Two days after arriving in Palassiren, he faced trial for the assault on Duke Jaryn.
With wrists and ankles shackled, Chism stood in front of the three thrones of the King’s Council. Any of the owners of the chairs could pronounce judgment on any particular day, but today all three chairs were occupied, reflecting the seriousness of the charges. Four small, clean squares on the floor to the right of the other thrones marked where Lady Palida’s throne sat until she fled the city with her people on the day Chism arrived in Palassiren. One small indication of the upheaval which now faced the kingdom of Maravilla.
With one chair missing, the room was off-balance. Asymmetrical. They hadn’t taken time to center the three remaining chairs. That set Chism on edge as much as the impending trial.
Three people sat to judge him, but the verdict likely belonged to Lady Cuora. Chism had never known Captain Markin to defy her. If he ever did, today just might be the day since he was the captain of the Elites, and Chism’s crime against Duke Jaryn was committed when he was an Elite. The boy king, Antion, stood even in rank with Captain Markin and Lady Cuora. However, if those two sided together, Antion’s decision would mean nothing. If he even supported Chism. But the chance any noble would condone or forgive an assault on a duke was as likely as a chicken befriending a fox.
He did have two supporters in the throne room—Lieutenant Fahrr and Ander. After separating from Chism it was only a matter of ten days journey for Quicksilver Squadron to reach Palassiren. Both men had visited him in prison, but neither thought there was any hope of an acquittal. They stood behind Chism and to his right, forced by the guards to stand apart from the prisoner as if they would attempt an escape after insisting he return to Palassiren for trial.
While Lieutenant Fahrr maintained a stolid reserve, Ander nodded supportively when Chism glanced at him. His fatherly Fellow’s gray hair was longer and more unkempt than Chism remembered, as if tousled by hurricane winds on the way to the trial. It looked as if it had lightened in the short weeks since they’d seen each other.
Since entering the throne room and taking her seat, Lady Cuora hadn’t spoken. She simply stared at Chism, dark hair disheveled as normal. At thirty, she was young for her position, but still almost twice Chism’s age. She had a solid build, with an unattractive face. A fiery personality shone in her eyes. No one would ever describe her as beautiful. In fact, homely was more accurate but Chism thought volatile fit much better.
Behind Lady Cuora loomed an unfamiliar soldier in red. His prominent underbite gave him the look of a bulldog with a sharp edge of cruelty. He obviously held a position of power, but must have ascended in the few months Chism was away.
Lady Cuora motioned and a page recited the charges. “Chism, an Elite, stands accused of assault on the body of Duke Jaryn of Far West Province. After disabling the guards, he placed his sword to the Duke’s throat and threatened his life in order to plead the case of a commoner, who he claims was mistreated by the Duke. By his own testimony and the witness of his lieutenant, the incident occurred thus. The matter now rests in the Council’s hands.”
Captain Markin fidgeted in his chair, Lady Cuora continued studying Chism, and King Antion was the first to speak. “Do you admit to bodily assault on Duke Jaryn?” He was remarkably composed for a nine year old.
“Yes,” answered Chism. “But not without cause.”
“In defense of a commoner? A pig farmer if we were informed correctly.”
Chism nodded and King Antion considered.
Lady Cuora spoke, causing nearly everyone in the room to flinch.
“And you’ve succeeded in splitting the kingdom. Are you happy with the results of your actions?”
“No,” said Chism.
“Don’t answer unless I tell you to. We find you guilty.”
“Verdict before trial?” objected Chism. Lady Cuora’s impulsiveness did not surprise him. He’d seen and heard enough of her rash judgments during his time in Elite training to know what to expect.
“In the court of royal opinion, trials are of little import,” she answered.
King Antion spoke up, “We have not ruled yet, Lady Cuora. I would like to hear the case before we decide.” Chism admired the little man. Very few people had the nerve to stand up to her.
Rolling her eyes, she asked, “Who assaulted the duke?”
Following her previous orders, Chism didn’t reply.
“You may answer the question,” said Lady Cuora with a contented look.
“I assaulted Duke Jaryn.”
“And the long-term results?” She gave a small nod to prompt an answer.
“Revolt, my Lady.”
“So, you took actions which resulted in the division of my kingdom. Have I convinced you of your guilt, Elite?”
She appeared to be waiting for an answer, so Chism said, “If you insist on placing blame, look no farther than the Circle and the Sword.” The mention of his former emblem pained him.
Both he and Lady Cuora turned to look at the symbol on Captain Markin’s uniform, causing him to squirm on his throne. “He says it’s the Circle and Sword’s fault, Marky,” said Lady Cuora. “Perhaps they should be on trial.”
Captain Markin stilled himself, but didn’t answer. In command of a battlefield there weren’t many men better than Captain Markin, but in the political arena he was far outmatched.
Addressing Chism, she continued. “The Circle and Sword have held this kingdom together since before your first breath. So which one has broken custom and caused our current predicament? Will it be the Circle or the Sword that I send to the headsman?”
Tapping her fingers on the curved wood of her dark throne, Lady Cuora considered her own question. After a few moments, she gave up and motioned for Chism to answer. “My actions against Duke Jaryn were in defense of the Circle, my Lady. He had a duty to defend one of his citizens against the corrupt rule of an earl, but he turned his back as if she were a piece of dirt with no more connection to him than a raven has to a writing desk.”
Lady Cuora interrupted, “You care more for one filthy woman in the street than for the integrity of the kingdom?”
Chism’s hands gripped the chains of his shackles and his shoulder burned. Not waiting for permission to answer, Chism spoke. “
Jaryn
violated the Circle. As an Elite it was my sworn duty to remind him of it using the Sword. I care no more for the woman than I do for Duke Jaryn. What I care for is the Circle and the Sword that I took an oath to defend.” He knew his voice was rising, but he didn’t care. “I’ll kill any bloated, self-important noble that—”
“Chism!” Ander stepped forward. “Toes and odors! Think about what you’re saying, and to whom. A young lion doesn’t growl when the leader of the pack’s teeth are at his throat!”
Lady Cuora raised an eyebrow, sending Ander sheepishly back into his place alongside Lieutenant Fahrr. Before returning her attention to Chism she graced him with a grin of amusement.
“So you’re a hero? A defender of the people?” These were the type of rhetorical questions Chism knew he wasn’t supposed to answer.
He’d never thought of himself as a hero, and couldn’t care less if other people saw him as one. It had been four years since Chism decided that he and his brother would never run and hide, only to await a more severe beating when they finally returned home. Never again would the man be able to torture a child over a trifle or on a whim. He said it would be the last time, and he committed his life to make it so. Not just for himself, but for anyone within the Circle who didn’t have the protection they deserved. If that meant death for him or anyone else, so be it. But he would never stand by while an innocent was abused by someone who should be a protector.
Lady Cuora studied him silently as if trying to listen in on his thoughts, and Chism knew his fate was being determined at that very moment. He could handle anything but imprisonment. Whether in Cactus’ smokehouse, Tonin’s water barrel, or the cells of Palassiren, Chism had spent more time confined than he ever wanted to again. His sanity had been threatened by the tight walls that prevented him from pacing, practicing swords, or anything else to release the pent-up tension. Anything but imprisonment.
“Marky,” said Lady Cuora, reminding Chism that two other judges sat in the chamber. “Do you want this Elite back?”
Captain Markin sat up straight. He looked around as if someone in the room could give him the correct answer. His mouth moved but he didn’t get any words out before Lady Cuora came to his aid. “Of course you don’t. He’s too volatile to be in any squadron.” The man that Captain Markin had become since his association with the Council made Chism sick. Shifting her gaze to the young king she asked, “Are you going to demand his head, King?”
The boy had a look of intelligence, and though Chism didn’t know what Lady Cuora was thinking, he had a feeling the boy knew. “I’ve always said that the headsman is overworked, Cuora. Do you have an alternate solution?”
“I may be able to extend a slight mercy in this case,” said Lady Cuora in a forced, gracious tone.
Chism’s heart sped, panicked at the thought of years in confinement. Shackled as he was, he would never make it out of the building. But there was the possibility of death in an escape attempt, and that was better than life in a cell.
Cuora stood and walked a circle around Chism. “You returned to Palassiren to face trial solely on the strength of your word. You subdued an enemy soldier at personal risk, even though you had no duty.”
I am a member of Quicksilver Squadron,
he thought. Taking Cactus’s advice about forethought, he refrained from antagonizing Lady Cuora.
Back in front of her throne she said, “I am in need of a hero, boy. You see I have a knave, and Brune is most knavishly delightful.” A grin split the mouth of the young man behind Lady Cuora, his eyes dark and cruel. “It would do to have some balance. Blackguard,” she motioned to the young man, “and white guard.” She indicated Chism. “Rapscallion and champion. A Knave, and a Knight.” The fire in her eyes brightened with each word.
“Is the arrangement acceptable to all?” She looked around the room, collecting nods from Captain Markin, King Antion, Lieutenant Fahrr, and finally Chism, before announcing, “This Elite is hereby pardoned of all previous crimes, so long as he remains in my service or until this council decides to unpardon him. Release the prisoner.”
Guards rushed to unshackle him.
Knight? That beats rotting in a cell. .
Chapter 18
Angel
Hatta swept his small shop for the third time, hoping a clean shop would show his mirrors in a brighter, more inviting manner, but it made no difference. The north-facing door just didn’t admit enough light to catch the shades and hues of his mirrors, and their perfect mix of haze and clarity. The poor lighting was why he hadn’t sold any in three weeks since opening the shop. It didn’t help that nearly all of his customers were patrons of the old tailor next door, and almost to a person they were middle aged or older, with stuffy tastes. Other than the tailor’s customers, only a handful of shoppers in a week found his out-of-the-way alley.
To make matters worse, the purple was fading from his hair, and he had no dyes or berries to repair it.
After three chaotic trips, Hatta never wanted to leave his alley again. Reports of the effects of the division in the kingdom came in bits and pieces from his few customers and the tailor. Apparently the entire economy of Palassiren, and of Maravilla as a whole, was in jeopardy. Part of the problem was due to the mass exodus of people, and part due to speculation on the future of Palassiren and the new kingdom of the interior. It was just another reason to hole up in his shop.
The hard biscuit and dried apricot lunch spread in front of him represented the last of the food from Elora. More than two months of rent had already been paid, but that would do him no good without food. The city that should have provided him an audience to sell his mirrors would instead starve him. There was no way to forage within the walls, and if he went out to scavenge he couldn’t tend his shop.
Today had to be the day he finally sold one, even if it went for a pittance.
At least it’s Thursday. Seems like as good a day as any for people to spend money.
Lifting the last bite of spongy apricot, he toasted himself in a violet-rimmed mirror. Squinting to see clearly in the diffuse light, a brilliant idea struck him.
Leaving the elastic morsel behind, Hatta ran next door to the tailor’s shop. “Would you perchance have a saw I might borrow?” he blurted at the old man, who had his back turned.
The tailor dropped the bolt of cloth he held, and turned, breathing rapidly and clutching his chest. “You should consider offering a greeting before startling one out of his shoes, young fellow.”
Hatta shifted from foot to foot while the old man caught his breath. “A saw, you ask? I have a small one in the back.” The tailor shuffled away and Hatta heard the slow movement of boxes and other items.
“Shall I lend a hand?” asked Hatta hopefully.
“Patience, young man. Patience.”
Hours seemed to pass as Hatta paced a short path between bolts of cloth and smocked mannequins. The jostling sound was replaced by shuffling feet and the old man emerged from the back of the shop, proudly carrying a narrow saw with a long wooden handle. It looked like something a farmer would use to prune trees, but it would work.