His mouth opened, and a kind of animal grunting came out, impassioned, forceful, but sounding more like a pig than a man. Sharryn looked at Nestor.
“A demon has him by the tongue,” he said. There was a murmured chorus of agreement.
“Elias is possessed of no demon!” Zeno said hotly, forcing his way forward. “He is my friend, and a good man! He loved Nella! He would never have hurt her!” He looked around and found Crowfoot. “In the name of the Charter that binds the Nine Provinces, I call for justice! I call for the justice of the Seer and the Sword!” He ran to Crow’s side. “You have to,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Crowfoot, you must help him, he can’t speak for himself!”
“Shut up, you little brat,” someone growled, to a chorus of muttered approval.
“Hang him, then!” someone shouted, and others took up the cry. “Hang him!” “Hang the murdering bastard!”
“No!” Zeno cried.
Someone cuffed the boy across the face, and he flew backward into the crowd. Zeno was lost in a trample of feet.
Crow drew the Sword. She held it point up, hilt before her face, and cried, “Let the Sword sing!”
The moon, a new crescent, was well up in the sky, and its light danced along the blade. A single severe, sustained note sliced through the uproar like a sharp edge through flesh. The crowd melted back at Crow’s approach, revealing Zeno prone on the ground. His mouth was bleeding, his cheek was bruised, and he winced and clasped his side when she nudged him to his feet, but he was ambulatory, and he followed her back to Sharryn. The Sword remained unsheathed, and Crow felt the link kick in solidly, with all the weight of Sharryn’s considerable exasperation behind it.
Did you have to do that?
What did you expect, that I would let the child be trampled? Crowfoot kept her face impassive, but in truth she was as annoyed as the Seer was. Now the Sword could not be sheathed again until a verdict had been reached and a judgment rendered. She let the flat of the blade rest lightly against her left shoulder, both hands clasped on the hilt.
“We need no diviners here,” Nestor said. “We can hang a murderer without your help. Yes, and bury our dead, too.”
His wife sobbed out loud, but there was a growl of agreement from the crowd. They had been cowed by the Sword’s song, but there would have to be some resolution of the murder or, Crow had no doubt, there would be more murder done.
Sharryn kept her tone mild. “You live under the protection of the king, goodman. You are, as are we all, subject to the Treaty of the Nine and the Great Charter.” She added distinctly, her eyes hard, “And you will address me as Seer.”
He stared at her, his expression unpleasant. What he might have said next was drowned out by the crowd.
“To hell with this talk! Killer! Murderer! Hang him!” someone yelled, and there was another movement to press forward. Crowfoot stepped in front of Sharryn and raised the Sword. It sang again, the pure note descending into a clear baritone, a long, low pitch of warning that reverberated in the back teeth of everyone in the square. Many clapped their hands to their ears, a few were brought to their knees. A girl screamed, and babies wept.
It was a warning, as sharp as the edge of the Sword itself. It was the first time the Sword had been heard in Daean, but none who heard it could fail to understand it. The crowd fell back as one. The mob lust for blood had been broken with a single note.
“Sorcery,” Nestor said, though he was as pale and shaken as the rest.
“Yes,” said Sharryn. “Of the very strongest. Remember that, goodman.” She turned to the dais. “Bring him down.”
They brought Elias down forthwith and no arguing. Sharryn regarded the man who stood before her. He was looking at the canvas-covered body with tears tracing down his cheeks. She pulled the noose from his neck. There was another angry rumble from the crowd.
Crowfoot stepped forward. “Good people,” she said. “You stand in the presence of the Seer of Truth and the Sword of Justice. By the pledge of the King, there will be order.”
A translucent aura enveloped both women in a haze of light, casting their features in bold relief. Staff and Sword gleamed as if dipped in quicksilver. The illusion was gone in an instant, leaving only a tenuous memory of itself behind. Later, some would dismiss it as simple magic, a glamour conjured up to intimidate the ignorant and the foolish, yet another example of the wizarding sleight of hand that, out of control, had led to the last series of wars that had brought Mnemosynea to its knees. Others wouldn’t be so sure. “I had my doubts about the Charter,” old Pavlos said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after downing a tankard of Makarios’s best. “But after watching those two witches at work the other night I’m thinking we’ve got a king we should keep.”
“Bring a chair for the Seer,” Crow said to Cornelius in a quiet voice. “Set it up on the dais. And cause torches to be lit, as many as may be found, and set them about the square.”
It was done. Sharryn took the seat, staff in hand. Crowfoot stood a little behind her on her right, Sword held in front of her. “I will hear witnesses in this matter,” Sharryn said. It was all very irregular, lacking in the formality the king wanted to mark the dignity of the judicial process, and it was also night, a thing the Council would have abhorred. King and Council both wanted the Seer and the Sword to hold court in the full light of day, beneath the clear gaze of the full populace. But the Sword was out, and its appetite for justice, laid on by powerful geas, must be satisfied.
Cornelius’s voice rang out. “All witnesses having knowledge in the matter of the foul murder of Nella, daughter of Agathi, stepdaughter of Nestor, come forward to be heard.”
“When and where was the girl’s body found, and who found it?” Sharryn said.
Nestor stepped forward. “I found it.”
“Lay your hand upon my staff,” Sharryn said.
He hesitated, and did as he was told. “State your name.”
“I am Nestor, of the town of Daean, of the province of Kleonea.” He looked at the staff as if afraid it might refute his words. It remained inert, a length of polished, knotted pine, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. He gained courage. “I own a bakery. Agathi is my wife. Nella was her daughter.” Agathi sobbed into the shoulder of another woman, who patted her back.
“Tell us where and when you found Nella’s body.”
He looked at the staff, at his hand resting gingerly upon it, and swallowed. “Seer, she was in the bakery when I went to close the shop. She was supposed to do it, but she was ever a flighty piece, more interested in flirting than she was in selling bread.” He pulled his hand free and pointed at Elias. “And I found him with her, crouched over her, interfering with her!”
The crowd erupted. “Pervert!” “Hang him!” “Filthy murderer!” “Killer!” “Hang him now!”
Sharryn waited with flinty composure until the cries died down. “Replace your hand upon the staff. Did you see him kill her, goodman?”
He hesitated, looked at Elias, back at the staff. “Seer. No. I did not see him kill her.”
“You said the girl liked to flirt. Was this man one of the men with whom she flirted?”
The baker scowled. “Seer, she flirted with them all. If she did not do more.”
“I see. Thank you, goodman. You may step back.”
The crowd shifted and stretched to see better. No one was yawning despite the late hour.
“I will speak to the accused next,” Sharryn said.
“Seer, he has not the ability to speak,” Cornelius said in a low voice.
“I understand that,” Sharryn said, and looked around for Zeno. He stepped forward, a little stiffly as the injuries inflicted by the crowd began to tell. “Can you understand him, Zeno?”
“Seer, I can!”
She beckoned to the accused. “Are you willing to have Zeno speak for you?”