‘More like he’s been looking after me,’ Fletcher said, warning Ignatius to behave with a thought.
Arcturus, who had been sitting awkwardly next to them, coughed politely.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but the trial starts soon and we’ve had no time to prepare your defence. Othello and his father will be joining us at the trial. They have told me what happened the night of the dwarven council meeting.’
‘Best get you cleaned up while you speak with Captain Arcturus here,’ Berdon murmured. ‘You never were one for self-grooming.’
‘Thanks … Dad.’ The word felt unfamiliar in his mouth, but Berdon’s huge smile told Fletcher he had said just the right thing.
‘May I?’ Berdon asked Arcturus, pointing at a slim knife scabbarded on his belt.
‘By all means.’ Arcturus smiled, handing it to him.
Berdon brandished the knife, then trimmed away Fletcher’s wispy moustache and beard with deft swipes of the blade. He considered Fletcher’s long hair for a moment, then shrugged and handed the knife back to Arcturus.
‘We’ll deal with the length later,’ Berdon said, lifting the comb once again.
Arcturus cleared his throat and for a moment Fletcher thought he saw a tear in the man’s eye. He turned away to sheath his knife, and Fletcher wondered if he was mistaken, for when he looked back it was gone.
‘Let me recap, and you can tell me anything Othello and Uhtred might have left out,’ Arcturus said.
‘Go ahead,’ Fletcher said.
‘You and Sylva followed Othello when he snuck out to attend the dwarven council meeting. Someone betrayed the meeting’s location and Lord Forsyth’s men gathered outside to ambush them, under the pretence of preventing a rebellion. You were able to warn the dwarves before the soldiers could attack, but killed five men as you, Sylva, Othello and Atilla made your escape from the area. Atilla was injured and you carried him to the infirmary at Vocans, guided by Captain Lovett through her Mite, Valens. On the way, a young soldier accosted you but was incapacitated thanks to the Mite. Does that about cover it?’
‘That about covers it …’ Fletcher replied, wracking his brains. It was hard to think clearly with Berdon combing his hair. It brought back memories of when Berdon had done the exact same thing as they sat by the warm glow of the hearth in their old hut, listening to the crackle of its flames.
Sensing Fletcher’s mood, Ignatius returned and gave Berdon a reluctant lick across the knuckles. Then he snorted and spat, pawing at his tongue with his claws.
‘Coal dust,’ Berdon said, grinning at the little demon. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
Ignatius buried his head in the basin-water to wash out his mouth, then tumbled on his back and retched at the taste of the murky brown liquid.
Fletcher laughed at the demon’s antics, but then Arcturus’s grave expression brought him back to reality.
‘Can you think of anything else? Anything at all,’ Arcturus asked.
‘Grindle and four of his men might be witnesses,’ Fletcher said, thinking of the huge thug that had tried to kill Sylva and later attack the dwarven council meeting. ‘I doubt they will use them though, they’re an evil-looking bunch. There’s no other evidence I can think of – we’ll only know when we get in there.’
Arcturus shook his head, rubbing his eyes as he tried to think. ‘I’ve had no time to prepare our case. They’ll execute you and Othello for this, Fletcher. That’s the only punishment there is for treason – hanging or beheading.’
Fletcher’s stomach twisted at the reminder. He caught himself rubbing his neck and forced his hands back to his lap. Beads of cold sweat formed on his back, and all of a sudden his chest felt tight and constricted.
‘They want to take down you and the dwarves in one fell swoop, I know that much,’ Arcturus continued. ‘Even the whiff of a rebellion will have the dwarven council arrested and every dwarven weapon and forge seized. The Triumvirate’s weapons business would lose its biggest competitor, leaving only Seraph and his family to contend with. They’ll throw all of their resources at this. We just need time to come up with a plan.’
As he spoke, there was a knock on the door from one of the guards.
‘Fletcher Wulf. They’re ready for you.’
7
The courtroom was even more crowded than it had been before, but despite this, a hush hung in the air. A double row of benches had been added near the judge’s high table, where ten men and women sat, resplendent in red robes. They watched Fletcher with animosity, as if he might attack them at any moment.