The bailiff yelled something, his words lost in the din. The guards converged on Fen and began hustling him toward the exit. As he was dragged away, Fen looked back at the Fist one last time. He saw the Fist look up, his eyes locking on Fen’s. In those eyes Fen saw a man caught in the throes of agony.
Then the door slammed behind him, and he saw no more.
By the time the guards got him to the carriage, word of the verdict had reached the throngs waiting in the square. The roar of the crowd was like an angry beast. Electricity crackled in the air. Fights instantly broke out in a dozen places. The soldiers and city watch didn’t even attempt to go into the crowd to quell them. Instead, they concentrated all their force right around the carriage.
Even with better than a hundred men around the carriage, they still nearly didn’t make it across the square. More than one soldier fell and was swallowed up by the crowd. The carriage rocked on its springs. The horses pulling it whinnied in fear and reared in their traces. The whole way Wats stared out the window with eyes as round as saucers, mumbling to himself. It sounded like he was saying prayers.
Chapter Nine
Once out of the square, the driver plied the whip, and the carriage picked up speed. They raced through the city streets, the carriage swaying dangerously as they rounded corners. A few stragglers chased after them but soon gave up.
The gates of the prison were open when they got there, a handful of jailers holding back the small crowd that had gathered. Those in the crowd looked up, saw the carriage bearing down on them at speed, and scattered. The carriage rolled through the gates, which were hastily closed behind it. Fen was taken from the carriage and hurried to his cell. The chains on his hands and feet were left in place, and he was shoved into his cell, the door slammed behind him. The jailers hurried away, leaving him alone.
Fen stood there in darkness, his emotions in a whirl. Burned into his mind’s eye was the final look the Fist gave him. It proved to him that the man he knew was still in there somewhere. If only the Fist would come to the prison to see him. Fen felt sure that he would be able to break through the hold the Ankharans had on him.
The Fist had looked poorly, so that must mean he hadn’t fed in a while. Which was probably why he’d given Fen that look. Not feeding meant he was fighting against what had been done to him.
Fen went to his cot and sat down. After a moment he realized he could hear Stone power in the distance once again. He hadn’t heard it a single time after leaving his cell. He closed his eyes and tried his strength against the icy barrier, still to no avail. He’d done everything he could. There was nothing he could do but wait and hope the Fist would show.
Later, the cell door opened, and Robbert came in. He was carrying Fen’s meal. He handed the plate to Fen and then stood there, his expression troubled.
“It will be all right,” Fen said.
“How?” the young man replied. “How is it going to be all right? In the morning they’re going to execute you.” His hands clenched into fists, and his jaw bunched.
Fen stood and put his hand on the man’s arm. “Don’t give up hope. There’s still time.”
Robbert removed Fen’s manacles and then went to the door. He said something Fen couldn’t quite hear.
“What was that?” Fen asked.
He turned. “I’d fight for you. Only say the word.”
His words struck Fen deeply. “Thank you,” he said. “But it won’t come to that.” Shaking his head, the young man left and locked the door behind him.
╬ ╬ ╬
Fen was asleep when the door to his cell opened again. It was Cowley. There was no jailer with him.
“Incredible,” Cowley said. “He goes through a trial and is sentenced to die and what does he do? He takes a nap.” Despite his glib words, there was fear in his voice, and a shadow on his face.
Fen stood up as Cowley walked over to him. He took something out of his pocket and handed it to Fen. “Here.”
Fen looked at it. It was a key. “What’s this?”
“Did you hit your head? What do you think it is, a bunny? It’s a key.”
“To the door?”
“To all the doors.”
“Why?”
“Really, Fen? Do I really have to walk you through this?”
“I don’t know…”
“There’s nothing to know. It’s all worked out. You take this key. You wait until twelve bells. Then you use the key and unlock the doors. It will get you all the way out of this building. There won’t be anyone in the front office. The men at the gates will let you out. There will be a horse there waiting for you. Ride to Reacher’s Gate. The soldiers on duty there tonight are sympathetic. They’ll open it for you.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean? You’ll be free, that’s what!” Cowley’s voice was rising, and he made an effort to get it under control.
“And then what?”
“No, Fen.” Cowley was shaking his head. “You can’t do this.”
“Follow it through, Cowley. What do I do afterwards?”
“You wait until the time is right. Then you return. People rally to you. The army rallies to you. It won’t be long, I promise. The city is going crazy out there, Fen. The Fist is barely holding it together. There are riots everywhere tonight. People are chanting your name. They want to follow you. Lead them, and let’s wipe out the sorcerers and take our city back.”
Fen shook his head. “You’re talking civil war. I can’t do that. I won’t be responsible for Samkarans killing Samkarans.”
“You don’t understand. They’re already killing each other.”
“Riots aren’t the same as splintering the army and turning it into a full-fledged civil war. You know that. I won’t do it, Cowley. I won’t have that blood on my hands.”
Cowley spun suddenly and threw the key against the wall. He swore bitterly. “I knew you were going to do this. As the gods are my witness, I knew. I told the squad.” He turned back to Fen and balled his hands into fists. “Why do you have to be like this, Fen? So bloody noble and principled all the time. Why?”
“I can’t help it. It’s who I am. I can’t change that.”
“But you’re going to be executed. They’re going to kill you, and you’re innocent. Doesn’t that count at all?”
“Am I innocent? I did attack the Ankharans after all.”
Cowley sat down on the cot and put his head in his hands. “Then don’t lead a rebellion. At least take the key and run away.” His voice was pleading.
Fen put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I can’t do that. There is nowhere else for me. Samkara is my home. And I swore an oath.”
“You and your bloody oath!” Cowley snarled. “I’m sick of hearing about your oath.”
“I’m sorry.” And he truly was. He could see the anguish his friend was going through.
“Not really. But you will be.”
“The Fist is going to come. I know it.”
Cowley raised red eyes and looked at Fen. “You have to face reality. He’s not coming. They own him now. Completely.”
“I don’t believe that,” Fen said stubbornly. “You weren’t there in the courtroom. You didn’t see what I saw. There was a look in h
is eyes. He’s still in there. I know it. I can’t run. If I do, I’ll lose my chance. I know it’s a slim one, but I have to take it.”
Cowley stood up. The look on his face was grim. “You’re delusional, Fen. Maybe you always were, but you are for sure now. You’ll never get through to that man. He’s going to execute you, and nothing will change. The Ankharans will still rule this city. More people will die. People that you might have saved.”
His words hit Fen hard. It was something he hadn’t considered. Almost he wavered. But then he remembered the look on Barik’s face, and his resolve returned. “I’m sorry.”
Cowley turned and stalked to the door. It was still ajar. He started to go through it, then spun and hurried over to Fen. Cowley threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly.
“You’re the best friend I ever had.” His voice was choked with tears. “The best friend I’ll ever have.” He started to say something else, but the words failed him. When he stepped back, tears were running down his face. He left the cell quickly.
╬ ╬ ╬
“Someone else to see you,” Robbert said, when he opened the door some time later. Fen had been sitting on his cot thinking about what Cowley had said and wondering if his friend was right. Maybe he was a fool for thinking he could get through to Barik. Maybe the man was too far gone to reach, and he was going to go to his death tomorrow morning having accomplished nothing.
But what was the alternative? Civil war? Fen couldn’t imagine being the one to cause that outcome. The death and suffering that would result would make a lie of everything he believed in, everything he’d dedicated his life to. He couldn’t do that, and neither could he simply run away. Samkara was his home. These were his people. He couldn’t leave them at the mercy of the Ankharan sorcerers.
But once he was dead, wouldn’t they be at the mercy of the Ankharans? Wouldn’t it be better to fight back?
Chaos Trapped Page 10
