Feneresh’s brows shot up as he scanned the judges and the gallery. Tayschrenn jerked forward. He wanted to rush to her, to hold her, to apologize, to let her know he understood, then froze as a blade pressed his side.
‘Move again and die,’ the Fang next to him breathed.
‘He told you?’ Feneresh echoed with an exaggerated incredulity. ‘How could this be so? Why did you not immediately inform the cult disciplinary body?’
Silla nodded at this and Tayschrenn screamed inwardly – Rote! Couldn’t everyone see that it was all rehearsed? Then his shoulders slumped as he understood that of course it all was, and the magistrates knew it. They would not have dragged him out until everything had been prepared.
All carefully arranged beforehand. Theatre. Just theatre. Arranged for the express purpose of discrediting him.
He pulled his gaze from Silla in order to look at his true accuser here, and found him sitting with eyes still downcast, mouth pursed, fingers tapping; the very picture of the saddened and disappointed patriarch. How he burned to smash the man with all his force! Yet the blade still pushed against his robes – the slightest cut and he would be dead.
He forced himself to relax – and then he almost laughed aloud. Some strange, fey mood took him. What foolishness! All to dispose of a political rival within the ranks of the priesthood!
Indeed, he had to stop himself from actually saluting his enemy right then and there.
Silla answered, flatly, ‘Because he threatened to kill me if I spoke one word of this.’
And Feneresh was nodding to the court in his exaggerated and outraged way. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Well, your ordeal is at an end, child. You no longer need fear this monster among us.’ He waved to the Fang and Silla was escorted from the court.
Tayschrenn wanted to call out as she went, but suppressed the urge, not wanting to risk possibly making things even worse for her. What he felt now was shame; shame that he hadn’t given enough thought in the past to what was to come.
And to think he’d thought himself smart. A smart fellow. He raised his eyes to the ornate carved ceiling above and almost laughed again.
Really, he should be grateful. Tallow and the priesthood had taught him a great deal just now: in particular his complete blindness to the depth of human self-interest and duplicity. It was limitless, and never again would he assume otherwise.
A rather meaningless resolution, given the short time left to him.
Feneresh faced the judges and bowed. He announced, ‘The prosecution rests, revered ones.’
Salleen nodded, then eyed Tayschrenn the way a crow might examine an extremely old and unpromising carcass. ‘Accused,’ she called, ‘have you anything to say in your defence?’
He stared, almost bemused, considering it. Could he possibly have anything to say to this court? This ridiculous farce? Why say anything? There was frankly nothing that would sway any one of these men and women. So why bother? Why play through this pathetic pantomime that was human interaction?
He crossed his arms and shook his head, making an open show of his contempt. ‘No. Nothing.’
Salleen nodded as if expecting such. ‘Very well. The court will confer.’
The judges leaned to one another, whispering a few words. Tallow, Tayshcrenn noted, remained silent for the moment. Salleen took in the opinions of the others then leaned to the Invigilator. They whispered briefly and Salleen nodded her wrinkled shaven head. She returned her attention to the chamber and tapped a knuckle for silence against the basalt slab of the table before her.
Tayschrenn kept his arms crossed. Death was, after all, death. There was really nothing he could do at this point.
‘Accused,’ Salleen began, and Tayschrenn realized that even his name was in the process of being systematically erased, ‘we have heard much testimony regarding your character and opinions, and we are agreed that its conclusions are disturbing. However,’ and she cleared her throat into a fist, ‘no direct evidence of wrongdoing or culpability has been presented, and so in the estimation of this court your guilt remains unresolved.’ She regarded him critically, and idly tapped her crooked fingers on the polished stone surface before her. ‘The burden of determining your sentence, then, falls to me, and the lack of conclusive proof drives me to offer the final decision to Holy D’rek. Therefore, it is my decision that you be presented to the Great One’s judgement at the Civic Pit on the Feast of the Sun’s Turn, in…’ she bent her head to confer with another judge, ‘in half a moon’s time.’ She rapped a knuckle to the stone slab in final punctuation, and added, ‘May D’rek have mercy upon your soul.’
The judges pushed back their chairs; the gallery of witnesses started up a loud murmuring and whispering. Meanwhile, Tayschrenn watched Tallow, and was rewarded by the faintest crooking of his lips as he rose; this couldn’t have gone any better for the new Demidrek, he realized. A rival eliminated and his hands completely clean of any perceived conniving or manoeuvring.
Likewise priestess Salleen: a death sentence levelled and all responsibility for said death sidestepped. An admirably bureaucratic solution to a thorny problem. He almost tipped his head to her in acknowledgement of the deft handling of such an unwanted and potentially damaging duty.
Two of the Fangs of D’rek now flanked him; the female gestured, beckoning him back to the small side door by which he’d entered. He nodded to indicate his cooperation yet hesitated, casting one last glance around for Silla – was she still present? Perhaps not, as he saw no sign of her amid the rising gallery of witnesses.
The guard urged him on with a hand at the small of his back. ‘Don’t make me use the blade,’ she whispered.
Coming to himself, he blinked, nodding again. Feeling utterly numb, strangely disassociated from himself and the chambers, he allowed the two custodians to usher him from the court.
Chapter 11
A ghostly predawn light revealed the waters south of Cawn empty of any approaching vessels and Tattersail found herself cursing the Napans for their tardiness, just as she’d fumed at Mock for his belated arrival yesterday.
Where were the blue-skinned bastards? Why weren’t they here? Now she wondered whether she’d properly understood the arrangements. Perhaps they, or Tarel, had got the wrong night. But the equinox – who could misunderstand that? She went to find Mock.
Since they’d been anchored for a few hours close to shore in a sheltered cove just outside the Bight of Cawn, the admiral had regained his sea-legs. She found him walking the Insufferable’s deck, trading stories and greetings among the crew, reminiscing about one of the last engagements he’d participated in. It might have just been her mood, but it seemed to her that the freebooters were only half paying attention – the way one might endure a grandparent’s favourite story or lecture.
When she motioned for his attention the men and women quickly melted away. The admiral stroked his long moustache, eyeing her, looking pleased with himself.
‘Where are they?’ she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. ‘We can’t delay much longer if we wish to arrive with the dawn.’
Mock shrugged expansively, quite unconcerned. He raised his voice, speaking to all within earshot. ‘If the Napans renege because they have no stomach for a fight then that’s all the better, hey boys? More loot for us!’
Cheers answered this, but to Tattersail they did not sound as enthusiastic as they might have. Keeping her voice low, she answered, ‘I don’t like it. We should withdraw.’
Mock almost laughed. ‘Withdraw? We’re in position. Cawn is ours!’
She refused to give up her misgivings. ‘But why—’
He came close, and in the way that so infuriated her motioned for her silence by pressing a finger to her lips. When he invited her to accompany him to their cabin, she bit down on her outrage and followed, fuming silently.