‘And which side are you on?’
‘My eyes have opened,’ he said. ‘As you know, I used to be pro-war, but after reading about what happened this summer, and seeing how much money the greedy merchant classes are making from war profiteering, I’ve changed my mind. So have most. There have been fights on the university campus, real fights, Daphne, between the pro- and anti-war types.’
‘So you’re siding with the church?’
‘Enemy’s enemy and all that.’
‘And who is the enemy, Jorge?’
‘The immoral merchants who are stuffing their pockets with the wealth of Sanang, while the common soldiers are being killed and wounded. It’s not a war, it’s armed robbery!’
‘My father, then,’ she said, ‘and by extension me, I suppose. We’re the enemy.’
‘Listen,’ he whispered through the grille. ‘I know what you should do. Come out and say it was all your father’s doing, that he put you up to it. Tell them that he forced you to ignore those orders and, you know, turn on the weeping, If you can gain the sympathy of the people, the judges won’t be able to touch you.’
‘I’m not guilty,’ she said, ‘and I’m not going to lie in court.’
He looked pained, as if hurt by her unreasonable obstinacy. He glanced up at her, his eyes widening.
‘What happened to your arm?’
‘Elbow got smashed up,’ she said, holding up her withered hand. ‘Crippled.’
Several emotions swept over Jorge’s face in a flash, before he could assert control. There was horror, confusion, calculation, and a hint of disgust.
Ashamed, he looked away.
‘Thank you for visiting, Jorge,’ she said.
She held out her hand.
‘The ring, Jorge.’
He put a hand to his pocket, hesitated, then withdrew the ring she had given him. He pushed it through the grille, and it dropped into her hand, the Hold Fast crest glinting in the torchlight. He looked as if he was going to say something, but instead just nodded, turned, and walked back down the passageway. A guard approached her cell. The door-hatch was closed with a clang, and she was alone again.
She dried her tears.
Chapter 14
Appeal
Holdings City, Realm of the Holdings – 11th Day, First Third Winter 503
Each morning in her cell when she awoke, Daphne scratched a notch onto the cold stone wall above the pallet where she slept.
She had seen no one bar her jailers on the days of the first four marks, but on the fifth, just after dawn, she had been visited by her father’s agent in the city, who took care of the Holder’s business interests in his absence.
She was a middle-aged woman, an accountant by trade, before being sought out and employed by her father. She had been curt and professional when she had visited, her questions revolving around what Daphne was going to say in court about her father. The agent had assured Daphne that a messenger had been sent to the Holdfast estate as soon as her arrest was announced, but due to the distances involved, it would take her father at least a third before he would arrive in the capital.
On the day of the sixth notch, a tailor arrived, who took her measurements with a tape, in a hasty exercise that had taken less than three minutes.
Now it was the tenth day, and she remained alone in her thoughts. Jorge had not returned, but Daphne felt relieved that their relationship was over. So much had happened to change her, while he had remained the same. She had hung the ring round her neck on a piece of string, and often found that her right hand was clasping it, drawing comfort from its provenance, a frail thread reaching back home. A reminder of who she was.
There was a thump on the cell door. Daphne remained on her pallet.
‘Stay back from the entrance!’ cried a voice, and the door opened.
It was the tailor again. She strode into the room, without sparing Daphne a glance. She had a long package folded over her arm, and she set it down on the stone bench by the window. The tailor turned, and walked back out.
As the door slammed shut, Daphne got to her feet.
She opened the package, and saw that she had been given a dress, presumably something to wear in court. She picked it up in her right hand, running the withered fingers of her left down the coarsespun material. It was black, high-collared and ankle length, the dress of a penitent, a shamed criminal. By putting the dress on, it would signal to others that she was admitting her culpability, but as she had already been found guilty, she assumed the court had felt it was appropriate.
It was a struggle to get the outfit on, and her left arm was sore by the time she had succeeded, but she had been loath to call upon the guards to come to her assistance.
The hem of her dress brushed the floor of the cell, hiding her prison-issue hide slippers. The rough fabric was loose over her arms, down to the wrists, but seemed to emphasise the crookedness of her left elbow, and accentuate her crippled hand.
She slept in her new dress that night, an uncomfortable and fitful sleep, interrupted by shouts echoing up from the city. Shadows flickered across the walls of the cell, from light coming through the window. Something was happening in the city. Was it connected to her? Mink had been right. She was being made the scapegoat for the disaster in the forest. Was the mob down there calling for her blood? She neared despair several times throughout the long dark night.
At dawn, she was awoken by loud footsteps outside her cell.
‘Back from the door!’ came the usual cry.
The door opened, and three soldiers walked in. At their head was a young captain.
‘Up,’ he said.
Daphne rose from the pallet, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.
The captain looked her up and down for a moment, then nodded.
‘You’re dressed, good,’ he said. He motioned to a guard behind him, who came forward. He had chains slung over his shoulder, which he began attaching to Daphne. One set joined her ankles, giving her a pace of slack, and the other set were fastened to her wrists. She stood without complaint while being manacled, maintaining eye contact with the captain.
‘You are being moved to the courthouse,’ he said, once the chains were secure.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Is my appeal being heard today?’
The captain gestured towards the door. She sighed and followed them out. Daphne and her escort went down to the hall on the ground floor, where a further twenty soldiers were waiting in a double line. She was placed between them, and they marched round the edge of the circular wall to a door on the far side. There they halted, while one soldier opened the door and peered out.
‘Courtyard clear, sir,’ she said, ‘but a crowd has gathered on the other side of the gates.’
‘Very well,’ the captain replied. ‘Escort! Listen! We will be taking the prisoner directly across the yard to the courthouse. Right flank, keep your shields high, in case the crowd get it into their heads to start throwing things.’
He nodded to the soldier at the entrance, who pushed the door open. The column started moving at a brisk walk. As the soldiers emerged from the Old Tower, a roar bellowed out from the crowd to the right, who were prevented from entering the square by an iron gate. When Daphne herself came outside, blinking into the bright winter day’s sunshine, the roar grew. She could see the people on the other side of the gate, their faces contorted with rage, reaching their arms through the metal bars towards her. Several were hurling obscenities at her, or threats, and she almost halted, and had to be cajoled along by the soldiers.
The courthouse was ahead, on the western side of the square, and Daphne kept her head lowered for the rest of the route, jogging to keep up with the soldiers. Stones were thrown over the gate at them, which skittered off the cobbles. One soldier was hit on the head, and went down. Two others picked him up by the shoulders, and hauled him along with the rest of the column.
Guards were waiting for them at the fort-like entrance to the courthouse, and the column r
ushed under a large arch and inside. Heavy doors were swung shut behind them and barred with a loud clang. The soldiers relaxed, and some kneeled to tend to their injured comrade.
A group of court officials and guards had been waiting, and now approached.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ said one. ‘We’ll just need your signature, if you please.’
The officer took the offered quill, and scrawled his name on the sheet. ‘She’s officially yours now.’
The court official looked at Daphne with undisguised contempt.
‘She may well be yours again by this evening,’ he said to the captain. ‘This shouldn’t take too long.’
‘I’ll keep the squads here, then,’ the captain said. ‘In case we’re needed.’
The official nodded to his own guards. ‘Take her to the holding cell.’
Daphne was escorted down a set of stone steps to the basement under the court, and locked inside a tiny cell. Up by the ceiling, a barred slit opened onto the courtyard outside, from where she could hear the menacing roar of the mob, calling for her blood.
She sat down on the cold bench, and shivered. Fear was stretching her nerves to breaking. She tried to relax, but the events of the last six thirds flooded her mind. She put her head in her hands.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the door to the cell was opened. Two guards gestured for her to follow, and she was led up the stairs and through a hallway into the main courtroom. It was a large chamber, but the sheer mass of people who had crammed inside made it seem small and claustrophobic. There were three seating areas for the public, one on the ground level, and two tiered above. Every seat was taken, and people sat or stood in any available space. As she entered, there was a single intake of breath from the crowd, and the volume rose as shouts and curses filled the air. There was violent hatred in many of the faces she saw as she scanned the seats looking for anyone she recognised. She lowered her eyes, unable to cope with so much rage. Her chains clanked as she was led to a seat on the right, halfway between the public gallery and the judges’ table that ran the length of the rear wall. Between her and the crowd, a thin line of guards stood, their shields raised.
She sat down, and closed her eyes. The noise was deafening. Through the open doors of the main entrance, she could hear a larger mob outside.
A door in the wall opposite was opened by a guard, and the five appeal judges entered, and made their way past the clerks’ desks to the high table, where they sat. They were all dressed, like her, in black. The judge in the central chair was one she recognised, though had never met. He was Chief Justice Barker, a figure not known in the Realm for his tender qualities.
He picked up his gavel, and glanced around the room. His expression as he gazed at the rowdy audience was cynical and amused. He brought the gavel down, and the noise simmered away.
He waited for silence.
‘This appeal hearing is now in session,’ he announced, his voice filling the room. ‘Daphne Holdfast, identify yourself.’
She raised her head. The judges were all looking at her, every eye in the audience stared, and she felt her mouth dry.
‘I am she,’ she croaked.
‘What was that?’ Barker snapped. ‘Speak up!’
Courage, Daphne, she said to herself. Don’t let them win so easily, don’t let the mob see you’re beaten.
‘I am Daphne of Hold Fast,’ she said in a fine, clear voice. The crowd gasped.
‘Young Holdfast,’ Barker said, ‘this appeal hearing has been granted due to your absence from the earlier trial, at which the first high court found you guilty of disobeying orders, leading to the loss of the forward fort under your command, the consequent breach of the Realm’s defensive positions, and the subsequent losses at the second supply station, and further associated losses of personnel, and sundry materials. You have now entered a plea of not guilty, and this hearing will determine if you are in possession of any evidence sufficient to overturn the aforesaid verdict.
‘Furthermore, there are three new witnesses, who shall provide testimony, according to the set rules of appeal hearings…’
Daphne stopped listening. She started to scan the rows of people in the audience again. Many in the crowd were looking at the judge, but a few were staring in her direction. Several of them made slitting motions across their throats. Finally, she saw someone she knew. It was Ariel, her older sister. She was dressed in a long, hooded robe, but was looking at Daphne, and their eyes met. Ariel had a sad smile on her face. Daphne looked away before she could start to cry, and to avoid drawing attention to her sister as she sat in the crowd.
Barker banged his gavel again, and she turned to look at the judges.
‘First witness,’ he called.
The door in the opposite wall opened again, and Weir walked in. He was wearing civilian clothing, and didn’t look at her as he went to the witness stand. It was a small raised platform to the left of the judges’ table, just in front of the clerks’ desks, where they were recording every word and gesture.
‘State your name,’ said the judge to the left of Barker.
‘Weir of the River Holdings,’ he said, his hand trembling, ‘formerly a sergeant in Daphne Holdfast’s company, under Lieutenant Mink’s command.’
‘And you were in the forward fort when it was attacked?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I was.’
‘And you were captured with former Captain Holdfast, and then escaped from the Sanang in her company?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And did Daphne Holdfast ever speak to you about her reasons for not retreating from the fort?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Weir said. ‘She said it was because the orders didn’t arrive.’
‘And did you believe her?’
‘Well yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Sure she was inexperienced, she made mistakes, but she’s loyal.’
‘I see,’ the judge replied. ‘Do you have any evidence of this loyalty?’
Weir paused. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When we were with the Sanang warlord, he was always asking us about the Holdings, but she never once told him anything secret.’
‘And this was under torture?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘we were treated fairly enough.’
‘Did she say anything else about her thoughts on the matter of the fort being attacked?’
‘There was one thing,’ he said. ‘A theory she shared with me. Made sense at the time.’
Oh no, Daphne thought. Her stomach clenched and she could taste the bile rising in her throat.
‘Yes?’ the judge prompted. The courthouse fell silent.
‘She suggested to me that the church might have set her up,’ Weir said at last. The noise level rose, as people cried out in disbelief.
Barker banged his gavel, and slowly the noise abated.
‘The church?’ the judge went on.
‘Yes,’ Weir replied, looking like he wished he had kept his mouth shut. ‘The Sanang warlord was telling everyone that the idea for attacking the fort had come to him in a dream…’ He hesitated, looking over at Daphne.
‘A dream?’
‘A dream, yes,’ Weir said, his voice a little over a whisper, ‘and the captain suggested that perhaps one of our high mages had implanted the image into his head.’
Pandemonium broke out, as everyone shouted at once. Daphne closed her eyes, unable to look at the regret on Weir’s face.
It took some time to calm the crowd down. Extra guards were brought in, and a double line now separated the mob from the rest of the courtroom.
Finally there was silence and the judge continued.
‘And how was the former captain’s state of mind at this time?’
‘What?’ Weir said, looking blank.
‘Let me clarify,’ the judge went on, ‘was Daphne Holdfast under the influence of anything that may have clouded her judgement while she was being held captive?’
Daphne looked up.
‘Do you mean like alcohol and narcotics?’ W
eir said.
‘For example,’ the judge said.
‘Yes,’ Weir said. Again the crowd gasped, its attention focussed on the red-faced ex-sergeant. ‘But she was in a whole lot of pain, what with her arm being crippled. She needed the drugs to get through it.’
‘Quite,’ the judge replied. ‘That will be all, Weir of the River Holdings, thank you.’
Weir got up, his head bowed, and walked from the courtroom.
‘Next witness,’ Barker announced.
It was Mink, smartly turned out in his cavalry uniform. The tall lieutenant strode to the stand, and turned to face the judges’ bench.
‘State your name,’ said the old judge to the right of Barker.
‘Lieutenant Mink of Hold Getram,’ he replied, ‘formerly of Captain Daphne Holdfast’s command.’
‘And you were with Sergeant Weir and Captain Daphne, both formerly of the Queen’s Own, during the attack on the fort, and subsequent captivity and escape?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And were you ever present when Daphne Holdfast spoke about her reasons for not leaving the forward fort?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mink replied, ‘she often talked about it. She always maintained that the orders never arrived. However, I was not in her confidence like Lieutenant Chane or Sergeant Weir, and I was not privy to her real thoughts on the matter.’
‘Were you not being held together?’
‘We were all kept on the same floor, but had our own rooms. I was often sent to mine by Daphne, not to her discredit, after all she was only trying to protect me whenever I stood up to the Sanang. Every time I angered them she would send me away.’
‘I don’t understand,’ the old judge said, ‘were you the only prisoner to defy the Sanang?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, glancing over at Daphne. ‘Much to my regret, but to be frank, the others were quite friendly with the Sanang. They feasted in the warlord’s company, held long discussions with him about the politics and religion of the Holdings, and they drank alcohol and smoked the forest narcotics together.’
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