Glass looked away from the huddle of judges and scanned the audience. She found Joeli swiftly, the girl’s golden hair unmatched among the crowd save in one place. Lines of concentration crossed her usually flawless brow, and her fingers, raised before her chest, twitched.
Glass couldn’t see the threads haloed around Seldom nor appreciate the skill with which Joeli was changing the man’s mind, but she knew what was happening.
“. . . we should vote!” Seldom, his voice strained but decisive.
“We should!” Dimeon, almost crowing with victory.
Glass’s jaw tightened, the cold shock of defeat washed through her. She would die here, after-dinner entertainment for these over-fed lords.
“. . . but . . . wait . . . I’m confused . . .” Seldom lifted both hands to massage his temples.
At the far end of the guest benches Arabella Jotsis had raised her hands, plucking the air before her, face screwed tight with focused effort. The abbess knew from Sister Pan’s reports that Ara’s thread-working potential was smaller than Joeli’s and her skills far less developed. However, undoing thread-work takes less talent than the original manipulation. The human mind resists tampering and is always trying to return to its natural state.
Among the glittering crowd, Joeli sensed the interference and redoubled her efforts, her jaw taking on a determined set, face darkening. Brother Seldom, caught in the storm, allowed himself to be turned first by Dimeon’s arguments, then by Agika’s, then by Dimeon’s. Slowly though he seemed to be falling back beneath Joeli’s influence.
“. . . emperor’s sister! We just can’t . . .”
A loud thump and squeal of outrage snapped Glass’s attention back to the guest benches. Joeli lay sprawled in saffron skirts and cream lace, too stunned even to draw breath for a proper scream. The spot on the bench where her bottom had so recently resided lay empty and gleaming. Darla was just straightening up after using her height to lean in from the back, crowding past several outraged matrons, and then to deliver a hefty shove between Joeli’s shoulderblades.
“General Rathon, control your daughter!” This from Joen Namsis, rising from the lords’ benches.
By the time Darla had been scolded and two palace guards had escorted her from the hall, while Joeli was restored to her seat by several fussing daughters of the Sis, the judging panel had reached their verdict. Sherzal regarded them with a face like thunder.
Agika straightened in her seat. Brothers Dimeon and Seldom pulled back.
“By a majority decision we find good cause for Sherzal Lansis to be put to moderate questioning by an officer of the Inquisition.”
Brother Pelter blinked at that, as if unable to comprehend the scale of the change of direction so recently delivered upon him. He would get to use the skills and tools of his trade, just not against the person he had believed would be given into his care.
Sherzal leaned back from the rail, her anger replaced by a speculative look. Glass imagined that she was weighing up her options. She must have realized by now that all she had to do was hold out until her guests had departed—something that she could make happen quite swiftly. Then, with her lordly audience back on the westward roads, she could take matters into her own hands. Later a suitable story could be spun, one of innocence declared followed by a tragic accident involving returning judges. Quite possibly Brothers Dimeon and Pelter might survive such an accident and corroborate Sherzal’s version of events . . .
“I have a second document.” Glass raised both her voice and her right elbow, gesturing to her side with her head. “That will save the honourable Sherzal the distress of questioning under duress.” She saw Sherzal’s brows rise at that. Even a woman as redoubtable as the emperor’s sister must have had some concerns about inquisition. Moderate duress extended to whippings of various types, along with the stressing of joints and the application of various mechanical devices to the hands and feet. It sounded unpleasant in theory and in practice was fairly horrific.
Melkir came across to extract the second parchment, which was tied with ribbons to Glass’s side. A tiny muslin bag hung from the document, sewn to the lower edge. He took it to the judges who crowded together, devouring the words.
Agika pulled the bag free and tipped five small black tablets into the palm of her hand. She pursed her lips. “They look so insignificant . . .”
“A work of genius,” Glass said. “The combined efforts of the Academy and the Church’s own Mistress Shade. Sadly, they are frighteningly expensive and very time-consuming to prepare. It would be nice to believe that such wonders might one day remove the need for any to suffer in the Inquisition’s quest for the truth.”
Sister Agika straightened and addressed the lords. “High Inquisitor Gemon has set his signature and seal against this authorization to use these ‘truth’ pills in the trial of Sherzal. This will allow the Inquisition to avoid inflicting physical harm upon its prime instigator, which would be highly regrettable were she to prove innocent of the charges against her. Furthermore it will permit a swift and public resolution of the matter with the Sis as witness. And—”
“Poison!” Sherzal shouted. “I will not be fed poison from that woman’s hand!”
Sister Agika picked a pill from her palm between thumb and finger. “The High Inquisitor’s own seal attests to their safety but I am sure that the abbess will not mind taking one herself to set your mind at ease.”
Glass minded very much. She understood Sherzal’s objections perfectly. For a woman whose power was built upon secrets the compulsion to speak the truth was indeed poison. “I would be delighted, Sister Agika.” She smiled and nodded.
Melkir returned with one of the black pills in his hand. He raised it towards Glass’s mouth.
“I request that only Judge Agika be permitted to ask me questions, and only those that she plans to put to the prisoner. I know many of the Church’s most holy secrets and will not be able to resist betraying them if asked inappropriate questions.”
Sister Agika inclined her head. “A reasonable request.”
Glass opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m told the taste of this mixture is incredibly bitter. If I choke or spit it isn’t because I am being poisoned.” A smile towards Sherzal. She opened her mouth again.
The taste when Melkir placed the pill upon her tongue was far worse than anything Glass had imagined. She clamped her jaw tight, sucked her cheeks in hard, and screwed her eyes shut, willing herself not to vomit or cry out.
It was shouts and exclamations of shock that forced Glass to open her eyes. When the commotion reached through her distress she wondered if the pill had perhaps done something ghastly to her appearance. Then, on focusing her vision, she wondered if Apple’s concoction really had poisoned her and the scene before her was hallucination.
Sera had fallen to her knees, hands at her throat, crimson with the blood pulsing between her fingers. Safira stood behind her, knife held steady, its edge scarlet. Sherzal had shaken off her chain and moved from the rail. Several of her house guards flanked her as she approached her throne.
Glass spat out a bitter, black mess from her mouth, pressing her puckered lips into a grim line. Such an attack had always been a possibility but she had felt that the weight of probability lay with Sherzal throwing herself upon her brother’s mercy. If Crucical had any murderous instincts towards his siblings then they had certainly given him enough past excuses to act upon. Likely this time he would have banished Sherzal to the ice. The ice being the symbolic punishment, the banishment real. From the ice, no doubt burdened with funds, Sherzal would have been able to return to some other country along the Corridor and live a comfortable life in exile. That was how Glass had anticipated events unfolding. However, she had always known that the chance Sherzal would throw caution to the wind and take to violence was a real one.