by Lynn Viehl
“Trying to tempt the browsers?” I said over the open crates.
“Always, miss, always.” She handed me a slice. “North country golders, sweet as honey this year, they are.”
I popped the fruit in my mouth and found it to be precisely as she claimed, as well as sun-warmed and remarkably juicy. “It’s scrumptious.”
She looked side to side before shoving a small paper sack in my hands. When I reached for my reticule, she shook her head. “A gift, dearie.” She gave me a meaningful look. “I’ll wager you could use a bit of sweetness today.”
That put me on alert. “Why’s that?”
She leaned over the crates. “Bunch of beaters came round earlier, asking after a gel who looks a bit like you. They said she lives a goldstone round the corner.” When I glanced round she added, “No one knew this gel, ’course, so they went off. I heard one of them say something daft about looking for her in some eagle’s nest.” She straightened and said in a louder voice, “Morning’s a bit chilly, don’t you think, miss? Best cover up until the air warms.”
I drew my hood over my head. “I will, thank you.”
If Inspector Doyle had sent beaters looking for me, it was either to bring me in on another phony charge or to give me protection. I wanted to believe it was the latter, and might have, if my eviction from the office hadn’t taken place. Dredmore might have filed a charge against me as well, and he had a legitimate one: I’d stolen George. Although anyone with enough coin to afford one motored about in a carri, horses remained the primary means of transport round the city. No young blue ever made a circuit of the parks in a carri, and even merchants who could afford a fleet of carris still kept horses as a show of their wealth and status. Because of this, horse thieves remained universally reviled by all the citizens of Rumsen, and when convicted were regularly sentenced to be whipped in public to serve as a warning to others.
Dredmore would love to see me bound to a punishment post and lashed until I bled, I thought, my mood dark. He’d probably volunteer to ply the whip—
No, he wouldn’t.
As much as I hated him and his spectacular arrogance, Lucien had employed his unsavory methods in an attempt to protect me. Whatever we had been to each other before last night, the man and I were no longer enemies. I didn’t know what we might become, but our interlude in the maze had changed everything.
I took my bag of peaches to a little children’s park three blocks north of the market. A few nannies were pushing prams along the walks, but the benches and sandboxes were empty. I sat down on a bench half-hidden from the street by a large red-and-white-striped glory bush and took out a peach.
“North country golders,” Doyle said as he sat down beside me. “I hear they’re as sweet as honey this year.”
“That they are.” I took the other peach from the sack and offered to him.
We sat and ate the fruit in silence. Doyle left me briefly to purchase two mugs of spiced tea from a cart. I warmed my hands against the sides of the hot porcelain before taking a sip.
“I came in to find a stack of complaints on my desk this morning,” Doyle mentioned as we watched a fierce-looking nan bend over her pram to coo at her fussy charge. “Funny thing, they all bore your name. Busy night, Kit?”
I shrugged.
He blew some steam from his mug before tasting. “The commissioner would very much like to, what were his words . . . oh, yes. ‘See that one dragged through the streets by her ankles.’ ”
I turned up my toes. “Not much to them. Knots had better be tight.”
“I also received a very interesting communication from Lord Dredmore.” Doyle finished his tea with a few swallows. “It seems that someone trespassed onto his property last night and stole a black gelding from his stables.”
I made my sigh heavy. “How terrible for him.”
“This particular gelding was trained to be ridden only by a lady,” Doyle said. “And yet no sidesaddle was found to be missing.”
“You know, I think I heard someone mention rumor of a black horse this morning, too.” I pretended to think. “Oh, yes. One was found at dawn standing outside Halter’s stables. Lovely big black fellow, name of George.” I glanced at him. “What a coincidence.”
“I’ll send a man over to collect George and pay Halter for his troubles.” He regarded me directly. “Now that I’ve told you how dreadful my morning has been, you will tell me exactly what you were doing last night.”
“Before being kidnapped and held against my will at Morehaven, or after?” I enjoyed the shock on his face. “You really should do some investigating now and then, Chief Inspector. I thought you Yardmen were trained for it.”
“Why would Lord Dredmore abduct you?”
“He’s a pompous, controlling ass; I’m difficult to scare off, and we’re competing for the same job.” I dropped my peach pit back into the bag.
Oh, and he believes that he’s in love with me. I kept that thought in my head.
“Were there any witnesses to your abduction and captivity?” Doyle persisted.
“Who were not in the employ of Lucien Dredmore? Ah, no, sorry. He’s not that stupid.” I saw the lines round his mouth deepen. “Just forget it, Tommy.”
“I don’t think I can do that just now.” He put his hand over mine. “Did he hurt you, Kit?”
Beyond all hope of recovery, I was beginning to believe. “No. Dredmore could never do anything to me but make me laugh.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Here was my opportunity for some genuine revenge. Tom Doyle could take me to a physick, who would examine me and find the physical evidence of what Dredmore and I had done. Since I was unmarried and had never been charged with soliciting favors from gentlemen, I could claim ravishment and have Dredmore charged with assaulting me. Without witnesses it would be difficult to see him convicted, but filing the complaint along would be enough to destroy his reputation. He’d never again be invited to the governor’s mansion to show off his grubby bag of tricks.
It will end here and now. The memory of Lucien’s voice in the gardens at Morehaven echoed in my mind. All you need say is no.
“Nothing else happened between me and Dredmore last night that concerns the law,” I told Doyle.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind after I tell you why I’m here.” He finished his tea. “You’re wanted at the magistrate’s.”
“Court?” I frowned. “Why, whatever for?”
He took my mug from me. “You’ll be arraigned on charges of practicing magic in a residential area.”
“Even if I did practice magic, which I don’t, my office is in the business district.” When he said nothing, I added, “My landlord had me evicted from the building about an hour ago.”
“The address cited in the warrant is for your flat, Kit.” He rose and carried our mugs back to the cartlass, who tucked them in her wash bin before handing Doyle back fo’pence for the return of her crockery.
I went to the fountain to wash the peach juice from my fingers, and was drying them with my kerchief when Doyle joined me.
“Do you know a barrister?” he asked. When I shook my head, he sighed. “You’ll need one. A good one.”
“Can’t afford so much as a bad one, Tom.”
“Bloody hell, Kit,” he snapped, startling a pair of passing nans. “Have you any idea of how much trouble you’re in? These are serious charges. Violation of trade practice law carries a sentence of three to five years, hard labor. What the devil have you been up to on the Hill?”
“I tried to help someone.” Before he could shout again, I added, “You needn’t fuss at me, Inspector. I was warned; I knew something like this might happen.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“Some things are worth a bit of risk.” I smiled up at him. “I don’t suppose you’d pay attention to the flowers for the next few minutes.”
“I wish I could, Kit, but my beaters are standing just over there, and they’d give chase.
” He held out his hand. “I’ll speak for you at court.”
“And say what? You know I’m a good lass because we played together as children? You’ll get the sack.” I turned round and held my wrists behind my back. “Do your job, Inspector.”
A few moments later the cold steel cuffs of Doyle’s shackles clamped over my wrists. “Charmian Constance Kittredge, you are charged with practicing magic in a prohibited area. Be advised that anything you say while in my custody can be entered into evidence and used against you. You are permitted representation before the magistrate. If you cannot afford such representation, an aid-solicitor will be summoned to counsel you and speak on your behalf. Do you understand what I have told you?”
The reasons, no, but the words, of course. “I do, sir.”
“Right, then.” He arranged my cloak so that it covered my manacles and then took my arm. “Let’s go.”
Chief Inspector Doyle spared me the humiliation of taking me to Rumsen Main first to be glassed and recorded. While I knew eventually I would have my image and personal information added to the vast number of criminal countenances and case files kept in the police archives, the reprieve gave me a bit of time to decide what next I would do.
My enemy—either Dredmore or Walsh—had thrown down the gauntlet by having me hauled before the magistrate. My choices were to fight, arrange bail and flee, or surrender myself to an unhappy fate.
I wasn’t going to run away or give up, which meant I needed to arm myself.
Montford District, the building where the magistrate courts were housed, stood in the shadows of Montford Central, the judgment courts. Both were named for Lord Montford, the Queen’s Architect, whose building designs had been brought over along with Crown law after the Rebellion had been crushed. The only way I’d ever see the inside of Montford Central was if I killed someone, burned down a block of houses, or did something equally as dastardly; Montford District was reserved for civil and common criminal cases.
I suppose I should have admired all the grandeur of the soaring Doric columns and the heavy chiselwork above the archways, but the stodgy, Crown-nodding affectedness of the building’s design ruined any appreciation I might have for the bloody place. So did being hauled to it as a prisoner.
Doyle brought me into the great hall, which had been hung with paintings depicting the Empire’s triumph over the rebels and stone plaquettes inscribed with tiresome axioms about the nobility of justice.
“ ‘The law of the Crown is a spring of life,’ ” I read one out loud as we passed it. “Do you think our forefathers would agree, Chief Inspector, seeing as it put most of them facedown in shallow, unmarked graves?”
“Be quiet,” he warned as he steered me through a security checkpoint and down to an entry marked Advocacy.
Inside were two chairs, a table, and a balding solicitor in a shabby suit who barely glanced at us. “Morning. This the Murphy gel, or the Holmes boy?”
“Kittredge,” Doyle told him.
“Damn it all. I told Scotty I didn’t want that one before I left the office.” The solicitor dug through his papers until he found a thick bundle of papers and scowled at me. “You know why you’ve been brought up before the magis, miss?”
“I’ve been wrongly charged with practicing magic in a residential area,” I said, sounding as forlorn as possible. “And what is your name, sir?”
“Douglas Clark, at your service.” He didn’t bother to get up or bow. “You can leave her, Chief.”
Doyle removed my manacles. “Keep your chin up.”
“Always.” I watched him go before I sat down beside my aid-solicitor. “I’m not lying, sir. The charges being brought against me are utter nonsense.”
“They always are, dearie.” He turned to me. “You’re young, which will help, although you can’t claim ignorance of the law. That always sets hissonor’s wig on end. Someone coerce you to wave your wand in the wrong place? Your da, maybe?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“That’s too bad. Got a teller off last month for having a home seeing by blaming her brother for not paying their rent. And her without a proper license at all.” Clark studied my face. “What sort of magic you practice?”
“None.”
He shook his head. “Can’t go in denying your business, miss. They wouldn’t file charges without hard evidence.”
“They have none. I’ve never practiced magic.”
He turned back to the papers and scrabbled through them, his frown deepening with every page he turned. “No witnesses, no confiscations, no testimonies. That can’t be right. Hang on, here it is.” He pulled out a paper and held it up. “His lordship charges that the defendant bespelled her physical residence to protect the occupants and repel intruders.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” I assured him.
He nodded absently. “They’ve listed some enchanted objects that were found openly displayed on the exterior of your residence.”
“Seven wardlings, nailed above my entry,” I said. “Put there by a police warder, not me.”
“The cops?” He glanced up, completely perplexed. “Why’d they want to ward your place, then?”
I detailed the attack on me by the snuffmages as well as my subsequent detainment and drugging at Rumsen Main. “I did not fashion or display the wardlings. There is no other magic item on the premises or in my possession.” I almost reached for my pendant before I thought better of it. “Nor have I uttered a single spell.”
“Hang on.” He dug down to the very last page of the charge statement, and after reading it sat back in his chair. “The charges are being brought by Lord Nolan Walsh. Himself’s one of them bankers downtown what’s got more money than H.M. What in sweet Mary’s name did you do to bring his wrath down on your head, gel?”
So Walsh, not Dredmore. An invisible burden lifted from my shoulders, not that I welcomed the tiny surge of relief that came with it. “I’m working for Lord Walsh’s wife, Lady Diana. Someone inside his household has been—”
“No.” Clark held up his hand. “Don’t tell me any more. I can’t have knowledge of that and stand for you.” He studied the statement a second time. “This police warder, will she bear witness that she was the one who put up the protection at your home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve never read so much as a tea leaf in your kitchen?” When I shook my head, he gathered up his papers and stuffed them in his case. “This is how it will go, then. I’ll refute the charges, have you repeat the statements you’ve made to me to the magis—and only about the coppers warding your place, if you please—and then we’ll see just how much money the banker spent on this.”
“Do you think he bribed officers of the court?”
“To bring you up on charges, probably several of them.” Clark regarded me steadily. “But it’s your lucky day, my lass. He didn’t think to bribe me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Clark and I were summoned before the bench a short time later. The wood-paneled courtroom was divided into two, and my aid-solicitor led me to a stand on the right in front of several rows of pews that were occupied here and there by several gentlemen, including Tom Doyle.
I nodded to Doyle but then saw the face of the young clerk sitting beside him. “Mr. Gremley?”
Clark hushed me and had me sit in one of the two chairs behind the stand while he took the other.
“Not a word out of you until I say so,” he warned. “And not a peep about Walsh or working for the wife.”
The bailiff entered, calling for everyone present to stand. “Attention, attention, the seventh court of Rumsen city is now come to order, the Honorable Jason Newton presiding.”
A stout middle-aged man in an ancient white wig and dusty-looking blue robes trudged in and took the chair behind the magistrate’s desk on the platform at the center back of the court. He looked at me for several moments before saying, “Be seated. Mr. Jones, you may present the first case.”
The
magistrate’s clerk rose from his seat to the right of the bench and called out, “City of Rumsen versus Miss Charmian Constance Kittredge.”
Clark urged me up on my feet again as the clerk handed the magistrate the warrant.
Magistrate Newton put on a pair of reading spectacles and reviewed the warrant. “Aid-solicitor Clark, Miss Kittredge appears to be charged with illegal practice of magic. How does she plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor,” Clark said promptly.
“Barrister Fordun,” Newton said to the prosecutor. “I dislike seeing unprotected young ladies in my courtroom. This had better be very good.”
The man standing behind the opposite stand adjusted his new wig before standing, which gave Clark time to speak in his place.
“If it pleases the court and the Crown,” Clark said quickly, “my client wishes to enter statements that will doubtless convince Your Honor to dismiss these charges.”
“Oh, doubtless.” Newton eyed me. “Well, young miss? What have you to say for yourself?”
I went to the stand and tried my best bewildered look on the magistrate. “Your Honor, I am being charged with practicing magic in my home, which is located in a residential area. I have never done so, and the evidence being brought forth to condemn me is police property.”
“Naturally it is in their custody,” Fordun said. “They confiscate any magic paraphernalia in such cases, so that it might be presented in evidence.”
“No, sir,” I said. “The wardlings that were found nailed above the entry to my flat are property that belong to the police, and were put there by a police warder. They are not mine, nor is their display my doing.”
“Is this warder present?” Newton snapped.
“Her supervisor is, Your Honor,” I heard Doyle say behind me. “I am Chief Inspector Thomas Doyle, assigned to Rumsen Main. After Miss Kittredge was the victim of an unprovoked and brutal attack, I sent our staff warder to search and secure the young lady’s home, in the hope of preventing a second assault on her person.”
