Page 119 of By the Horns
It’s the same sort of thing every man here has said before, but hearing it come from another woman—another woman in the same situation I’ve been in in the past—stings. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“And will you show us the tunnels you were using to funnel theartifacts out of the guild treasury?” Rooster continues to write notes on a piece of parchment as Marta weeps.
“I—I never handled anything,” Marta stammers, twisting her hands. “I just sent notes and connected people.”
“And tried to frame me,” I point out. “With Hemmen’s help.”
“It wasn’t personal,” Marta says again. “Why won’t you understand that?”
“Because it feels personal to me,” I mutter, but quiet down when Raptor puts a calming hand on my arm.
Marta’s questioning continues for a while longer, but it becomes evident that she’s been used more for spying and passing notes along than for actual stealing. Rooster says he’ll consider her sentence, and then she’s taken away to the guild’s jail to await her fate.
Mistress Umala is brought in next, and she’s less than helpful. She stares down her nose at everyone, sneering every time she’s asked a question. She responds to nothing, her composure unruffled as the guild masters lob question after question at her.Who is working with you? What exactly have you stolen? How were the artifacts transported? How did you know what to steal?
“I know nothing” is all she says, tone haughty. “Do with me what you must.”
“We intend to,” Rooster says bluntly, and Umala is taken away.
The day grows long, and we remain clustered in Rooster’s office, the air overly warm and stuffy. The maids Marta named are interviewed, and all point the finger at Mistress Umala and one of the repeaters who works at the drop site and has for years. Several of the drop site repeaters are interviewed, and all of them indicate the same people. They’re eager to name names, but when it comes time to discuss the logistics, no one will offer up specifics. I can see Rooster growing frustrated as he demands information on the tunnels used and gets nothing in response.
After what seems like the hundredth interview, Rooster rolls up the parchment he’s been writing on and shakes his head. “The rest will have to wait until morning. I want extra guards on all the prisoners. We’ll let them sleep on cold floors and give them gruel to eat and see if they feel like admitting more in the morning.”
Everyone starts to file out of the room.
“Hawk, you stay. Raptor, you as well. Gwenna. Smythe. We need to talk.”
Oh gods. Here it is. I clutch at Raptor’s hand tightly, trying not to physically tremble. This is it, I realize. This is where Rooster tells everyone that he’s decided that I’m dangerous and I’m to be thrown into the dungeon, too. That I need to be burned at the stake as a message to all other mancers in the city.
Once most of the room has been cleared, those of us remaining stand awkwardly. Raptor remains at my side. I’m nervous, but I’m also glad for his support.
Rooster leans back in his chair and rubs his face. “This is a gods-damned mess.”
No one says anything.
Smythe looks over at me, and then at Rooster. “Gwenna has been an incredible help. We wouldn’t have made it out of the Everbelow without her assistance.”
“I’m aware” is all Rooster says.
My tongue feels glued to the roof of my mouth. I should say a million things to defend myself. Explain why I’m useful to the guild. Why I’m necessary. Why I can bring in riches. Why I would never want to use my powers against anyone. But I can’t seem to speak. How can I possibly change his mind when mancers have been outlawed for three hundred years?
“We’re not getting much from Mistress Umala,” Rooster says casually, returning his quill to its inkpot. “You said you would be able to find the passage they were using, Gwenna?”
I nod. “Hemmen showed it to me.”
“Before?” His brows go up.
I clear my throat. “After.”
“Ah.”
“Gwenna is a good person,” Raptor begins, a warning growl in his voice.
Rooster waves a hand in the air impatiently. “I know that, fool. The question is, how do we hide the fact that we have a mancer in our ranks? Feeding us information?”
We glance around at one another.
“I don’t know of any mancers,” Smythe says in a slow voice. “I didn’t see anything that couldn’t be explained away by, uh, luck.”
