Swordpoint (24 page)

He paused by the window, leaning on the stone embrasure. It was a privilege, of sorts, not to be thrown in the Chop with the common city criminals. Richard was in one of the upper rooms of the Old Fort, looking out over the mouth of the channel guarding the oldest section of the city.

Far below, the river glittered, grey and bright as the surface of a mirror. His window was an arrow-slit, tapering to an opening in the outer wall. The cold stone felt good against his forehead. The tide was running; he watched trade boats passing down to the channel.

Habit made him clap his hand to his side when he heard the door opening behind him. He did not bother trying to convert the gesture when his fingers closed on nothing.

'Master St Vier.' The deputy of the Fort stood just within the doorway, backed by a phalanx of guards. 'Your escort is here to conduct you to the Council Hall.'

He was surprised at the respect they accorded him. He didn't know if it was just the formal good manners extended to all Fort prisoners, or if his being a well-known swordsman outweighed his living in Riverside.

'Is there a crowd?' he asked the deputy.

'A crowd? Where?'

'Outside, in Justice Place,' Richard said, 'waiting to see us go by.' He had assumed that the guards were to keep the curious from pressing in on them on their walk across the plaza. There would be friends there, and enemies; hordes of curious gogglers with nothing better to do than shove and stare.

'Oh, no,' the deputy smiled. 'We don't go that way.' He read St Vier's look. 'The guards are for you. My lord would not have you chained, so we need a convoy to prevent your escaping.'

Richard laughed. He supposed he could injure the deputy, and maybe capture one of the guards' weapons. He could turn their orderly walk into a slaughter. But the chances were bad, and he had an appointment with the Council.

They came to a stair, and picked up more torches. Their way led downward, underground smelling of stony water and iron earth. It was a passage system under the plaza, connecting the fort with the hall.

'I never heard of this!' Richard said to the deputy. 'How long has it been here?'

'Well before my time,' the deputy answered. 'I've memorised the passage. It's part of my duties. There are a lot of dead ends and unexplored turns.'

'I'll try not to wander off,' Richard said.

'Do that.' The deputy chuckled. 'You're sure of yourself, aren't you?'

Richard shrugged. 'Isn't everyone?'

The stairs leading up weren't as long as the ones they had taken down. The guards had to pass single file through the door at the top, with Richard between them. They came into a hall filled with sunlight. Richard's eyes burned, and he felt himself drenched in the fire of day, saturated with the colours of the wood-panelled walls, the marble floors and painted ceiling. The sun-baked warmth of the hall, with its high windows, was welcome to them all after the chill of the passage. But the disciplined guards were silent as they marched their prisoner down the corridor.

They came at last to large oak double-doors, guarded by liveried men who opened them portentously. Richard was expecting something splendid; instead there was another antechamber, more doors. These, too, were opened, and he and his escort paraded into the Court of Honour.

The room was dim, as though drenched in perpetual afternoon. He had an impression of maybe a dozen men in splendid robes like theatre costumes, seated behind a long table facing him. He was given a chair in the middle of the floor, facing Basil Halliday and some others. Halliday wore blue velvet, with a huge ring stitched in gold on the chest: emblem of the Crescent whose chancellorship he held. Richard thought wryly what a wonderful target the circle made. But that job was off for now.

'Master St Vier.' The irritatingly nice young man who had briefed him now came forward. 'These are the lords justiciar, fully assembled in Inquiry before us. They have already heard all the signed depositions; now they will ask you some questions.'

'I do understand,' said Richard. 'But isn't one missing?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You said, fully assembled. But there are two empty seats: yours and one next to that red-face - next to that man in green.'

'Oh.' For a moment, Lord Christopher looked flummoxed. He hadn't prepared to answer questions from the accused in front of everyone. But Basil Halliday smiled and nodded to him; so, taking heart, he said, 'That is the seat for Tremontaine. Next to my lord duke of Karleigh. Every ducal house has the right to sit on the Court of Honour - '

'But the damned woman won't take her duties seriously!' roared the red-faced man who had been pointed out as the Duke of Karleigh. Although he'd taken the duke's job and his money, Richard had never seen him in person before. Karleigh seemed like the type to require swordsmen frequently: proud and quarrelsome, as well as powerful. 'Didn't take long to get her the message, I'll warrant! She didn't have to come tearing up from the hinterlands on a day's notice for this-----'

'Now, my lord.' A man with a bird emblem stitched on his chest tried to calm the duke. 'That is between the duchess and her honour, not ours.' Richard recognised Lord Montague, a man he'd worked for and liked. Montague was Raven Chancellor now, and less given to fights; Richard had been wounded once in his service, and taken into Montague's own house to recover.

When the Duke of Karleigh had been settled, Lord Halliday began the questions. 'Master St Vier, we have heard many people swear that you killed Lord Horn. But no one witnessed the event. References are all to your style, your skill, to rumour. If you can summon proof positive that you were elsewhere on the night of his death, we would like to hear of it.'

'No,' said Richard, 'I can't. It is my style.'

'And is there someone you think might copy that style to get you into trouble?'

'No one I can think of.'

' - my lord,' Karleigh injected. 'Damned insolence. No one I can think of, my lord - mind how you speak to your betters!'

'And you mind', a quiet voice said lazily, 'how you make a shambles of these proceedings, Karleigh.' The florid duke fell silent, and Richard could guess why: the speaker was a man of average build, perhaps as old as Karleigh, but with flexible hands that were younger, more capable, and eyes that were much older. ('Lord Arlen,' Chris Nevilleson mouthed at him.)

'I'm sorry,' Richard said to the Crescent. 'I haven't meant to be rude.'

He'd noticed that Halliday had been ignoring Karleigh's outbursts; of course, there was trouble between them. Halliday shrugged and said to the Raven Chancellor, 'See that that exchange is struck from the notes, my lord?'

Montague jotted something down and motioned to the scribe behind him. 'Of course.'

'You understand, then,' Halliday said to Richard, 'that all evidence points to you?'

'I meant it to,' Richard said. 'That was its purpose.'

'You do not deny that you killed Horn?'

'I do not.'

Even in the small group, the noise of reaction was loud. Finally, Lord Halliday had to call for silence. 'Now,' Halliday said to Richard, 'we come to the particular business of this court. Can you name a patron in Horn's death?'

'No, I can't. I'm sorry.'

'Can you give us any reason!' Montague leaned forward to ask.

Richard thought, framing his answer in words they might understand. 'It was a matter of honour.'

'Well, yes, but whose!'

'Mine', Richard said.

Halliday sighed loudly and wiped his forehead. 'Master St Vier: your firmness to stand by your word is known and respected in this court. Any patron you select must have complete faith in you, and I'm sure this one does. But if he is too cowardly to reveal himself and stand the judgement of his peers, I want to make it clear to you that your life is at peril here. Without a noble patron, we will have to give you over to a civil authority to try you as a murderer.'

'I understand,' said Richard. A thought with the voice of Alec whispered silently: My honour isn't worth your attention. But secretly he was relieved. They honestly didn't seem to know why he had had to kill Horn. Since Godwin had escaped his challenge, Horn had not been eager to boast about the blackmailing of St Vier. So far, only Riverside knew anything about that. And Richard would do what he could to see that it stayed that way. He didn't think it would even matter if he did tell them the reason; it probably wouldn't stand up under their contorted rules. The court was turning out to be interesting only in an eerily nasty way: like their rationales for killing each other, there was a separate set of rules that seemed to double back on itself, whose origins they'd long ago forgotten the purpose of:

'Might I ask a question?' said a new voice, faintly familiar. Richard looked at the speaker, and found why: a man with coal-black hair and an eyepatch had risen. He, too, was in blue velvet, and there was a nice-looking dragon on his chest. It was Ferris, who'd come from the duchess to ask him to kill Halliday.

'Master St Vier.' Lord Ferris courteously introduced himself:

'I am the Dragon Chancellor of the Council of Lords. I, too, have heard in many places just how well you may be trusted ... in many places, sir.' He had his head turned so that his good eye was fixed on Richard; his speaking eye. Richard nodded, to show he understood the reference to their meeting.

'Speechmaking, my lord Dragon?' asked the Duke of Karleigh in a low but carrying voice.

Ferris smiled warmly at him. 'If you like. It's what comes of being a good boy and waiting my turn.' The other nobles laughed, breaking the tension and letting him continue: 'And I think, Master St Vier, that in view of your reputation we are perhaps doing you a disservice. For your style bespeaks not only a man of honour, but a man of sense. If you did kill Lord Horn, you did so for a reason. It may be a reason we all wish to hear. The death of a noble concerns all of our honours, whether in formal challenge or no.' Down the table, Halliday nodded. 'Now, the civil court has been known to use methods less gentle than our own...."

The old-young nobleman asked dryly, 'Are you proposing that we torture St Vier, Ferris?'

Lord Ferris turned his head to look at him. 'My lord of Arlen,' he said pleasantly, 'I am not. But, in fact, it's not a bad idea. Something formal, and harmless, to keep his honour intact.'

Richard felt as though he were fencing blindfold. Words were deceiving; one had to move by tone and inference, and by sheer sense of purpose. Remembering Ferris's style in the tavern, Richard thought the lord was saying that he knew what had happened with Horn. If so, he was threatening to reveal it... unless what? Unless Richard assured him that he would not reveal the plot against Halliday? But how could he assure him in front of them all?

'Ferris,' Halliday interrupted, 'Arlen; I must ask you to be serious. Do you really want that proposal put on record?'

'I beg your pardon,' Ferris said a little haughtily. 'I think it should be considered before we give St Vier over to death at the hands of the civil court. I realise that such a proposal would draw this Inquiry out - longer, perhaps, than some would care to spend on it. But I would like it noted that my own hand is held out to the swordsman as willing to entertain any answer he gives us here. In the privacy of this court, any nobleman's honour is secure, and his reasons may remain his own. I cannot give St Vier that assurance. But I will answer whatever else he asks.'

There was the message, as clear as it could be: Whatever they can do to me is nothing compared to what they'll do to you. Use me. But Ferris would not come forward and claim Horn's death himself. He wanted Richard to name him before them all, and destroy the swordsman's own credit with the nobles of the land. If he did it, Richard would be forced to turn to Ferris for patronage. The Halliday job, it seemed, was still on.

Richard sat and thought, and for once no one got up to make a speech. He could hear the scribes' rough scratching. Ferris was promising him immunity, protection, and privacy in the matter of Horn. It was as much as he could hope for. But it was only Horn's game all over again: save Alec's life or save his own; show he couldn't protect what was his or show that he could be bought with the right coin. Still, Ferris had made the offer; his hand was 'held out to the swordsman'. If Richard refused to take it Ferris might see that the law descended heavily on him, if only to secure his silence. The idea of honourable torture was ingenious -though too sweet and rich, like one of their banquet prodigies, the spun-sugar cage with the marzipan bird inside. Whatever he chose, they had him: there was no more to hope for.

Richard stood up. 'The swordsman thanks you,' he said. 'May I ask the noble court one question?'

'Certainly.'

'My noble lords; I would - '

But his words were lost in the sudden commotion from the antechamber. Shouts, the clang of metal and the scuffle of feet echoed between the two oaken doors. All attention left Richard, as startled birds leave a washline. Halliday nodded to Chris Nevilleson, who unlatched the door to the room.

The guards were holding onto a richly dressed man, trying to keep him from entering. He appeared to want to enter on all fours, since he seemed to be not so much trying to escape them as trying to hit the floor. When the door opened his captors jerked him upright. Green eyes stared across the room at the Crescent Chancellor.

'I've dropped it,' the intruder said.

Richard kicked over his heavy chair for a diversion. Sure enough, someone shouted, and in the ruckus he could reach Alec, disarm one of the guards and get them both out of there.... Then he realised that Alec hadn't even looked at him. Alec was still talking to Lord Halliday.

'I don't know what you feed them, but they're awfully nervous, aren't they? An excitable job, I suppose.'

Two more guards had appeared to right Richard's chair and sit him in it. He craned his neck, enraptured, staring at the young nobleman in the doorway. Alec's hair was cut and washed so that it fell in a soft cap around his head. He wore green brocade and gold, and it looked just as splendid on him as Richard had always known it would. He was even contriving not to slouch, probably because he was so angry that he had gone all stiff and straight and precise.