‘What?’ Korrogly asked.
‘I was going to say I always suspected that there was a secret history between them, and that was another reason for Mardo’s trust. It was something I felt was true . . . but it was only a feeling. Nothing admissible, nothing you could use. Anyway, I suppose he drew up documents that would grant her some kind of legal succession. He was a stickler for that sort of detail.’ She tilted her head to the side as if trying to make out some indefinite quality in his face. ‘You look surprised. I’ve never known a lawyer whose expressions were so readable.’
Failure, he thought, even my face is failing me now.
‘I had no idea the bond between them had been ratified in any way,’ he said.
‘Perhaps it hasn’t. I can’t be sure. But if I’m correct and it has, you’ll have no end of trouble unearthing the documents. Mardo would have never gone to a lawyer. If they exist they’re probably hidden in the temple somewhere.’
‘I see.’
‘What are you thinking?’
He made a noise of baffled amusement. ‘I thought this would be such a simple case, but everywhere I turn I come upon some new complexity.’
‘It is a simple case,’ she said, her wrinkled face tightening with a grim expression. ‘Take my word, no matter how villainous a creature you believe William Lemos to be, his act has made him an innocent.’
One night shortly before the opening of the trial, Korrogly visited the constabulary headquarters to have another look at the murder weapon – The Father of Stones, as Lemos had named it. Standing alone by a table in the evidence room, looking down at the stone, which rested at the center of a nest of tissue paper within a tin box, he was as confounded by it as he had been by every other element of the case. At one moment it seemed to enclose profane fractions of encysted light, its surface clouded and occult, a milky bulge with the reek of a thousand-year-old egg trapped inside; the next, it would appear lovely, subtle, embodying the delicate essence of some numinous philosophy. And at its heart was a dark flaw that resembled a man with upflung arms. Like Griaule himself, it was a thing of infinite shadings, of a thousand possible interpretations, and Korrogly could easily believe that its point of origin was a cavity in the dragon’s body. He was, however, still unable to believe Lemos’ story; it, too, was flawed, and this flaw would be enough to lead the gemcutter to the gallows. There was just no good reason, at least none he, Korrogly, could discern, why Griaule would have wanted Lemos to kill Zemaille. Not even Lemos could come up with a good reason; he simply continued to insist that it was so, and mere insistence would not save him. Yet it was that same flaw, the lack of patness to the story, that kept forcing Korrogly to relent in his judgment, to be tempted to belief. What a case, he thought; when he was back in law school he’d dreamt of having a case like this, and now he had it, and all it was doing was making him weary, making him wonder if he had wasted his life, if every question, even the most fundamental, was as elusive as this one, and he just hadn’t noticed before.
He picked up The Father of Stones and juggled it; it was unusually heavy. Like dragon scale, like ancient thought.
Damn, he thought, damn this whole business, I should give it up and start a religion, there must be sufficient fools out there for some of them to consider me wise and wonderful.
‘Thinking about murdering someone?’ said a dry voice behind him. ‘Your client, perhaps?’
It was the prosecutor, Ian Mervale, a reedy, aristocratic-looking man in a stylishly cut black suit; his dark hair, combed back from a noble forehead, was salted with gray, and the vagueness of his eyes, which were watery blue, set in sleepy folds, belied a quick and aggressive mentality.
‘I’m more likely to go after you,’ said Korrogly wryly.
‘Me?’ Mervale affected shocked dismay. ‘I’m by far the least of your worries. If not your client, I’d consider an attack upon our venerable Judge Wymer. It appears he’s not at all sympathetic to your defense tactics.’
‘I can’t blame him for that,’ Korrogly muttered.
Mervale studied him a moment, then shook his head and chuckled. ‘It’s always the same every time I run up against you. I know you’re being honest, you’re not trying to underplay your hand; but even though I know it, as soon as the trial begins I become positively convinced that you’re being duplicitous, that you’ve got some devastating trick up your sleeve.’
‘You don’t trust yourself,’ Korrogly said. ‘How can you trust anyone else?’
‘I suppose you’re right. My greatest strength is my greatest weakness.’ He started to turn toward the door, hesitated and then said, ‘Care for a drink?’ Korrogly juggled The Father of Stones one last time; it seemed to have grown heavier yet. ‘I suppose a drink might help,’ he said.
The Blind Lady, a pub in Chancrey’s Lane, was as usual crowded with law clerks and young solicitors, whose body heat fogged the mirrors on the walls, whose errant darts lodged in white plaster or blackened beam, and whose uproarious babble made quiet conversation impossible. Korrogly and Mervale worked their way through the press, holding their glasses high to avoid spillage, and at last found an unoccupied table at the rear of the pub. As they seated themselves, a group of clerks standing nearby began to sing a bawdy song. Mervale winced, then lifted his glass in a toast to Korrogly.
The singers moved off toward the front of the pub; Mervale leaned back, regarding Korrogly with fond condescension, an attitude more of social habit than one relating to their adversary positions. Mervale was the son of a moneyed shipbuilder, and there was always an edge of class struggle to their conversations, an edge they blunted by pretending to have a fund of mutual respect.
‘So what do you think?’ Mervale asked. ‘Is Lemos lying . . . demented? What?’
‘Demented, no. Lying . . .’ Korrogly sipped his rum. ‘Every time I think I have the answer to that, I see another side to things. I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess at this stage. What do you think?’
‘Of course he’s lying! The man had every motive in the world to kill Zemaille. His daughter, his business. My God! He could have done nothing else but kill him. But I have to admit his story’s ingenious. Brilliant.’
‘Is it? I might have gotten him off with a couple of years if he’d pled some version of diminished capacity.’
‘Yes, but that’s what makes it so brilliant, the fact that everyone knows that’s so. They’ll say to themselves, God, the man must be innocent or else he wouldn’t stick to such a far-fetched tale.’
‘I’d hardly call it far-fetched.’
‘Oh, very well! Let’s call it inspired then, shall we?’
Growing annoyed, Korrogly thought, you pompous piece of shit, I’m going to beat you this time.
He smiled. ‘As you wish.’
‘Ah,’ said Mervale, ‘I sense that a trial lawyer has suddenly taken possession of your body.’
Korrogly drank. ‘I’m not in the mood tonight, Mervale. What are you after that you think I’m willing to give away?’
Displeasure registered on Mervale’s face.
‘What’s wrong?’ Korrogly asked. ‘Am I spoiling your fun?’
‘I don’t know what’s got into you,’ said Mervale. ‘Maybe you’ve been working too hard.’
‘These little ritual fishing expeditions are beginning to bore me, that’s all. They always come to the same thing. Nothing. They’re just your way of reminding me of my station. You drag me in here and butter me up with the old school smile and talk about parties to which I haven’t been invited. I expect you believe this gives you a psychological advantage, but I think the false sense of superiority it lends you actually weakens your delivery. And you need all the strength you can muster. You’re simply not that proficient a prosecutor.’