All That Glitters (20 page)

Xahlven looked down at his brother, his hero's face fixed in a half frown. “Very well, have it your way. Good luck today, Tyvian. I mean that.”

Xahlven called for the guard. In the second before the door opened, Tyvian yelled at his back, “Don't count me out yet, big brother. I'm smarter than you realize.”

Xahlven left. He did not look back.

 

T
he courtroom had five sides, which, to Artus's eyes, made it one of the stranger rooms he had ever been in. Well, maybe not stranger than that temple where he had almost been eaten by rotting vegetables, but still pretty weird.

Artus was seated between DiVarro on his right and Brana on his left. They were squeezed tight, too, since the benches that made up the gallery were packed to the walls. Word of Tyvian's arrest had spread like a pox and the trial had rapidly become the social event of the season. Artus could scarcely see the floor of the court thanks to all the giant, feathery hats; the air had been rendered an olfactory battlefield as scores of complex and expensive perfumes—­many of them sorcerous—­warred for the attention of Artus's nostrils.

Until this moment, Artus and Brana's new duties in their “job” had involved sitting around the
Argent Wind
and indulging themselves. They hadn't seen much of Andolon—­after Tyvian left, he got some kind of news that had him frantic and he was off to shore like a shot, DiVarro in tow. While he was gone, Artus and Brana had the run of the ship and exploited it, exploring every bolt-­hole and crevice until Brana's insatiable boat-­related curiosity had been sated. Then the word of the arrest came and with it a noticeably happier Andolon. They had come to Keeper's Court straight away.

Andolon was sitting behind Artus, grinning and occasionally rubbing Artus's shoulders. He smelled like wine and lavender and his hands were weirdly soft against Artus's hard muscles. “DiVarro,” he whispered, “the numbers.”

The sour-­faced Verisi rattled off a series of figures. “It could be worse. Fear and Hope are only down by ten percent at the moment, but there should be a rally after the trial. With Reldamar safely out of the way, there is no reason to expect much more volatility before the pear shipment comes in.”

Artus took a deep breath. “Doesn't doing this bother you at all? Tyvian is your friend.”

Andolon rolled his eyes. “Tyvian
was
my friend—­he was my friend fifteen years ago. Circumstances change, my dear. If it makes you feel any better, I'm not especially enjoying this. Then again, it isn't like I forced Tyvian to run off and become an international criminal mastermind.”

Artus snorted—­he couldn't help himself. “No, you just became a local one.”

Andolon gently tugged on one of Artus's earlobes, which made Artus flinch. “Now now, Artus—­no second thoughts, understand? I'm relying on you. We are
all
relying on you.”

Artus shrugged him off. Andolon's soft, perfumed hands made his skin crawl. “I won't lie for you.”

Andolon mimicked a laugh. “That's the beauty of it, Artus, my sweet—­your sworn testimony will be nothing but the unadulterated truth. When they call your name, just tell the truth, and let justice take its course.”

Artus's stomach rumbled at that—­indigestion. He reached into his pockets—­maybe he had stashed a roll somewhere. Instead, his fingers brushed against an envelope. He knew exactly who had put it there, too. He froze.

“Something wrong?” Andolon whispered. “Come, come—­this is the only way, Artus. You wanted to be free, and I'm giving you the chance, right? You testify against our old friend, and I make you and your brother filthy rich. A fair deal, isn't it?”

Artus shrugged. “I guess.”

DiVarro raised a single finger, cocking his head to one side. “Sir, a word if I may. Movement on the exchange . . .”

Andolon took his attention from Artus and dove into a secret conference with DiVarro, their whispers masked both by the ambient roar of the assembly and some kind of little abjuration the augur threw up to foil eavesdropping even from Artus's distance. Artus took the opportunity to look over at Brana.

The gnoll was wearing his shroud, but any physical indication of his humanity was counteracted by the way he was cocking his head and darting his eyes back and forth across the assembly. He looked nervous—­the gnoll still didn't do well in crowds. “You okay?” Artus whispered.

“Tyvian here?” he asked.

Artus nodded. “Yeah. Yeah he's here.”

Brana wiggled his backside in his seat. “We save him?”

Artus felt his stomach clench—­was this how Tyvian felt every time the ring gave him a jolt? He tried to think of something to say to Brana, but no words came. How could he explain to the gnoll pup that he was being asked to testify against Tyvian? Even assuming he could get him to understand the concept, Brana would never understand why.

Still, Artus meant to do it. Tyvian had hung him out to dry plenty of times—­
plenty
of times. He was only returning the favor. Even
Tyvian
would understand that.

Reaching into his pocket again, he brought out the envelope. Holding it in his lap, he opened it and hoped Andolon and DiVarro were too distracted to notice. Inside were two items: a sparkstone—­the little kind you used to light pipes and cigars and such—­and a small notecard. The note was written in the flowing, immaculate handwriting of Tyvian himself. It read:
You'll know when.

Artus scowled. The jerk was in irons and he was
still
ordering him around like he was some kind of trained animal. He grunted and stuffed the note and the sparkstone back in his pocket.

A bell sounded, and the heavy doors at the front of the courtroom opened. Five Defenders, firepikes at their shoulders, took positions around the fat black stone everybody was calling “the Block.” Two more then entered, leading Tyvian Reldamar himself, still dressed all in black, his hands and ankles shackled together. Even thus confined, he struck an impressive figure—­his dark clothes and fiery hair made him look every inch the brilliant villain he was reported to be, especially when surrounded by the white and mirrored silver of his captors. Artus had no doubt that the visual effect was entirely intentional.

Tyvian looked up at the gallery and winked. The crowd went wild. There were jeers, but there were also just as many shouts of encouragement and cheers of solidarity. Artus overheard a young woman giggling to her friend: “I think he winked at
me
!”

Tyvian grinned at the attention, nodding politely to the Defenders as they removed his shackles and cuffed him by the wrist via a mageglass chain bolted to the center of the Block. He blew a kiss to the gallery with his free hand. The young woman near Artus swooned and had to be carried out.

Brana stiffened when he saw Tyvian chained up. He looked over at Artus and nudged him with his shoulder.
“Rescue?”
he whimpered in gnoll-­speak.

Artus gave Brana a tight smile. His stomach, though, started doing flips.

“Courage, my friend,” Andolon whispered, giving him another limp shoulder rub. “Courage.”

“Don't worry about me,” Artus snarled, shaking him off again. Was he really going to go through with this? He found himself hoping against hope that Tyvian would escape before he had to testify.

The judges arrived, stepping in from a door behind their pulpits, each clad in a white wig and a robe colored for the energy they studied. The lead judge represented the Dweomer—­she wore deep blue and held an orb of swirling azure. She held it aloft and it flashed with blinding sapphire light.
“Order in the court.”
Her voice was amplified so that it echoed off all five walls, drowning out the commotion in the gallery with ease.

Everybody settled down.

The judge laid some kind of ledger on the podium before her.
“I, Kendra Forsayth, Master of the Dweomer, do now undertake the solemn responsibility of standing in judgment of this case, the eighty-­second of this season: Tyvian Reldamar!”

“Yes, your honor?” Tyvian's voice was clear, but small and distant. Artus craned his neck to get a better look at him.

“You stand accused of thirty counts of trafficking in stolen magecraft, twenty-­eight counts of possession of proscribed magecraft, eighteen counts of grand theft, twelve counts of conspiracy, ten counts of criminal mischief, and seven counts of murder. Are you aware of the charges and have they been made clear to you?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“How do you plead to each charge?
”

“Not guil . . . ah . . .” Tyvian's voice skipped and his body tensed. “Not . . . guilty!”

The ring, Artus thought. That was it—­maybe Tyvian could use the ring to give him the strength to break the mageglass . . . No. That couldn't work—­mageglass was unbreakable. Artus didn't know much about magecraft, but he knew that much. Even if it weren't, how would Tyvian escape the courtroom? He was surrounded on five sides by armed men, the only door to escape through was barred closed, and the only other way out would require him to scale a twelve foot wall all while avoiding being skewered or blasted by firepikes. No, there was no possible way to escape. Strangely, this made Artus feel a little better. He couldn't help Tyvian even if he wanted to.

Judge Forsayth looked at the gallery.
“Will the representative of the prosecuting authority step forward to make his or her case against the accused?”

“I will, your honor!” A loud voice from the back of the gallery. Artus, along with everybody else, twisted on their benches to get a view of the newcomer. It was a Mage Defender clad in gray robes—­striking black mane of hair, clipped goatee, the shoulders of a smith, and a smug smile on his face. Artus found himself hating him immediately.

The judge of the Lumen nodded in the young mage's direction.
“The court recognizes Mage Defender Argus Androlli, representative of the Defenders of the Balance and the Gray Tower.”

Androlli strolled up to the witness's pulpit. He pulled a folio out of his robes and laid it on the podium. “I'm prepared to stand as witness against Tyvian Reldamar.” He smiled up at the judges.

Tyvian folded his arms. “Who the hell are you?”

Androlli looked down at Tyvian. “I'm here to offer evidence of your wrongdoings in Akral, Ihyn, Tasis, and Galaspin.”

Tyvian shook his head. “But you weren't
in
Akral, Ihyn, Tasis, or Galaspin. None of your order's unjust and baseless actions against my legitimate businesses in those locales involved you—­I would have remembered you.”

Androlli smiled tightly. “Are you so certain?”

Tyvian nodded. “I never forget an arse.”

The crowd erupted in laughter. Judge Forsayth raised her orb for order.
“Magus Androlli, were you the individual to secure the evidence you are hereby asked to present?”

Androlli looked appropriately contrite. “No, your honor. The evidence was collected by Mage Defender Gavin Holt . . .”

“Dead,” Tyvian announced with a visible wince. “Mugged, I believe. In his . . . bed.”

Androlli scowled. “By Master Defender Tarlyth . . .”

Tyvian ticked off another finger. “Dead. Fell off a mountain. Hiking—­
ow!
—­accident. He was also a traitor.”

Androlli's voice intensified in volume. “And Mage Defender Myreon Alafarr.”

Tyvian sighed, wringing his hand. “And, forgive me if I'm wrong, but she's a convicted criminal—­for smuggling, no less.”

There was a smattering of applause. Somebody threw an apple core at Tyvian, but they missed by a mile and hit a Defender in the shoulder instead. Judge Forsayth frowned at Androlli.
“Is what the accused says true?
”

Androlli heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, your honor. We have, however, scrying and auguries that verify the facts.”

“Auguries and scrying can be altered, your honor, especially by unscrupulous persons like Alafarr and Tarlyth.” Tyvian shook his head, chuckling. “This evidence is suspect, at best.”

The judge of the Ether—­a rail-­thin man in overlarge midnight robes—­stood.
“In light of this, I'm inclined to dismiss any evidence that does not have a living corroborating witness. Agreed?”

The judges nodded to one another for a few moments, muttering under their breath in what Artus assumed was some kind of sorcerous private conference. He wished he could read lips better, but he'd never acquired the knack no matter how many times Tyvian had shown him.

Brana whispered in his ear. “Somebody wrestle Tyvian?”

Artus blinked at him. “What? Oh! No, Brana—­this isn't a trial by combat. They're gonna argue about facts and stuff. It's how they do it here.”

Brana considered this. “But . . . liars?”

Artus frowned—­this hadn't occurred to him. “I dunno what happens if somebody lies. I guess maybe
then
they wrestle?”

Androlli was speaking. “The accusers call Artus of Jondas Crossing to testify as witness to the accused's crimes.”

Then, just like that, everybody was looking at Artus. Andolon gave the back of his neck one last rub. “Remember, son—­be your own man!”

The crowd shuffled to let Artus by. Everybody was whispering to everybody else—­much of it was about how his vest didn't fit well and that he was wearing breeches two seasons out of fashion. He subconsciously adjusted his collar as he passed. He'd never felt so much pressure in all his life—­it felt like the eyes of the entire world were burning fiery holes in his back.

Then he was there, at the fifth pulpit, looking down on a chained Tyvian. From this height he looked smaller than Artus always thought he was. He knew he'd grown a lot the past year, but Tyvian always seemed larger than life. It occurred to Artus that he had never had so much power over the smuggler before, not even in Freegate. One word from him, and Tyvian would be a statue in a garden for a long, long time.