The lawyer called Countess Amril to the court, and she testified that two years earlier, Arista had hexed her when she had told the squire Davens that the princess fancied him. Amril went on to describe how she had suffered horribly of sickness and boils for days as a result.
Next the lawyer called the monks, who, like Countess Amril, were eager to relate how they had been ill-used by the princess. They told how she had insisted the thieves be unchained, despite their assurance it was not necessary, and explained they had been attacked the moment she had left the room.
The crowd’s reaction grew louder, and even Lord Valin looked troubled.
Percy Braga observed the audience with satisfaction from his seat at the rear of the magistrates. The faces of the gentry were filling with anger. He had successfully coaxed the spark into a flame, and the flame would soon be a blaze.
In the crowd, he spotted Wylin moving in the wings toward him.
“We have them, my lord,” Wylin reported in a whisper. “They are gagged and locked in the dungeon. A little banged up by two of my overzealous men but alive.”
“Excellent, and has there been any movement on the roads? Has there been any indication nobles loyal to the traitor Arista may attack?”
“I don’t know, sir. I came directly from the sewers.”
“Very well, get to the gate and sound the horn if you see anything. I’m concerned there may be an assault from Pickering of Drondil Fields. Oh, and if you see that wretched little dwarf, tell him it’s time to bring the princess down.”
“Of course, Your Lordship.” Wylin pulled a small parchment rolled into a tube from his tabard. “I was passed this on my way in. It just arrived via messenger addressed to you.” Braga took the missive from Wylin and the master-at-arms left with a bow.
Braga grinned at the ease of it all. He wondered if the princess in her distant tower prison could sense her coming death. Her own beloved citizens would soon be begging—nay, demanding—her execution. He had yet to present the storeroom administrator who would attest to the stolen dagger that had later been found in Arista’s possession. And then, of course, there were now the thieves. He would hold them until the last and drag them out to the floor gagged and chained. The mere sight of them was likely to start a riot. He would have Wylin explain how he apprehended them trying to save the princess. The magistrates would have no choice but to rule against Arista and grant him the throne.
He would still have to deal with the possibility of Alric’s attacking, but that could not be helped now. He was certain he would defeat Alric. Several of the more disgruntled eastern lords had already agreed to join him the moment he was crowned king. Once the trial was complete, and Arista dead, he planned to hold the coronation. By the next day, he would marshal the kingdom. Alric would cease to be a prince and become a fugitive.
“The court calls storage clerk Kline Druess,” the lawyer was saying, “who was in charge of keeping the knife used to kill the king.”
More damning evidence, Braga thought as he unrolled the scroll that Wylin had presented him. It had no seal, no emblem of nobility, only a simple string tie. He read the message, which was as simple as its package.
You missed us in the sewers.
We now have the princess.
Your time is growing short.
The archduke crumpled the note in his fist and glared around at the numerous faces in the crowd, wondering if whoever had written it was watching him. His heart began beating faster, and he stood up slowly, trying not to draw attention to himself.
The lawyer caught sight of his movement and gave him a curious look. Braga dismissed his concern with a slight wave of his hand. He left the court, forcing himself to walk slowly and calmly. The moment he passed through the chamber doors and out of sight of the crowd, he trotted through the castle halls, his cape whipping behind him. In his fist, he held on to the note, crushing it.
It isn’t possible, he thought. It can’t be! Hearing footfalls approaching rapidly from behind, he stopped and spun, drawing his sword.
“Is there a problem, Braga?” Archibald Ballentyne inquired. He held his hands up defensively before the point of the archduke’s blade. Braga silently threw the crumpled note at him and resumed his march toward the dungeon.
“It’s those thieves, those damned thieves,” the Earl of Chadwick called out as he ran after Braga. “They’re demons! Magicians! Evil mages! They are like smoke, appearing and disappearing at will.”
Archibald caught up with Braga and they descended the stairs to the detention block, where the door guard dodged aside just in time to avoid the archduke. After trying the door and finding it locked, Braga hammered on it. The warden promptly left his desk and brought his keys for the red-faced archduke.
“My lord, I—”
“Open the cell to the prisoners Wylin’s men just brought in. Do it now!”
“Yes, my lord.” Fumbling with his great ring of keys, the warden moved quickly to the cell hall. Two castle guards stood watch to either side of a door and promptly stepped aside at his approach.