“So then,” Lord Molnar said. “You would have us put the Fief Lord to the question?”
The Chief Judge took several seconds to reply and Vaelin could see from the tension in his face that he recognised the grave import of his words. “I believe question is warranted, yes.”
The door to the chamber opened abruptly and Captain Smolen entered, coming to attention before the King and saluting smartly.
“Found him have you?” the King asked.
“I have Highness.”
“Whorehouse or redflower palace?”
Captain Smolen’s only sign of discomfort was to blink twice. “The former, Highness.”
“Is he in a fit state to talk?”
“He has made efforts to sober himself, Highness.”
The King sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Very well. Bring him in.”
Captain Smolen saluted and strode from the room, returning a few seconds later with a man dressed in expensive but soiled clothes. He walked with the precise gait of one who worries he might tip over at any moment, the redness of his eyes and sallowness of his stubbled complexion bespoke several hours of excess. He looked to be in his forties but Vaelin guessed him to be younger, a man aged by indulgence. He halted next to Aspect Arlyn, greeted him with a cursory nod, then bowed extravagantly, but unsteadily, to the King. “Highness. As ever I am honoured by your summons.” Vaelin noted the man’s accent: Cumbraelin.
The King turned to his scribes. “Let the record show that his Honour, Lord Sentes Mustor, heir to the Fiefdom of Cumbrael and appointed representative of Cumbraelin interests to the Court of King Janus, is now in attendance.” He turned a level gaze on the Cumbraelin. “Lord Mustor. And how are you this morning?”
Lord Al Telnar gave a muted snort of amusement.
“Very well, Highness,” Lord Mustor replied. “Your city has always been very kind to me.”
“I am glad. Aspect Arlyn you know of course. This young man is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna, recently returned from the Martishe forest.”
Lord Mustor’s gaze was guarded as he turned to Vaelin, nodding a formal greeting, but his tone remained cheerful, if forced. “Ah, the blade that won me ten golds at the Test of the Sword. Well met young sir.”
Vaelin nodded back but said nothing. Mention of the Test of the Sword tended to darken his mood.
“Brother Vaelin has brought us some documents.” The King took the letters from Lord Al Genril. “Documents that raise questions. I believe your opinion of their content would be valuable in discerning their intent.” Vaelin took note of Lord Mustor’s momentary hesitation before stepping forward to take the papers from the King’s hand.
“These are letters of free passage,” he said after scanning the pages.
“And they are signed by your father, are they not?” the King asked.
“That… would appear to be the case, Highness.”
“Then perhaps you can explain how Brother Vaelin came to find them on the body of a Cumbraelin heretic in the Martishe forest.”
Lord Mustor’s gaze swung to Vaelin, his reddened eyes suddenly fearful, then back to the King. “Highness, my father would never place documents of such import in the hands of a rebel. I can only imagine they were stolen somehow. Or perhaps forged…”
“Perhaps your father could provide a more absolute explanation.”
“I-I have no doubt he could Highness. If you would care to write to him…”
“I would not. He will come here.”
Lord Mustor took an involuntary step backwards, fear now obvious in his face. Vaelin could tell the situation dwarfed him, he was being tested and found wanting. “Highness…” he stammered. “My father… it is not right…”
The King let out a long sigh of exasperation. “Lord Mustor, I fought two wars against your grandfather and found him an enemy of considerable courage and cunning. I never liked him but I did respect him greatly and I feel he would be grateful he is no longer here to see his grandson gabble like the whoring drunkard he is when his fief stands on the brink of war.”
The King raised a hand to beckon Captain Smolen over. “Lord Mustor will be our guest in the palace until further notice,” the King told him. “Please escort him to suitable quarters and ensure he is untroubled by unwanted visitors.”
“You know my father will not come here,” Lord Mustor stated flatly. “He will not be put to the question. Imprison me here if you must but it will make no difference. A man doesn’t place his favoured son in the hands of his enemy.”
The King paused, regarding the Cumbraelin lord with a narrow gaze. Surprised you, Vaelin realised. Didn’t think he had the stomach to speak up.
“We’ll see what your father does,” the King said. He nodded to Captain Smolen and Lord Mustor was led from the room, two guards following close behind.