Page 76 of Crucible of Chaos

‘You did not hear me come up behind you, did you?’ Estevar asked, holding the tiny blade taken from the cuff of his coat between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Perhaps then you should be more wary of baring your fangs to others, Wolf-King.’

Strigan removed his hands and Estevar removed the knife from the monk’s throat. Turning to the others, he said, ‘We are short of time, so before anyone challenges me again, let me point out that as of this moment, we are all as good as dead. Whatever sins brought us here, they have already prescribed a sentence from which there is no appeal. Therefore, I suggest you allow me to proceed and pray, if that is your disposition, that the truth does indeed set us all free.’ He turned to Caeda. ‘Will you agree to preside over the trial, my dear?’

‘What. . . what do I have to do?’

‘Merely listen as I lay the case before you, and when it is time, render your verdict.’

She leaned close to him, whispering so the others wouldn’t hear, ‘Please, my Cantor, don’t ask me to do this. I just want to be a Greatcoat like you.’

‘A Greatcoat presides over trials. What troubles you, Piccolo?’

‘I don’t know! Why must you overcomplicate everything? Why can’t you just let me pretend to be your assistant and then I’ll never have to. . . never have to. . .’

Her eyes met his and there was such sorrow in her that despite all that was at risk, he badly wished he could give her what she wanted.

‘Am I dead, Estevar?’

He took her hands in his and raised one after the other to his lips, kissing them, before gently letting them fall. ‘You feel entirely alive to me, Piccolo. One of the more sternly enforced requirements of a magistrate is that they not be dead, and this particular trial cannot proceed without you. Justice must have her song at long last. Will you assist me this final time?’

Caeda’s cheeks were ashen, her expression flat as that of a corpse. Yet, acceding to this last request of her Cantor, she nodded.

In the tunnels above them, while Estevar gritted his teeth and rolled a rock to the centre of the room to serve as a magistrate’s throne, demons howled and giggled as what had once been a place of sanctity and worship became one of terror and damnation in service to a holy man who had made himself their god.

‘Let the trial begin,’ Estevar said.

CHAPTER 42

THE TRIAL OF ISOLA SOMBRA

‘The crime began two years ago, when the man known as the Blacksmith devised a scheme to murder saints and gods alike, dispersing the faith that once fuelled their existence back into the people of Tristia.’

‘We know all this,’ Brother Agneta said, glancing up at the prayer cave’s rocky domed ceiling as if the weight of the howling demons on the levels above might bring it crashing down on their heads. ‘We’ve been debating the nature of gods in this abbey ever since, as we awaited their return.’

‘Not all of us keep wallowing in the past,’ Mother Leogado interjected. ‘Some of us have come to recognise the gods we once knew belonged to a different age, that our duty was to await those meant to emerge fromthisera.’

‘A line of reasoning Abbot Venia found compelling,’ Estevar said, taking back control of his opening argument. ‘Especially when he learned that a new godhad, in fact, come into being.’

‘Rumours,’ Brother Agneta objected, ‘tales spun by Trattari swashbucklers like you, who expect the rest of us to fall in line behind your preposterous notions of idealism– the heart of which could be quaintly referred to as valour. That’s the name you all gave to this supposed new god, didn’t you? “Valour”?’

Estevar smiled tolerantly. ‘I am, I fear, somewhat less exuberant than many of my colleagues. Nonetheless, should the Greatcoats ever conspire to spread belief in a god of their choosing, I assure you that we would prefer a God of Justice to assist us in bringing the rule of law back to this country, rather than one who encourages us to risk our lives over and over again, with nothing to show for it but our wounds.’

‘These pointless debates are getting us nowhere,’ Malezias said, still crouched in his corner like a sulking ox. ‘This is why I left the abbey in the first place.’

Strigan snorted. ‘More like you left because you so badly wanted to bed the delectable Caeda, who for some inexplicable reason’– he threw his arm out towards her as if revealing her for the first time– ‘now sits in judgment over us all!’

‘Many a defendant has sought to undermine a presiding magistrate’s authority,’ Estevar noted. ‘I would remind you that pleading for a different judge might result in a more. . . unorthodox sentencing.’

‘And what verdict will you impose on us?’ Mother Leogado asked.

Estevar waved her objection away. ‘I told you before, the case is mine to present only.’ He reached into his coat, removed the damp pages he’d rescued from the flooded chamber where Venia had spent his final days and spread them on the floor for the others to see.

‘What is this nonsense?’ Strigan asked. ‘It’s not even legible.’

‘It’s archaic Tristian,’ Estevar corrected. ‘One would have hoped a monk would be able to read the language in which the religious texts of his order were written.’

‘TheSacrificia Purgadis,’ Brother Agneta said, looming over the pages as if she longed to set fire to them. ‘Banned by decree of the Cogneri.’

‘Indeed,’ Estevar agreed, ‘a long-abandoned religious rite purported to imbue a single sinner with the crimes of his entire community. By giving the sacrifice over to a demon or devil, all the others are thus absolved.’

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