The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (53 page)

The Crown stared at Will and then turned to the judge. “Lordship. I move that this man be escorted from the courthouse and placed into custody. His claims are beyond ludicrous and he’s wasting the time of this court.”

“Officer Cartwright,” the judge said, sounding exhausted and annoyed at once. “Unless you can prove these claims and relate them back to the case of Doctor Francis Livingstone, I will hold you in contempt of justice and have you removed.”

“Of course, Your Lordship,” Will said. He ducked his head with perfect grace and reached one hand toward the judge’s stand and the other toward the Crown. “If the two of you will just lend me your hands. And―Your Lordship? I would much appreciate your gavel, as well. I mean no disrespect.”

The judge stared at Will.

“He’s not going to give it over,” Chris murmured, heart racing.

“No, he is,” Olivia said, and when Chris looked over, she was shaking her head in utter disbelief. “Look at his face. He can’t help it. He’s a
strong
truthsniffer, Christopher, like all judges. He won’t be able to stand not knowing for the rest of his life. He
needs
this.”

And she was right. The honourable judge slowly handed his gavel to William, who took it graciously with a little bow of his head. Will ran his fingers over the object, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Yes, this will do,” he said, and he took both offered hands.

Chris remembered his first seeing. Clearly and vividly. He remembered it more than any other, even the seeing of Fernand slitting his own wrists, begging forgiveness from Chris himself. The first seeing… stays.

He watched both the Crown Prosecutor and the Honourable Justice gasp. The Crown’s knees buckled and he fell forward against the stand. The judge stiffened in his chair, back arching, a groan escaping his venerable lips. The hum of conversation in the room rose.

And Chris watched Will.

He’d never actually seen Will perform a real seeing before, not just rifling through the memories of a card to cheat at rummy. He’d always been a part of them, witnessing what Will was extracting from the object. This time, he paid attention. He saw the way his best friend’s lips parted slightly, the way his breathing rate increased, the tiny little line that appeared between his eyes.

The Crown broke away, forcing himself up, staring at Will with eyes wide. The judge pulled out of the spell a moment later.

“What is this?” the Crown demanded, voice harsh, as Will handed the gavel back up to the judge.

“I knew the gavel would be an effective example,” Will said, and his voice was as even as if he were teaching a lesson at Lowry. “The judges who grip it sweat. All bodily fluids strengthen the memory of an object, allowing it to be seen and tracked more clearly. Blood is the most effective, along with”―he cleared his throat delicately―“carnal fluids, if you will. But tears, sweat, or saliva are also effective.”

He pulled out the case that held the pen.

“Gods,” Chris murmured. He was actually doing this.

Will pried the cover open and held up the fine fountain pen. “This pen holds a memory,” he said. “The writer was careful to wrap a handkerchief around their forehead so that no sweat would drop onto the paper. But they made no effort to keep sweat from the pen itself.” He glanced around the courthouse. It had, Chris realized, gone deathly silent. “This pen was used to―”

“Death to traitors!” a woman’s voice shouted. Someone shrieked, the room seemed to freeze, and a shot rang out.

Chris surged to his feet, alongside half of the room. “Will!” he shouted, panic tearing his heart out. As if he could prevent shot from a pistol!

But William didn’t even blink. The ball of fire shot across the room like a tiny orange sun, and when it hit the edge of the stand, it suddenly roared and then dispersed. A green aura shimmered around where it had stopped. Will smiled tightly, pulling out a brightly glowing green rod. “After the events at the Piffleman’s Gala House last night, events which had been
curiously
absent from the front pages this morning, I thought it best to prepare for possible assassination attempts.”

Chris whirled. A woman in a hideous, orange, store-bought dress was struggling to climb over the heads of others in the galley, and uniformed police officers were converging on her as she moved. The pistol she held was clutched to her side and she made no efforts to shoot herself. Maybe there would be information to gain after all.

“Officer Cartwright.” The Crown found his voice. He was deathly pale, probably aware that if the single defensive witness was assassinated on the stand, it would make his case very suspicious indeed. “I… forgive us. We couldn’t have expected―”

“Of course not,” William said. He slid the peridot-coloured rod back into the inner pockets of his dress uniform. “Who possibly could have expected more acts of vigilante violence after the traditionalists acquitted themselves so well last night at Piffleman’s? By the way”―he addressed the audience―“you can read all about it on the front pages of the Society section of the Arrow. It’s been buried until tonight’s run,
strangely
enough, but it’s really worth reading.”

He turned to the judge. “Might I continue, Your Lordship?” As if nothing had happened at all. As if he wouldn’t be dead if not for his forethought in bringing a defensive shield from the station. At the judge’s weak nod, he continued talking, his voice smooth and professional and not at all afraid. “This pen was used,” he tried again, “to forge three of the
very
documents submitted as evidence in this courtroom.”

“That’s…” the Crown said, and nothing else.

“Where did he get it?” Olivia whispered. “No, where did
you
get it?”

Chris couldn’t speak. Or breathe. From the look on Francis Livingstone’s face. He was suffering a similar fate.

“If I could have your hands,” William said smoothly. “As well as yours, Counselor―you’ll need to link between the Crown and Justice, of course―we could enter this forgery into evidence. I’m afraid the memories the pen holds don’t offer any insight on the forger themself, nor their employer, but surely the sight of such important documents to the case
being
forged stoves in the side of this ship!”

Dumbfounded, the barrister, crown, and judge all held hands like a family in prayer. Conversation erupted around them as the four of them closed their eyes.

Olivia’s fingers were on his chin. She twisted his head to look her in the eye. Her brows were pulled down. “What did you
do
?” she demanded.

“… I got the pen from Kolston,” Chris admitted quietly. His words were instantly lost in the ruckus of the crowd. “I bargained with him for it.”

“Christopher, bloody hells, what did you
promise
him?”

Christopher yanked away from her fingers and directed his attention back on the doctor, who had something in his eyes that was
actually
almost hope. “Something I shouldn’t have,” he murmured. “But―but maybe it was worth it, after all.”

“You are going to make it much harder for me to catch killers, Mister Buckley.” She sighed, but she couldn’t hide the thrill at the edge of her voice. There was nothing Olivia Faraday loved more than the status quo being torn apart and something
unexpected
happening in its place. Her nose practically twitched as she sniffed at the air, trying to smell out the future.

The barrister clutched to the judge’s seat to try and stand. The judge slumped back in his chair, hand pressed to his temple. The Crown Prosecutor was pacing, aggravated like a furious hornet.

“Officer Cartwright,” the judge murmured. “Do you realize that you have quite thrown the world into disarray?”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” William replied. He bowed his head respectfully to the judge. “I considered all my options carefully and weighed this to be the best course of action. My apologies for complicating your life, but I was fairly certain that this evidence would be enough to possibly free an innocent man. Apparently, at least one person in the gallery thought the same.”

“Murderers are going to know to stow their weapons from now on,” Olivia murmured. “No more easy solutions sitting right beside the body.”

“You like a challenge,” Chris replied. “I made your life more interesting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.

“Counselor,” the judge said slowly. “Do you have any more surprise witnesses to call?” The emphasis on the word
surprise
brought a touch of colour to the barrister’s face. Will’s revelation had been as much a shock to him as the rest of the court.

“N-no, Lordship, I―no.”

“And Prosecutor, do you have any more falsified and illegal evidence to enter in the case of Doctor Francis Livingstone and the Floating Castle Disaster?”

The Prosecutor’s jaw bulged. “No, Your Lordship,” he ground out. “But allow me to state for the record that just because three letters were
perhaps
forgeries, if this isn’t some hoax, that does not mean that you should throw out
all
of the
staggering
evidence against Doctor Liv―”

“That’s enough, Mister Barkley,” the judge said, sounding exhausted. “I have decided that this… unique set of circumstances requires more time for consideration than usual. I will be reviewing all evidence this evening and will render my verdict and sentence in the morning. Court is adjourned.”

His gavel hit the podium and the room erupted into noise.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Olivia said, falling back in her seat and shaking her head. “Do you have any idea how many people are going to be lining up to take William’s
head
off?”

“It was the right thing to do,” Chris said boldly. Doctor Livingstone was being hauled to his feet, his own sylphshield having been deactivated, but there was a bit of colour in his grey face now, colour that hadn’t been there before. Chris and Will had given him
hope
. “They call him the good doctor for a reason.”

“Because it’s amusing wordplay for a man accused of a thousand murders.” Olivia sighed, and she stood. “Let’s go, I suppose. Sister Patricia Montgomery is waiting back at the office by now. We have work to do.”

“Not yet,” Chris said. “Wait.”

And before she could stop him―before
anyone
could stop him―Chris pushed through the crowd and dodged an inattentive police officer, throwing open and quickly closing behind him the door to the defense antechamber.

Will turned and saw him there. His eyes lit up, and then guttered out. He turned away. “I thought I saw you and Olivia in the audience,” he said tightly.

“You were―”

“I was bloody amazing,” Will finished for him, and with a sigh, turned back. “But I didn’t do it for you. Don’t think that I did. I looked into the pen myself. I weighed it out. Did you know that there’s only one other timeseer categorized in Tarland right now? She’s seventy, serves in Vernella, and can only see when there’s blood involved.”

Chris stepped toward his friend, and Will stepped back warily. Chris closed his eyes tightly. “No,” he said, and a bit of his hurt touched his voice. “I didn’t know that.”

“I thought about this long and hard. It wasn’t easy. But timeseers aren’t the ace in the hole we appear to be. We’re fading like everything else. It could very well be I’m the last.” He took a deep breath. “If Livingstone is convicted for this, then everyone will remember the Floating Castle as some bloody idiotic political statement, and everyone who died there will be rewritten as causalities of something that isn’t
true,
including…” Will shrugged one shoulder, suddenly awkward. “It was the right thing to do,” he finished, his voice losing its certainty. “Doctor Livingstone is a good person. He can save lives. We’re better off with him in the world.”

Chris had moved closer while Will spoke. Now, he reached out and gently laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. His friend flinched. Chris took a deep breath. “I,” he said. “I shouldn’t have, that is, I should have.” Words just wouldn’t come out of his mouth in the shapes that he was imagining for them. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know what’s going on with me right now,” he said. “I don’t know why I―I don’t understand any of it, but sending you away like that wasn’t at all fair, and I―and I don’t want to lose you. I―”

Will looked up at him. Something like hope glimmered in his eyes.

The door of the antechamber pushed open.

Will’s eyes slid past Chris and shuttered immediately. He took a step back. “Hannah,” he said tightly.

Chris turned. He’d met Officer Hannah Burke several times. William’s direct overseer at the police office was a beautiful, soft-spoken, delicate beauty. But the tall, willowy blonde woman stood in the frame of the door, a backdrop of shouting people behind her, and there was fire in her eyes.

“You’ll be fined for taking the sylphshield, William,” she murmured, her voice somehow still as beautiful and soft as a spring breeze. “You know you aren’t allowed access to police resources without permission. You are
not
a real officer.”

“You might have noticed that shield saved my
life
, Hannah, or were you not―”

“Get out,” Officer Burke said, and this time, her tone was sharp as a whip that cracked between Will and Chris like the world had split in half.

Will obeyed. He slipped out between Officer Burke and the frame, and she shut the door firmly behind them.

Her gaze focused on Chris.

“Officer Burke,” he murmured.

“Don’t talk,” she spat. “Or you’ll find another cut on your handsome face.” There was murder in her beautiful, soft eyes, and one of her delicate hands was gripped, white-knuckled and trembling, around the butt of her pistol.

Chris wanted to retort, but his heart was beating faster, and suddenly he found himself wondering how such a soft woman had found herself in command of all clandestine operations in the heart of Darrington.

Her lips thinned. “Do you know when I met William?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Two years ago, they called me to the categorization office the moment he passed his test. They told me what they’d found. I could hardly believe it. Another timeseer, after fifty years of waiting.” Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Then they showed me in to see the fellow. He was wearing prisoner’s clothes.”