“Was there any truth to it?”
Erik shrugged. “I don’t think so. I never thought much about being noble, or having office. I’m a smith, and I’m the best horse man in Darkmoor—ask Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, if you doubt me. I only wanted a guild badge and my own forge, no more than that. My mother only wanted me to have a proper name. It was her passion that made Stefan fearful. But even if she dreamed I might someday be a noble, it was never any dream of mine. I had the name already.” His voice lowered, and his tone became almost defiant. “That was, at least, one thing my father did allow me. He never publicly denied me the name von Darkmoor, and I’ll take that to the grave with me.”
Roo visibly winced at the phrase. Nicholas sighed. “This is very convoluted. Lord James, have you a suggestion?”
James was still leafing through the papers given to him by Lender. “Highness, may I suggest you take this case under advisement, and after supper I’ll have the state’s recommendation for you.”
“Granted,” said Nicholas. “Court is adjourned.” Guards motioned for the prisoners already in the dock to leave, and Erik and Roo found themselves being marched back to join the others.
Erik looked at Lender. “What happened?” he asked.
Lender didn’t look hopeful. “He’ll think about it. You should know after supper.” Watching the Prince rise from his throne and leave the hall to enter his private chamber, Lender said, “It will be decided by morning, either way.”
Guards moved them into line behind Sho Pi, and Roo said, “What do you think is going to happen?”
“If you had not run, and had told this story at once, I think Nicholas would have been inclined to believe you, but you ran, and that counts against you.” He was silent as the guards chained the prisoners into line, and Lender said, “If it goes badly, the gallows. If it goes better, thirty years on the work gang. The best I can imagine is service in the Royal Navy for ten years.”
The guards ordered them to move out, and suddenly Sho Pi looked over his shoulder at Erik. “Or something else.” He smiled enigmatically at the remark. Erik thought his behavior odd for someone facing thirty years of hard labor.
The prisoners marched out of the hall, back to the death cell.
Those who had been condemned to die alternated between numb despair and frantic rage. Slippery Tom was the most antic with fear; he paced the long death cell concocting plan after plan to overpower the guards and escape the palace. He was convinced the Mockers were waiting for any sign of revolt to launch a raid into the palace to set their captured brethren free.
After a hour, Biggo stood up and said, “Give it a rest, lad. You’re going to hang.”
Slippery Tom’s eyes widened and with a scream he lunged at his friend, grabbing him around the throat. Biggo gripped hard on Tom’s wrists and forced the hands away from his throat, and as he spread his hands, Tom’s face came close to his own. Suddenly Biggo head-butted Tom, whose eyes rolled up into his head as he lost consciousness.
Biggo deposited the limp form of Slippery Tom in a hay-strewn corner. “That should quiet things down for a while,” he said.
Another man said, “Is that what you want? Peace? Well, you’ll have all the peace you’ll ever need come tomorrow morning, Biggo. Maybe Tom’s right and we should die fighting guards.”
Biggo laughed. “With what? Wooden bowls?”
“You anxious to die?” demanded the man.
Biggo rubbed his chin. “Everyone dies, laddie; it’s just a question of when. As soon as you took to the dodgy path you were doomed to the gibbet, like it or not.” He sighed and looked reflective. “Doesn’t seem right to be killing guards for doing their job. We’re going to die anyway, so why spread the misery? Some of them have wives and children.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on a ledge behind the stone bench he sat upon. “Hanging may not be so bad. Either your neck’s cracked”—he snapped his fingers—“and you’re gone, or it chokes you. Choking’s not so bad, I’m thinking. I was choked once in a fight. You get sort of light-headed and everything collapses around your vision, and there’s this bright light. . . . No, me boyo, it’ll be over quickly.”