Wellspring of Chaos (6 page)

Despite Kaj’s predictions, the gaolers did not come for Kharl until threeday, slightly before midmorning. They took a bucket and splashed water over his hands and face and let him dry both with a small rough towel. Then they bound his hands before him and marched him up the narrow stone staircase. He climbed three flights of steps with centers hollowed by years of wear before they reached a door that led out into the courtyard of the Justicers’ Hall. The sky was gray, threatening rain, but the stone pavement was dry. Kharl glanced at the gallows scaffold at the north end of the courtyard, and below it, the flogging frames.

How had it all come to pass? All he’d done was try to help two women and a neighbor, and he was going to be hanged for a killing he hadn’t done?

The unseasonably cool wind carried a sour odor to and around Kharl, a smell similar to rotting fish, even as he kept looking at the scaffold.

“You’ll be seeing that soon enough, fellow.” One of the gaoler’s armsmen said, yanking Kharl to start him across the courtyard toward the narrow door at the back of the Hall.

Kharl stumbled, then caught his balance, walking deliberately. The armsmen did not try to hurry him. When they reached the outer door, one stepped ahead and opened it. Inside, they guided Kharl along a narrow corridor that ended at another door, which the same armsman opened, and which led into a foyer. On the left side of the foyer was a single set of double doors, through which the three proceeded.

The chamber in which Kharl found himself was large, but not so large as the outside of the Justicers’ Hall would have suggested. The width was about thirty cubits, the length fifty, and the ceiling height was roughly ten. At the end of the chamber were two daises, one behind the other, each holding a podium desk of age-darkened white oak that had turned a deep brownish gold. At the seat behind the lower dais sat a round-faced, blocky, and gray-haired man with a square-cut gray beard who wore a blue velvet gown, trimmed in black.

The single seat on the upper dais, its high, carved back gilded and upholstered in blue velvet, was vacant.

Kharl and the two armsmen stopped beside a heavyset man in a blue-and-gold tunic, who looked to the armsmen. “You should have brought him sooner.” Then he lifted the heavy staff and rapped it on the stones of the floor three times, hard enough that the sound echoed through the chamber. All the murmurs died away. “All stand!”

Since Kharl was on his feet, he merely kept standing.

“Is there one who would take the Justicer’s Challenge?” intoned the bailiff, barely pausing before continuing. “There being none, the cooper Kharl is here, accused of murder, to be brought before justice!”

Kharl wondered what the Justicer’s Challenge was, and who might take it—or why—but no one said anything about it.

The man at the lower dais stood, his eyes fixing on the armsmen and Kharl.

“Bailiff,” intoned the justicer after he stood, “bring forth the cooper Kharl.”

“That’s you,” murmured one of the armsmen. “Step firm.”

Escorted by the two armsmen, Kharl walked to the armless chair set in the open space forward of the rows of benches. Standing before the benches to the right were several armsman and the Watch captain who had ordered Kharl taken. Before the benches to the left were Charee, Father Jorum, and Mallamet, the cooper whose shop was on Eighth Cross and Cargo Road.

“Keep standing,” whispered the armsman.

“You, the cooper Kharl, have been charged with the murder of the blackstaffer Jenevra. What you say or believe is not a question. We are here to do justice, and that justice is to determine whether you killed that blackstaffer.” The justicer cleared his throat, then seated himself.

From behind Kharl came a rap of the staff. “All may sit.”

“Sit down,” hissed the armsman.

Kharl sat, arms still bound before him. He looked at the justicer, but the man never seemed to look back at him.

“Justice calls upon Egen, captain of the Watch,” called the justicer.

The captain stood and stepped forward until he was but four paces back from the dais. He bowed. “Lord Justicer Reynol.”

“You arrested the cooper. Please tell the Hall what happened.”

“Yes, Lord Justicer.” Egen bowed again before speaking. “It was last sixday. Someone rang the fire bells, and we proceeded up Crafters’ Lane. When we arrived at the fire—it was at the scriptorium—the crafters and the scrivener had quenched the fire, but someone was screaming. She said something like, ‘No! She’s dead. You cut her throat.’ That was what I heard.“

“That’s not—” Kharl started.

“Silence! You will be heard, cooper,” added the justicer. “Continue, if you will, Captain Egen.”

“We’d come because of the fire. Sometimes, thieves set them, and sometimes people try to loot shops. So, when I heard that, I went into the cooper’s shop and found the blackstaffer. She was on the floor, and her throat had been cut.” Egen inclined his head slightly. “There was a bloody knife next to the body. The cooper’s apprentice admitted that the knife belonged to the cooper, that it was a drawing knife. His consort had accused him in public. He tried to escape, and it took three armsmen to subdue him.”

Reynol nodded. “That will be all for the moment. Please remain here in the Hall.“

“Yes, Lord Justicer.” Egen bowed again, politely.

“Charee, consort of Kharl, please stand and come forward.”

Charee stood. Her steps toward the dais were unsteady. She did not look at Kharl, and her eyes were fixed on the floor stones before her.

“You are Charee, consort of Kharl. Is that correct?”

“Yes… Lord.”

“You understand that you must tell the truth, and that if you do not, you also will be punished?”

“Yes, Lord.” Charee’s voice trembled.

“How did the blackstaffer come to the cooperage?”

“Kharl carried her in. She’d been beaten, bad, ser, left in the ser-viceway to die. We couldn’t leave her on the street, but…” Charee looked down.

“Go on.”

“Um… blackstaffers… I’d heard tales… and I told Kharl she could stay, but only in the shop, not in our quarters up the stairs, and that she had to leave soon as she could.”

“What did he say?”

“He said we couldn’t throw her out on the street.”

“What happened after that?”

“We put her on the old apprentice’s pallet in the shop, and I cleaned her up, and got her some blankets. She slept some, then woke up, but she couldn’t see proper. Said she was seeing two instead of one—”

“How long was she in the shop?”

“Let’s see, ser. It was fourday when Kharl found her, and sixday when… when the fire happened.”

“Tell us what happened that morning.”

“I brought down some bread and cider, and the blackstaffer’s clothes. I’d mended them. I helped her dress. See… we were going to take her to Father Jorum so she wouldn’t be in the shop once she could walk and get around. Then I went upstairs to get the morning meal for Kharl and the boys. Kharl ate and came down to the shop. A while later, I heard a boom, and people yelling, and then there was smoke. I came down and… I thought she was lying down… except there was blood… and she wasn’t moving, and I ran out front and told everyone.”

“What did you say? Do you recall the exact words?”

“I… I said… I think I said… ‘No! She’s dead. Someone cut her throat.’”

“You didn’t say that your consort cut her throat?”

“No, ser.” Charee straightened.

“Are you certain? Why didn’t you?”

“It… well, ser… didn’t seem hardly likely. He could have just left her. No reason for him to bring her home, then cut her throat. ‘Sides, he was out front fighting the fire.”

After a moment, Reynol nodded. “You may return to the bench. I must ask you to remain.”

“The cooper Mallamet, step forward.”

The stoop-shouldered older cooper stepped toward the dais with a gait that was not quite a shuffle.

“Your name?”

“Mallamet. I’m a cooper, honored justicer.”

“You know you must tell the truth or face punishment?”

“Yes, ser.”

“What do you know of the prisoner Kharl?”

“He’s a cooper, ser.” Mallamet looked at the smooth stone floor tiles.

“He’s accused of killing a blackstaffer from Recluce. What do you know of this?”

“He had her in his shop. I knew that, ser. And he was making black

oak barrels. He was using her to use order to make his barrels better than he could hisself.“

“How did you know that?”

“Everyone knew that.”

“How did you know that?”

“Folks at the Tankard were talking about it, how he was workin‘ late, no one around, and they heard her chanting stuff.”

“Lord West’s wizard has inspected those barrels, and there is no additional order infused in them.”

“I was just tellin‘ what I knew.”

“Did you tell everyone this so that you could take business from the cooper Kharl?”

“Ser?”

“You heard the question, cooper.”

“Ser… I was just tellin‘ what I heard…”

“Bailiff!”

“Lord Justicer.” The bailiff stepped forward.

“Have the cooper Mallamet taken into custody for false witness. Ten lashes.”

“Armsmen! To the fore!”

“Ser… no, ser. I was just tellin‘.”

“Silence!”

Kharl just watched, totally puzzled, as two armsmen escorted Mallamet out of the Hall of Justice. If the justicer and Lord West wanted to hang Kharl, why were they arresting Mallamet? But why had the justicer not asked more questions about what had happened?

“The cooper Kharl.”

“Stand,” hissed one of the armsmen behind Kharl.

Kharl lurched to his feet, unsteadily. “Lord Justicer.” He bowed his head, then looked up, straight at the justicer.

“Earlier, cooper, you had objected to the testimony of Captain Egen. Now, you have a chance to tell what happened.”

“Honored justicer,” Kharl began carefully, “it all started when I was carrying sealant back from Hyesal the apothecary’s shop…” He told the entire story as it had happened, ending with, “… and when the captain said I’d killed her, I tried to explain that I hadn’t done anything. I didn’t run. I didn’t do anything except I said I didn’t do it, and then someone hit me over the head, and I woke up in gaol.”

“How do you explain that the blackstaffer was killed with one of your drawing knives?”

“There were lots of people around the front of the shop, ser. Anyone could have walked in. Also, I’m not a killer. I mean, I don’t know how to use a knife that way. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Most crafters have a way to defend their shops. What is yours?”

“I keep a cudgel close by, ser. It’s close enough to a forge hammer…”

“And you are a cooper, and that means using a forge. Had you unbanked your forge that morning?”

“No, ser. Charee and I had to walk Jenevra—she was the blackstaffer— to Father Jorum’s. I didn’t want to waste the charcoal.”

“Have you anything else to say?”

“I didn’t do it, ser.”

“But you did try to get away from the armsmen, did you not?”

“No, ser. I said I didn’t do it. I might have backed up one step, but I didn’t try to get away. They were saying I did something I didn’t.”

“That will be all. Please be seated.”

Kharl felt as though the justicer hadn’t really paid any attention to his words. But there was no way out of the Hall, not with his hands bound, and armsmen behind him and all around the Hall.

“Lord justicer!” The bailiff in gold and blue rapped his staff on the stone floor of the chamber.

The justicer looked at the functionary. “Yes, bailiff?”

“Your honor… there is a witness. He has a pass from the Quad-rancy.”

The frown of the justicer was so fleeting that Kharl would not have seen it had he even blinked. “Very well. Have him step forward and state his name.”

There was a slight sound behind the justicer, and a slender, gray-haired man, clean-shaven and in blue velvet, his tunic trimmed in gold, slipped into the seat at the higher dais behind the justicer, a seat that had been vacant throughout the trial. Even from where he sat, Kharl could see that the newcomer was old, and that there were dark circles ringing his deep-set eyes.

The figure who stepped forward from beside the bailiff as a witness was Tyrbel, wearing the black robe that he had told Kharl was for appearances before the justicers.

“State your name.”

“I am Tyrbel, scrivener of Brysta, your honor of justice.” The scrivener bowed deeply.

“What have you to say to what has been offered as evidence, master scrivener?“

“What I have to say, your honor of justice, is most plain.” Tyrbel looked squarely at the justicer. “Kharl could not have killed the black-staffer. He is a good man, but there is another reason why he could not have killed her. She was still alive when he left his cooperage to fight the fire, and he was still with me and the others using the buckets when his consort came out to tell him that something terrible had happened.”

“How do you know the blackstaffer was still alive?” The justicer’s face bore more curiosity than anger.

“I saw her leaning on his workbench through the window when I called for help. She was still standing there when Kharl came out.”

“So your scriptorium was burning, and you had time to watch?” The justicer’s sarcasm was scarcely veiled.

Kharl looked at Tyrbel. The scrivener was perfectly calm. What Tyrbel said was true. Jenevra had been alive. But Tyrbel had not actually seen that, and Kharl had not talked to Tyrbel since the murder.

“I only watched for a moment. It was long enough to see that Kharl had heard and was coming to help.”

“Justicer?” interjected the clean-shaven and elderly man in the high seat, before another word could be said.

“Yes, Lord West?”

Lord West looked squarely at the scrivener. “Are you absolutely certain that the cooper could not have turned back and killed the black-staffer?”

“Yes, Lord. I had barely reached the fire barrel when Kharl was beside me.“

“And he had no blood on him?” asked the lord.

“No, ser.”

“Does he wear the same garments now as then?”