Exile's Children (13 page)

“… And knowing yourself the superior swordsman did thus conspire to murder him. How plead you?”

Arcole realized the question was addressed to him. He stared at the prosecutor, thinking the man had poor taste in tailors. Or perhaps Levan's rulers paid their officers too poorly to afford to dress decently. He frowned and said, “Not guilty, of course.”

The prosecutor smiled back. He was a Levanite, by his looks—one of the turncoats who curried favor with the Evanderans, like old Ferristan there. Arcole glanced at the count and got back a glare of such unalloyed hatred, he wondered if the old man lost his mind. Surely he understood his son had died in a duel: a matter of honor that he, born of Levan's oldest stock, should comprehend. In better days—those lost to Evander's conquest—this affair would never have been allowed to come thus far.

But, to Arcole's bemusement, it had; and now Raymone of House Ferristan glowered at him from behind that oiled white beard as if he were some rabid dog to be slain on sight before he might spread his infection. Was it not enough Militiamen had taken him captive as if he were a criminal? And more—oh, yes, far more indignity—had he not been locked with chains on his feet in a filthy cell that stank of urine and vomit, been forced to eat slop he'd not feed the lowest servant, allowed to shave and bathe and change his clothes only when faithful Dom handed over an exorbitant amount of coin?

And now they accused him of murder?

It was ridiculous. His frown deepened into an expression of genuine outrage and he looked away from Raymone, letting his gaze wander over the courtroom.

Two Militiamen guarded the door and two more stood at his back, even though the box he occupied was painted with hex signs he recognized as powerful. The judge was an Evanderan, as were the two advo
cates attending him. Tipstaff and prosecutor were Levanites; there was no jury—the Autarchy had dispensed with juries—but the accused was allowed his own counsel. Arcole's advocate was a bewigged young man whose sallow face was drawn, his movements nervous as if he were the one on trial. Which, in a way, Arcole supposed, he was—the Levan's new rulers had little affection for any who argued their authority. Perhaps this advocate—Arcole could not quite recall his name—was braver than he looked. Surely he wasn't the only lawyer Dom could find willing to take the case.

“You find these proceedings amusing?”

The judge's voice was querulous, his florid face darkening in irritation; Arcole shook his head and said, “I find them pointless.”

Dom winced; the defending advocate climbed heavily to his feet. “My lord, if I may?”

The judge waved a hand and the advocate bowed and continued: “My client was born in the Levan, my lord; he was raised here, in the customs of his country. One of those customs is that matters of honor be settled by the duel.”

“He murdered my son,” Ferristan cried.

The judge failed to order him silent. Instead, he said, “The Levan now resides under protection of the Autarchy; and in Evander, matters of honor are
not
so crudely settled.”

“Of course, my lord.” The advocate bowed again; Arcole thought he cringed. “The Autarchy leads us on a more civilized path, but still …old customs die hard.”

“Had he a quarrel,” said the judge, “he should have brought it before the courts.
That
is the civilized way—not these bloody brawls you Levanites resort to.”

“It was not,” Arcole declared, “a brawl.”

Eyes beady and cold as a raven's studied him a moment; then, disdainfully, to the Militiamen at his back the judge said: “Does the accused interrupt again, gag him.”

Arcole opened his mouth to protest, to ask if this was
civilized
Evanderan justice, but his advocate spoke first, urgently, motioning him silent.

“Please forgive my client, my lord. He is not accustomed to legal proceedings—he intends no offense.”

“But gives it nonetheless,” the judge said. “Continue.”

“The sadly departed viscount Ferristan was engaged in a game of petanoye with 'sieur Blayke,” the advocate said, “and lost a considerable amount of money.”

Arcole was tempted to remark that the dead man was an excruciatingly
bad player, but Dom was shaking his head and grimacing at him, so he bit back the words and only stood silent, listening.

“He had been drinking heavily throughout the game,” the advocate was explaining, “and grew offensive. I've depositions to that effect, my lord, do you care to study them.”

The judge beckoned and the tipstaff took the affidavits and brought them to the bench. The judge glanced at them and pushed them away.

The prosecutor asked, “Where are the witnesses? Depositions are useless without witnesses.”

“Quite,” said the judge.

Arcole's lawyer looked to where Raymone Ferristan sat and said, “I fear the witnesses are unavailable, my lord. Three are gone to country estates and two are incapacitated; one has simply disappeared.”

“Then I'll not allow their testimony,” the judge announced. “These depositions are worthless.”

The young advocate sighed, but the count of House Ferristan was smiling now. By God, Arcole thought, the old bastard's bribed or beaten them! No wonder I've friends here save Dom. He felt a little of his certainty wither.

“Sieur Freydmon is present,” the advocate said.

Dom rose, but the prosecutor cried, “My lord, Dom Freydmon is a known associate of the accused. They are old accomplices—”

Arcole's lawyer said, “I object! Sieur Freydmon is a respected man. To suggest he is an
accomplice …
”

The judge motioned him silent. To Dom he said, “Is this true?”

“That I am Arcole's friend?” asked Dom. “Yes. I've known him seven years now.”

“Then I find this man unsuitable as a witness,” the judge declared. “Clearly any testimony he may give will be colored by his acknowledged association with the accused. Sieur Freydmon, seat yourself.”

Dom stood a moment with open mouth, disbelief in his eyes. The judge fixed him with a beady stare and he sat. Arcole felt a little more of his confidence dissipate.

“The viscount grew offensive,” the advocate went on, weary as a man pushing a heavy weight uphill, “and insulted 'sieur Blayke. Aspersions were cast as to 'sieur Blayke's antecedents, and accusations made of his honesty—”

The prosecutor interrupted. “All hearsay! These are no more than allegations. Without corroborative testimony the court is asked to accept the word of the accused alone. And Luis, viscount Ferristan, is not here to defend himself.”

“No,” said the judge ponderously, “he is not.”

Helplessly, Arcole's man said, “My lord, do you refuse to allow the depositions and 'sieur Freydmon's testimony …”

“I apply the law,” said the judge. “No more than that. Do you accuse me of error?”

The count of Ferristan's smile grew wider, fiercer. Arcole felt the last of his confidence dissolve, to be replaced with growing outrage. This is a farce, he thought, Raymone and this damn Evanderan judge work hand in glove.

He heard his advocate say quickly, “No, my lord. Nothing of the sort.”

“Then present your case.”

“I am left with little to present,” said the advocate helplessly. “Sieur Blayke is well known in Levan as a man of honor. He has never faced such charges before. It is common knowledge that the viscount insulted him and challenged him, and that 'sieur Blayke acted as must any man of honor—he accepted the challenge. To do less should have been an insult to House Ferristan. I assure you, my lord, that the duel was fairly fought. There were witnesses …”

“My lord.” The prosecutor darted in like a terrier on a rat. “I've no doubt that 'sieur Freydmon will be one of these alleged witnesses. Where are the others?”

Bought off, Arcole thought, or else terrified into silence.

“Were I allowed time,” pleaded the advocate, “I might find them.”

“Too late,” the judge declared briskly. “Are they not now present, I'll not grant more time. Have you aught else to say?”

The advocate shook his head. The judge waved the prosecutor forward.

“I'll not take up much of your time, my lord,” he promised. “I've but a few plain questions for the accused, and I believe this matter may be soon settled.” He turned to Arcole. “You are known as a gambler and duelist, no?”

Arcole looked down on the thin-faced prosecutor and said, “I've some skill with cards, and with a blade.”

“Do you make a living from your gambling?”

Arcole shrugged and answered, “Aye.”

“And you have fought numerous duels?”

Arcole nodded.

“How many?”

“I've not kept count.”

“Two? A dozen? A score? A hundred?”

“Less than a hundred. Perhaps fifty.”

“And won them all?”

Arcole smiled coldly. Hope seemed lost; his pride remained. “I am here, no?” he said.

“So you have slain perhaps as many as fifty men. That suggests you are greatly skilled. Were you a soldier?”

“I fought for the Levan,” Arcole said.

The prosecutor smiled. “In the Restitution? Did you kill men then?”

Again Arcole only nodded: there seemed no point to words.

“My lord.” The prosecutor turned to the bench. “Luis, viscount of House Ferristan, had fought only three duels in his young life; he was never a soldier. I put it to you that the accused boasts such skill as surely rendered this fight unfair. He might have refused the challenge, but knowing he held the upper hand, he engaged with the unfortunate viscount confident of victory. It was no less than murder, my lord, and I ask you pronounce Arcole Blayke guilty of that crime.”

The judge nodded. “Do you have aught to say?” he asked of Arcole.

It seemed a bitter taste filled Arcole's mouth and he was tempted to spit. Raymone was beaming triumphantly; the prosecutor oozed confidence. Arcole's lawyer stood with downcast eyes; Dom stared aghast. The judge waited with obvious impatience.

“Save this be a travesty and House Ferristan entirely devoid of honor,” Arcole said, “no.”

“Then it is my duty as an officer of the Autarchy,” said the judge, “to pronounce sentence. I find you, Arcole Blayke, guilty of murder. I sentence you to die.”

“You did
what?
”

The chains fettering Arcole's ankles rattled as he rose. Dom started back, so angry was his friend's voice, so outraged his expression. For a moment he thought Arcole about to strike him, but instead the fists struck only empty air and Arcole shook his head, his eyes wide now in disbelief.

Dom said, “I thought it best. I thought you'd be pleased. At least …”

“Oh, Dom.” Now Arcole's voice came weary and Dom saw his shoulders sag. “What have you done? Why did you not ask me first? That, at the least.” He slumped on the wooden bench, his back against the dirty wall, careless of his shirt.

“I had little enough time,” Dom said, “and none too much money. By God, Arcole, it costs fifteen golden guineas to buy my way in here. And most of our coin is taken by the court.…”

“Stolen by the court!” snarled Arcole. “I tell you, Dom, there's as little justice left in the Levan as there's honor.”

“Be that as it may,” Dom went on, more aware than Arcole of the ticking minutes: fifteen golden guineas did not buy many. “The bulk of our savings was taken in fines and compensation to House Ferristan”—he ignored Arcole's snort—“and what I managed to rescue, I thought to employ on your behalf.”

“And now it's gone?”

When Dom nodded, Arcole tipped back his head and groaned, then sank his face in his hands and from behind that barrier muttered, “Dom, what have you done to me?”

“Saved your life,” his friend said. “I thought you'd be pleased.”

The face that rose to meet his was at first difficult to recognize as Arcole's. The eyes were leeched of their usual sparkle and marked beneath by dark crescents. Stubble decorated cheeks and chin, and the hair—usually so carefully barbered—was lank and uncombed. Then Arcole smiled, and Dom saw a flash of the old sardonic humor.

“Is there any left?”

Dom said, “A few guineas.”

“So what shall you live on? Have you enough?”

“I'll get by,” he said, and waved a dismissing hand. “It's you we need concern ourselves with.”

“I?” Arcole chuckled: a cynical sound. “My fate's decided, no?”

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Dom repeated. “They were planning to hang you.”

“I had prepared myself for that, old friend. But this …?” He shook his head. “There's no chance you might get the money back?”

Before Dom could reply, while he still stared in disbelief at his friend, Arcole answered himself: “No, of course not. That God-cursed Evanderan judge would never return it, not once in this thieving pocket.”

“He's already signed the papers,” Dom said.

Arcole nodded, less like a man reprieved than one hearing himself condemned. He had taken it better in court, Dom thought. He seemed far better disposed to death than to this news. Warily, he said, “They'd have hung you, Arcole, and left your body on the gallows for the crows to pick. That was the verdict—Raymone of House Ferristan made sure of that.”

“Then you risk his anger,” Arcole said. “When this gets out, he'll likely seek to take your life.”

“I know.” Dom nodded. “I leave for Tarramor at dawn. He'll not find me there—I've friends—”

“How shall you live?”

It seemed odd that Arcole should concern himself with that, and typical. Dom shrugged and said, “I can teach … whatever. I'll find something. Perhaps”—he vented a small, sad laugh—“perhaps I'll write a book about your exploits.”