All That Glitters

by Auston Habershaw

  Tyvian looked up at the gallery and winked. The crowd went wild. There were jeers, but there were also just as many shouts of encouragement and cheers of solidarity. Artus overheard a young woman giggling to her friend: “I think he winked at me!”

  Tyvian grinned at the attention, nodding politely to the Defenders as they removed his shackles and cuffed him by the wrist via a mageglass chain bolted to the center of the Block. He blew a kiss to the gallery with his free hand. The young woman near Artus swooned and had to be carried out.

  Brana stiffened when he saw Tyvian chained up. He looked over at Artus and nudged him with his shoulder. “Rescue?” he whimpered in gnoll-­speak.

  Artus gave Brana a tight smile. His stomach, though, started doing flips.

  “Courage, my friend,” Andolon whispered, giving him another limp shoulder rub. “Courage.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Artus snarled, shaking him off again. Was he really going to go through with this? He found himself hoping against hope that Tyvian would escape before he had to testify.

  The judges arrived, stepping in from a door behind their pulpits, each clad in a white wig and a robe colored for the energy they studied. The lead judge represented the Dweomer—­she wore deep blue and held an orb of swirling azure. She held it aloft and it flashed with blinding sapphire light. “Order in the court.” Her voice was amplified so that it echoed off all five walls, drowning out the commotion in the gallery with ease.

  Everybody settled down.

  The judge laid some kind of ledger on the podium before her. “I, Kendra Forsayth, Master of the Dweomer, do now undertake the solemn responsibility of standing in judgment of this case, the eighty-­second of this season: Tyvian Reldamar!”

  “Yes, your honor?” Tyvian’s voice was clear, but small and distant. Artus craned his neck to get a better look at him.

  “You stand accused of thirty counts of trafficking in stolen magecraft, twenty-­eight counts of possession of proscribed magecraft, eighteen counts of grand theft, twelve counts of conspiracy, ten counts of criminal mischief, and seven counts of murder. Are you aware of the charges and have they been made clear to you?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “How do you plead to each charge?”

  “Not guil . . . ah . . .” Tyvian’s voice skipped and his body tensed. “Not . . . guilty!”

  The ring, Artus thought. That was it—­maybe Tyvian could use the ring to give him the strength to break the mageglass . . . No. That couldn’t work—­mageglass was unbreakable. Artus didn’t know much about magecraft, but he knew that much. Even if it weren’t, how would Tyvian escape the courtroom? He was surrounded on five sides by armed men, the only door to escape through was barred closed, and the only other way out would require him to scale a twelve foot wall all while avoiding being skewered or blasted by firepikes. No, there was no possible way to escape. Strangely, this made Artus feel a little better. He couldn’t help Tyvian even if he wanted to.

  Judge Forsayth looked at the gallery. “Will the representative of the prosecuting authority step forward to make his or her case against the accused?”

  “I will, your honor!” A loud voice from the back of the gallery. Artus, along with everybody else, twisted on their benches to get a view of the newcomer. It was a Mage Defender clad in gray robes—­striking black mane of hair, clipped goatee, the shoulders of a smith, and a smug smile on his face. Artus found himself hating him immediately.

  The judge of the Lumen nodded in the young mage’s direction. “The court recognizes Mage Defender Argus Androlli, representative of the Defenders of the Balance and the Gray Tower.”

  Androlli strolled up to the witness’s pulpit. He pulled a folio out of his robes and laid it on the podium. “I’m prepared to stand as witness against Tyvian Reldamar.” He smiled up at the judges.

  Tyvian folded his arms. “Who the hell are you?”

  Androlli looked down at Tyvian. “I’m here to offer evidence of your wrongdoings in Akral, Ihyn, Tasis, and Galaspin.”

  Tyvian shook his head. “But you weren’t in Akral, Ihyn, Tasis, or Galaspin. None of your order’s unjust and baseless actions against my legitimate businesses in those locales involved you—­I would have remembered you.”

  Androlli smiled tightly. “Are you so certain?”

  Tyvian nodded. “I never forget an arse.”

  The crowd erupted in laughter. Judge Forsayth raised her orb for order. “Magus Androlli, were you the individual to secure the evidence you are hereby asked to present?”

  Androlli looked appropriately contrite. “No, your honor. The evidence was collected by Mage Defender Gavin Holt . . .”

  “Dead,” Tyvian announced with a visible wince. “Mugged, I believe. In his . . . bed.”

  Androlli scowled. “By Master Defender Tarlyth . . .”

  Tyvian ticked off another finger. “Dead. Fell off a mountain. Hiking—­ow!—­accident. He was also a traitor.”

  Androlli’s voice intensified in volume. “And Mage Defender Myreon Alafarr.”

  Tyvian sighed, wringing his hand. “And, forgive me if I’m wrong, but she’s a convicted criminal—­for smuggling, no less.”

  There was a smattering of applause. Somebody threw an apple core at Tyvian, but they missed by a mile and hit a Defender in the shoulder instead. Judge Forsayth frowned at Androlli. “Is what the accused says true?”

  Androlli heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, your honor. We have, however, scrying and auguries that verify the facts.”

  “Auguries and scrying can be altered, your honor, especially by unscrupulous persons like Alafarr and Tarlyth.” Tyvian shook his head, chuckling. “This evidence is suspect, at best.”

  The judge of the Ether—­a rail-­thin man in overlarge midnight robes—­stood. “In light of this, I’m inclined to dismiss any evidence that does not have a living corroborating witness. Agreed?”

  The judges nodded to one another for a few moments, muttering under their breath in what Artus assumed was some kind of sorcerous private conference. He wished he could read lips better, but he’d never acquired the knack no matter how many times Tyvian had shown him.

  Brana whispered in his ear. “Somebody wrestle Tyvian?”

  Artus blinked at him. “What? Oh! No, Brana—­this isn’t a trial by combat. They’re gonna argue about facts and stuff. It’s how they do it here.”

  Brana considered this. “But . . . liars?”

  Artus frowned—­this hadn’t occurred to him. “I dunno what happens if somebody lies. I guess maybe then they wrestle?”

  Androlli was speaking. “The accusers call Artus of Jondas Crossing to testify as witness to the accused’s crimes.”

  Then, just like that, everybody was looking at Artus. Andolon gave the back of his neck one last rub. “Remember, son—­be your own man!”

  The crowd shuffled to let Artus by. Everybody was whispering to everybody else—­much of it was about how his vest didn’t fit well and that he was wearing breeches two seasons out of fashion. He subconsciously adjusted his collar as he passed. He’d never felt so much pressure in all his life—­it felt like the eyes of the entire world were burning fiery holes in his back.

  Then he was there, at the fifth pulpit, looking down on a chained Tyvian. From this height he looked smaller than Artus always thought he was. He knew he’d grown a lot the past year, but Tyvian always seemed larger than life. It occurred to Artus that he had never had so much power over the smuggler before, not even in Freegate. One word from him, and Tyvian would be a statue in a garden for a long, long time.

  Androlli was there, his hand extended to shake. Androlli—­the mirror man, the Mage Defender—­wanted to shake his hand. Artus took it and shook. He felt a little dizzy. One of the judges was speaking to him. “State your name for the record.”

  Artus realized he was standing there w
ith his mouth hanging open. “Uhhh . . . Artus. Of Jondas Crossing. It’s in the North—­Benethor.”

  The judge—­the Fey judge, if her vermillion robes meant anything—­smiled at him. “How do you know the accused?”

  Artus looked down at Tyvian and saw that the smuggler was looking at him intently, as though angry, but . . . but he wasn’t frowning. The look made Artus forget the question, so the judge repeated it. “I . . . uhhh . . . I’ve been traveling with him for a few years now.”

  “He is your employer?” the judge asked.

  Artus frowned. “Not exactly. We’re . . . uhhh . . . partners, I guess.”

  Tyvian coughed. Artus looked down to see Tyvian still staring at him. The smuggler jerked his head to the side, as though twitching. Artus frowned. “What?”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Why do I waste my time?”

  Artus found himself yelling. “We are partners—­that was the deal, remember? I remember! I remember nursing you back to health after you got chopped up by Gallo! I remember the time I saved your arse back in Ayventry, too. If it weren’t for me, you woulda had to carry all your crap from Freegate to here. We’re partners, dammit!”

  Tyvian shook his head, “Artus, that’s not . . .”

  “No!” Artus kept rolling. “No—­you need to hear this, you stuck-­up jackass! You respect Hool’s opinion, you let Brana do whatever he wants, but what about me, huh? It’s always ‘go here, Artus,’ ‘go there,’ ‘do this,’ ‘carry this thing,’ ‘you walk into the poison gas room first!’ It’s a load of Kroth-­spawned slop, is what! If you’da listened to me and not come back here, you wouldn’t be in this mess—­how about that? I betcha feel bad for not listening to me now, don’t you?”

  Tyvian groaned and shook his head. “What do you want—­an apology? Hann’s boots, boy, are you aware of just how sullen you’ve been lately? You’re quick to point out just how important you are to me, but when was the last time you considered how important I am to you? Eh?”

  The judges exchanged glances. The Fey judge chuckled. “I believe the court can confirm that they know each other.”

  Artus wasn’t listening. “You? Are you kidding? What do you ever do for me anyway? You don’t care about me at all—­I’m just a tool for you to use. Just like everybody is a tool for you. You’re some kinda . . . kinda . . .”

  “Sociopath?” Tyvian offered.

  “Yeah! A sociopath! You treat ­people like tiles in a tsuul match, and me worst of all. I’m basically your slave.”

  “Order in the court!” Judge Forsayth raised her orb.

  Neither Artus nor Tyvian were listening, though. Tyvian was too busy yelling. “I fed you, I clothed you, I taught you to read, I’ve saved your life a dozen times!”

  Artus held up one hand. “Five times! Five bloody times! Not a dozen—­Hool’s saved me a dozen times! Hell, at least three of those times you was pissed you had to do it, too! You hate me!”

  “ORDER!”

  Defenders ran over to restrain Tyvian, but he jumped up on the Block. “What a load of utter nonsense! Hate you? Are you kidding? If I hated you, I’d have left you to die a dozen—­”

  “IT WAS FIVE!” Artus screamed, shaking his fist at Tyvian. “And the ring made you! MADE YOU!”

  “Oh, and do you like your new job better? Does that weasel Andolon give you everything you ever wanted, huh? He pay you enough gold to forget about our partnership? What about Brana? Does he know what you’re about to do to me?”

  At this point Artus found his voice silenced by some kind of sorcery. Tyvian was yanked off the Block by two Defenders and wrestled to the ground. Judge Forsayth’s voice boomed through the chamber. “That is quite enough of that. Any further emotional outbursts, young man, and I’ll find you in contempt of court—­three days in the stocks!” She looked down at Tyvian. “And as for you, Master Reldamar, you are making a poor impression on the court, and it will be reflected at time of sentencing. Is that clear to both of you?”

  Artus found himself released. “Yes ma’am.”

  Tyvian snorted. “Gods, I’d hate to make a poor impression.” He struggled to his feet and gave Artus that same, strange, intense look again. “Say, Artus—­can I have a smoke?”

  Then everything clicked. Artus slapped his forehead—­the look! All those hours spent on nonverbal cues had practically vanished from his mind, but now they came flooding back. This one meant: I need your help.

  Artus looked behind him. Androlli watched him carefully, his hands wrapped around his staff. Behind and beyond him, a gallery of hundreds followed his every movement. In the back he saw Andolon give him an enthusiastic thumbs-­up. He took a deep breath—­decision time.

  It turned out making the decision wasn’t very hard at all.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sparkstone Tyvian had given him. “Sure, okay.” He flicked it at Tyvian. The little alchemical device bounced off Tyvian’s jacket with a little flash of sparks.

  Then Tyvian’s entire torso burst into flame.

  CHAPTER 19

  ON FIRE

  It is one thing to concoct a long-­term plan to have oneself set on fire in the midst of Keeper’s Court. It is quite another thing to be actually lit on fire. This Tyvian realized as the flames engulfed his body, flicking up around his face and ears with hot, red tongues, and he began to scream uncontrollably. It took him a second to realize the enchantment on his clothing kept himself from actually being burned (though it was doing a good job of singeing his hair). He kept screaming—­his panic was part of the plan anyway.

  All around him ­people were in various stages of shock. The Defenders on the floor seemed uncertain how to proceed, though Androlli was shouting orders at them: “Get a bucket!” and so on. The gallery was in a frenzy, split pretty evenly between howling for his decease and weeping for his salvation. The judges, for their part, looked on with academic interest—­one of them took notes. Clearly they’d never seen anybody burn to death, and this was to be an educational experience.

  Tyvian yanked with all his strength against the mageglass chain that held him to the Block but did so while screaming his loudest, so as to disguise his intent as merely the death throes of a man in agony. The mageglass didn’t bend or give so much as a quarter inch; that was the thing about mageglass—­completely immune to acts of physical force. You could hit this chain with a twenty-­pound siege maul for days on end and all you’d do was break the maul or, possibly, your back—­mageglass was the Dweomer rendered physical, it was order personified. It would never break.

  It did, however, melt. Not to sunlight, not to mild heat—­no—­but fire? Fire was as pure a form of naturally occurring Fey energy as you were likely to find, and when the Fey and the Dweomer started rubbing elbows . . .

  Pop! One link of the chain winked out of existence, and Tyvian was suddenly free. He immediately dropped the screaming routine and charged the Defender coming at him with a bucket of water. The prospect of being bear-­hugged by a flaming criminal caused the Defender to stagger backward—­he dropped the bucket, but Tyvian wasn’t interested in dousing the flames just yet. What he wanted was the other thing the Defender dropped: his firepike.

  He snatched it up and whirled on the other Defenders on the floor of the courtroom and began discharging the enchanted weapon in random directions, sending blazing bolts of Fey energy streaking across the room. The Defenders, following their training, dropped to one knee and ducked their heads. This was a good idea if facing sorcerous weaponry—­the mageglass of their helmets and arms would protect them from a lot. What probably nobody realized was that men in this position made excellent stepping-­stones.

  Tyvian charged the closest Defender, leapt onto the man’s shoulders and, just as the fellow was getting up to throw him off, leapt again, aiming toward the edge of the nearest pulpit. From there it was a simple pull-­up and there he wa
s—­standing in the pulpit of Judge Kendra Forsayth, while on fire, while holding a firepike.

  To all outward appearances, the Master of the Dweomer seemed to vanish in a puff of smoke, but Tyvian knew better—­she’d just sped herself up and run off faster than the eye could see. He could tell because the door she fled through had just banged open as though hit by a charging bull. The judge had just provided him his escape route and left her ledger where it was—­between Tyvian’s legs. He snatched up the ledger and stuffed it underneath his flame-­resistant doublet before it could singe. He then took one moment to survey the gallery, even as firepike blasts from below hit the walls around him, and blew them all a good-­bye kiss. It was received with the kind of gaping astonishment he had anticipated.

  Then came the hard part.

  As soon as he left the courtroom, the ring clamped down on his hand hard enough to make him wail in pain. This was, largely, what the firepike was for—­it was a crutch to lean on as he staggered through the judge’s chambers and into the adjoining corridor, blinded with the righ­teous fury of a ring that wanted him prosecuted for the crimes that he very much had committed.

  He kept moving, as steadily as he could manage, his right hand curled into a palsied fist as he burned both from within and from without. He banged into tables, tapestries, and door frames, leaving behind him a trail of fire that, while unmistakable to pursuers, would make their pursuit itself rather hazardous until they could wrangle a mage up there to douse the flames.

  Tyvian heard shouts behind him, but they were the panicked cries of ­people trying to escape an old castle that was fast on its way to burning to the ground. He pressed on, his vision shrinking into a tunnel of fire, smoke, and the shadowy contours of the stone walls around him. His breathing grew labored. “I can do this,” He muttered. “I planned for this.”