David and Lane left together, holding hands. George Louis knew it was just for show, yet he found himself staring at the door long after it had closed behind them, trying not to hate Lane for getting to walk with David like that.
Behind him, there was a huff of displaced air, then Annabelle said, in that new strange, chopped off way of speaking: “Lord Relentless. Quite handsome.”
George Louis smiled wryly at the understatement. As if she’d just noticed today.
“Quite mad,” Annabelle added.
George Louis didn’t turn around to look at her. Tried not to picture her naked appearance. Which wasn’t hard, after seeing David in his finest just now.
“Do you think this plan is feasible?” he asked his still-wife.
Annabelle was quiet for a long time.
George Louis stared straight ahead, heart beating too fast. Did he want her to say yes? Or grasping for an excuse to stop David from risking his life like this? He wasn't sure himself.
“Magically?” She finally said. “Don’t know. But. Two lords. No sentence? Bad precedent.”
George Louis nodded to show he had heard. He shouldn't have expected her to have a solution for his dilemma.
David no doubt hadn’t even considered the legal and political ramifications. He’d just seen a problem and drawn a straight line towards a solution—everything else be damned. It was impressive in its own way. And terrifying.
“You. Are not. Stopping him?” Annabelle asked.
George Louis shrugged, still staring at the door, not really seeing it anyway. He should, shouldn’t he? He had only been privy to half the conversation, but it had sounded a lot like David was planning to turn the whole White Torrent to Rot to stop the Valoise. And then herd the Rot-queen towards Deggan. Which meant they’d have to get it right through Deva somehow.
He wondered if David had considered that problem. Or if he even considered that to be a problem.
Was it arrogance driving David? Desperation? Was he hoping to die along the way, or did he really trust in a dead boy’s ghost to protect him from a Rot-queen?
Did it matter?
“Do you have any suggestion how else we can beat the Valoise and the reinforcements they might receive?” George Louis asked.
“Tell them.”
“I’m sorry?” The suggestion surprised George Louis so much, he turned around to see if Annabelle was being facetious with him.
But no. She looked quite serious, arms crossed over her chest, staring down at her naked feet.
“Morgulon. Invisible,” she said. “Can sneak around. Even if. The enemy. Is warned.” She took a deep breath. “So. Warn Valoise. Tell them, leave. Leave. Or face a Rot-queen.”
Would that work?
George Louis glanced back at the table. Thinking of the numbers, of the distances. The pisscoats were going to resupply, at Deggan or Port Neaf.
And most importantly—had anyone in that army ever seen a Rot-queen? Did the Valoise even know what it was? Who in Loegrion did know what a Rot-queen could do, asides from the dozen or two survivors from the Savre-camp attack?
That battle alone would probably make Annabelle’s idea unfeasible. For if—what, a couple of hundred?—navvies could survive two Rot-queens for nearly a day—long enough for a pack of werewolves to come to their aid—surely, the Valoisian army would think they could beat one?
And worse—
”If it doesn’t make them retreat, they might change course,” George Louis said. “The further David has to drive that queen, the more destruction will be wrought. If they sail up the river, at least we’ll know exactly where the pisscoats are.”
He sighed and walked back to the fireplace, to settle down in the armchair there. He was feeling better, but far from great. Standing was still tiring.
He couldn’t think of a better way.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want David to do it, either. Didn’t want to send him out again to what sounded like certain death.
But certain death wouldn’t stop David. And the she-wolf seemed to think it wasn’t entirely impossible. Was even willing to go along with it.
George Louis grabbed his own wrists to stop himself from scratching, staring into the flames.
Maybe it was pettiness. The lingering anger over what Picot had done to him. Maybe it was the new pain in his joints, the dizziness in his head, the swollen legs, the itchiness of his skin, the fatigue that wouldn’t go away…He wanted to see the pisscoats suffer. He wanted the Roi Solei to never see his son again, as he himself almost had never seen Georgie again.
Maybe he just didn’t want to be turned down—which he knew would happen if he tried to stop David without offering a better plan.
He wanted the Valoise destroyed whole-sale. And if David thought he could do it—
“I’m not going to stop him,” George Louis said softly. “But we should better have a trial for the traitors. I believe Lady deLande has all the evidence we need. And we’ll let Lord Mire preside over it.”
“Preside. Or accuse.”
“Either should work,” George Louis said softly. “As long as they get sentenced to death.”
“That. Should be easy.”
“Quite true.”
Just a formality. But one that they still needed to take care of. And quickly. Full moon wasn’t far away.
***
Greg shuddered when the coach slowed down on the road to the Imperial Court and he saw the masses gathered outside. It was an angry crowd, chanting: “death to the traitors, death to the traitors!” Mainly, Greg thought it was working class men and women gathered out here. Those fortunate few who were allowed within the courthouse had to push through the crowd.
Shudder or not, for the first time in his life, Greg was relieved to see an angry mob. A genuinely angry mob, carrying rotten fruits and eggs, awaiting the accused to pelt them with groceries. Like they had done to Greg before.
Not today, though. He, Gustave and Mr. Higgins had prime seats today, thanks to the family connection. Antonio dropped them off right at the main entrance.
A battalion of city guards kept the crowd away from the steps leading up to the entrance, so the three of them could climb out and enter the building without having to use their elbows. The portal doors stood wide open, showing the entrance hall beyond with the plinth on which Mithras stood, His sword raised straight into the air to the domed ceiling, painted with a blazing sun.
Greg stopped to stare at the statue.
Would that, too, be replaced by the wolf and tree Duke Stuard had chosen as the new crest of Loegrion? It seemed unlikely—to the broader public, werewolves had been the wild and uncontrollable monsters for so long, spinning them into symbols of impartial judgement would probably be too much of a leap.
“You coming, Greg?” Gustave asked, one foot already on the stairs behind the statue.
Greg shook himself and skirted around Lord Mithras, to follow the stream of people heading towards the main courtroom. It had seating for spectators on the main floor, sloped much like the seating in a theatre, and a gallery above with standing rooms, all of it staring down on the stage: the box for the accused, the high backed chair of the judge and the twelve, only slightly smaller chairs for the jury of peers.
Greg’s connection to both David and Lane had gotten them seats on the main floor, second row, which was a lucky thing. The gallery was already filling when Greg, Mr. Higgins and Gustave took their seats. It surprised him, because, when the word had first been spread around, a lot of people called the trial a waste of time. Especially those nobles who had watched Morgulon take two bullets for Lord Mire. Surely, a trial could only confirm what everybody already knew, they had said.
And yet the seats in the front rows that had been reserved for the higher nobility were filling quickly.
A pointless formality, Lord Mire himself had called the proceedings, but he had still agreed to preside over them.
Greg settled into his seat next to Mr. Higgins. Gustave on his other side remained standing, waving to someone up in the stands. When he fell into the seat next to Greg, he grinned hugely.
“This is great,” he said. “Everyone at the club’s going to be so jealous. I’ll have to thank your brother later.”
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Mr. Higgins craned his neck. “He’ll be part of the jury, I presume?” Then he grimaced, and added: “‘Lord Relentless’ would surely have an opinion on this crime?”
Greg shook his head. “David isn’t part of the jury, no. He’s around behind the scenes, though.”
To carry out the verdict as soon as the jury passed it.
He couldn’t say that out loud, though. That this was a trial with a forgone conclusion.
A farce of justice. A show.
Mr. Higgins wouldn’t approve of that.
Greg suspected that Duke Stuard wanted it done mainly so he’d be able to point towards the trial once everything was over. Somebody was bound to ask the difficult questions, like where the Rot-queen came from, once it passed through Deva. And people would likely be a lot less sanguine about “what everyone knew” once two peers had been turned into werewolves and then sacrificed to the Rot.
So this needed to be convincing.
“Really.” Mr. Higgins’s face brightened a little. “I’ll admit, that left a rather sour taste in my mouth—that he would serve as juror while his fiancée serves as prosecutor. Not that I don’t think they’re guilty,” he added quickly, when the lady in the row before them turned to glare at him. “Still, justice should be done properly. We need a new government that will uphold the law.”
“Certainly,” Greg said softly, not looking at his teacher.
Justice. Was it just, to damn the traitors to become Rot? To feeding a Rot-queen? There certainly wasn’t any law in Loegrion that would call for such a punishment. He didn’t think—he hoped Duke George Louis wouldn’t create one.
There was no doubt of the traitors’ guilt. Stuard’s men, under Lane’s orders, had collected boxes full of correspondence, and saved from the flames of the fireplace of Picot’s secretary the order to kill Vavre. Signed by Picot’s own hand. Most damning for Pettau and deVries were the writs to holdings within Valoir, for them to take ownership of once “the rebellion” had been squashed. Complete with the crest of the Roi Solei.
It made Greg feel only a little bit better about the whole thing.
Lord Mire stepped onto the stage, dressed in the black robes of a judge. He would preside over the proceedings, not speak the final verdict. Lane followed him. She would serve as prosecutor—the first woman to ever do so. As if to underscore that fact, she wore a bright yellow dress.
Or perhaps she had chosen the colour of Mithras to remind everyone that she had reached into the flames of judgement and come away unburned.
She didn’t smile, face set and concentrated. Greg was glad it wasn’t him in her position—as far as he knew, she was about as experienced as a prosecutor as he was, and he knew through Gustave that at least one of the defenders was a very experienced lawyer: Doctor Mardis, from Gustave’s own club, was Pettau’s retainer.
Hence Gustave’s excitement to sit in the second row.
Next entered the jury. Lord Mire hit the gavel onto his desk, and the spectators rose with a soft murmur and the rustle of fabric, to watch and pay respect to as the jury walked in. Twelve of Loegrion’s highest nobles—as it befitted the jury for a marquies and a count. That this included Duke Stuard and the Widow Desmarais and nine others who had nearly died or lost a loved one was just bad luck. Or rather, a side effect of the size of the crime.
Mr. Higgins frowned and commented: “There really wasn’t a more impartial jury to be found?”
Greg shrugged. “Not really, no. Not amongst the peers. Maybe the traitors should have thought of that when they helped poison half the nobility. As it is, they can either have an impartial jury or a jury of peers, but not both.”
There would have probably been a less biassed person to preside over the proceedings than Lord Mire. If anyone had cared to try and find one.
“The Countess deLande is hardly what I’d call an experienced prosecutor,” Gustave commented from Greg’s other side, rather smugly. “Maybe it’ll even out.”
Greg hoped Doctor Mardis would go easy on Lane. She hadn’t wanted the job, but Duke Stuard had offered, and several of the ladies of the palace had asked her to do it.
Another hint of change.
The jurors took the high backed chairs all around the stage. Which left only the final group: Pettau and deVries and their lawyers. The accused had been allowed to wash off the grime of the werewolf prison and put on clean clothes as their rank befitted. Not that Greg thought it would help them much in making a good impression. The whole hall hissed and jeered when they were marched onto the stage.
Pettau didn’t let the noise faze him. He walked past the packed rows of spectators as if he couldn’t see or hear them, hands clasped behind his back as if he didn’t notice the chains his guards were holding. DeVries on the other hand looked nervously at the crowd. Perhaps he was searching for a friendly face, perhaps he was delusional enough to think he would find support for what he had done amongst the citizens of Deva.
In that case, he had grossly misjudged. The people of Deva were only hesitatingly accepting of werewolves, but nobody liked a murderer. Even less so a murderer who resorted to poison.
The hissing stopped when the two defendants were locked up inside the box—a wooden compartment that reached up to about their chest height—and Lord Mire hit the gavel onto his desk again. Greg settled down in his seat comfortably, to listen as Lane presented the charges he already knew all about. Mr. Higgins and Gustave on the other hand were both on the edges of their seats. Gustave even had a little notebook out, to write down the charges.
As if it was a horse or dog race and he was planning on betting.
To his own surprise, Greg realised that he didn’t care about the rhetorics, the clever argumentations. When Doctor Mardis took the stage, Greg was glad he hadn’t been listed as a witness, like Bishop Larssen, who in his place told the jury and the crowd about all the meetings between Pettau, deVries and Vavre the mushroom collector. Trying to make the Bishop contradict himself.
As if he really thought he would get deVries out of this.
Greg had to suppress a yawn. He had used to think he wanted to be a lawyer. Defend the innocent and make sure the guilty got a fair trial.
Funny how that changed in the face of just how depraved people could be.
He still thought that every accused deserved a legal defender. He just really, really didn’t want it to be him. Didn’t want to listen to Pettau’s angry ranting at how every honest Mithran had a sacred duty to resist this “rebellion of monsters,” and how he just wished they had found a stronger poison or killed Morgulon first.
Mardis quickly swooped in to point out how his client would never say that.
Doctor Mardis was a good lawyer, no doubt. Greg couldn’t tell if he was doing this for the money, for the principle of the thing, or because he really thought deVries might be innocent, but Mardis certainly tried his best to get deVries off the gallows. The doctor did have some noticeable difficulties adjusting to the fact that he wasn’t arguing with another lawyer, but the woman—and a countess—who had been a hero to many even before this whole mess and had recently become the closest thing to a living saint to all those potential clients in the front rows. He simply couldn’t argue with her the same way as he probably would have with another professional.
And Lane wasn’t above using that to her advantage, from her dress to the way she would clutch her hands in front of her chest. Greg almost laughed out loud when Doctor Mardis thought he had Lane backed in a corner, and she just gave him a perfectly fake, demure smile and gently said: “If you are so certain of your client’s innocence, I will happily take you on in a challenge of faith on the matter.”
Gustave didn’t seem to think that was funny at all.
With half an ear Greg listened to Mr. Higgins and Gustave whispered discussion around him, but he barely joined in. Would he have cared more if there had been a realistic chance of either of the two to get away with what they had done?
The wolf growled in the back of his head when Lane pulled out her best proof—the writ land grant—which resulted in deVries, too, cracking and screaming bloody murder at her.
When the whole ordeal was finally over and the jury retreated to deliberate—another act of the show—Gustave commented, “You seem like you'd rather be somewhere else.”
It sounded like an accusation. Or, more likely, like Gustave was hurt by Greg’s impatience with the trial.
Which was getting harder and harder to hide.
“It’s weird,” he said softly, “when you realise that what you wanted all your life doesn’t even interest you any longer.”
“You aren’t interested in this trial’s outcome?” Mr. Higgins asked, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.
Right. Way to keep the secret.
“I knew about the writs of land,” Greg said. “Do you really think there was any way for them to get out of that?”
“I suppose that knowledge does make the trial less interesting,” Gustave said. “But, uh, not to be rude, but it’s not really an option for you any more, is it? Going to university, reading law?”
Greg glared at him. “So?”
“I just figured, well, that it would be a relief. To know that you don’t want to do that. Since you can’t.”
“Not my fault the law faculty is so stuck up about werewolves,” Greg grumbled. “I’ll probably go into engineering.”
Provided Mr. Smith and Prof. Martens kept their word.
“How would that work?” Mr. Higgins already asked.
“Prof. Martens promised to help me get in,” Greg said. “Soon as Morgulon helps heal him.”
They should probably get on with that. Before the professor died.
Mr. Higgins and Gustave both did a poor job at hiding their surprise.
“Engineering is going to be easier, too,” Greg said, before either of them could voice their doubts or assure him that he would do well. “Do you remember when I first returned,” he added, looking at Mr. Higgins, “and we did the maths lesson in the pavillon right before full moon? And I said that it made the wolf quiet even though it didn't understand a word? This whole arguing is doing the opposite.”
“It's quite confrontative,” Mr. Higgins said slowly. “How did you meet this Prof. Martens? What kind of engineering does he teach?”
“I think I mentioned Mr. Smith before?” Greg said.
He still told them about the engineer he had met on the railway, the man who had gone into the forest to defeat the Rot with nothing but lots of firewood. For no other reason but his love for Loegrion. For a Revolution most people had thought wasn’t possible at the time.
And yet, here they were.
***
The jury didn’t deliberate long. Greg suspected they just had a snack and perhaps a pipe before agreeing that they were, in fact, all in agreement and everyone was called back into the hall to hear the decision.
Guilty as charged, the both of them. To be subjected to the werewolf bite, as Picot had already been. Just as planned.
It was still a relief to hear.
And there was David. When Lord Mire accepted the jury’s decision, he suddenly appeared at Duke Stuard’s side, dressed all in black. Alvin’s shade was just a hint of silver around David’s neck, glistening on the buttons of his doublet. Rust and Ragna were very real standing towards the back of the hall, both in their uniforms. Porter stood between them, and even though he was in his wolf shape, he managed to look less impressive than the two officers.
Or maybe that was just because Greg could feel the power of the elders.
He didn’t hear what David said to George Louis. There was a gasp of shock when David waved Porter forward, when the onlookers realised that it was going to happen right here, right now—that they were going to witness the two lords getting bitten. Pettau and deVries, both so angry, so condescending during the trial, started screaming in terror, begging for their lives.
Not that it helped them.
Greg couldn’t bring himself to look at what happened next. He watched David instead, who watched on without a hint of emotion on his face as Porter bit both traitors.
Lord Relentless.
His brother.
Was he the only one who noticed the way David’s hand had clenched around the pommel of his sword, the rigid posture of his shoulders. Did Lane see it? Duke Stuard?
Greg hoped they saw.
And then it was over. DeVries and Pettau sagged into sorry heaps on the floor, dragged away by guards, their wrists manacled with silver. David offered Lane his arm, and they filed out with the jury and Lord Mire through the back. Leaving behind a shocked crowd of onlookers, clearly divided on what they had just witnessed—some people started clapping, there was whistling, too, and a growing roar as people began to argue.
Greg sighed and forced himself to breathe deeply against the foreign rage rising in his chest.