Arcturus’s jaw clenched but he remained silent. Fletcher wondered who Arcturus’s witness could be. Seraph, perhaps?
Jakov led a soldier into the room, wearing the charcoal uniform of the Forsyths. Fletcher did not recognise him, but didn’t think he was one of Grindle’s soldiers. They had all been hard, muscular men, while this one was young and skinny, barely older than Fletcher himself. He took his seat at one of the witness podiums.
‘State your name for the jury,’ Charles ordered.
‘I am Private John Butcher of the Forsyth Furies,’ the soldier said in a confident voice. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Fletcher and Othello.
‘Tell me, John. What did you see on the night in question?’
‘We were on a night training exercise, when we heard gunshots. Five men were dead when my squad arrived, so we searched for the attackers. I was separated from my group in the darkness. That was when I saw them.’ John finally looked at Fletcher and Othello, pointing to each of them with a steady finger. ‘I held them at musket-point, hoping reinforcements would arrive in time. It was then that I was paralysed by a Mite’s sting and they escaped. That’s the last I saw of them. My squad found me several hours later.’
‘Thank you, John. That will be all,’ Rook said. John stood and saluted, before marching out of the room. Fletcher watched his stiff back with a heavy heart. He recognised the boy now. The worst part was, it was all true.
‘That concludes the prosecution’s evidence,’ Rook said, lifting his notes to read aloud. ‘In summary. We have the motive – membership of the Anvils for Fletcher, and as for Othello …’ He paused, then lifted another sheet of paper. ‘Well, Othello, he has a rap sheet as long as my arm. Assaulting a Pinkerton, resisting arrest, spreading anti-human propaganda. A known troublemaker.’
‘Circumstantial!’ Arcturus said loudly, looking to the jury.
‘Nonetheless – motive!’ Rook growled, daring Arcturus to disagree. Fletcher’s heart sank further as Rook handed the sheet of paper to the jury to pass around. Othello was guilty of none of those charges. He had simply taken the blame, and the beatings, for his twin brother, Atilla.
‘We know the murder weapons, from the burns on the bodies from Fletcher’s Salamander to the discovery of the Thorsager tomahawk,’ Rook continued, nodding at the weapon on the table. ‘Finally, we have a reliable witness who places them at the scene. Now, we shall interrogate the accused. Guards, bring the dwarf to the witness stand!’
Othello struggled to his feet as the shackles were removed, then shuffled to the podium. He glared at Rook, his moustache bristling as he wrinkled his lip in disgust.
‘Where were you on the night of the attack?’ Rook asked, steepling his fingers.
Othello stared at Rook defiantly. He crossed his arms with a clatter of chains.
‘Why did you attack those men?’ Rook demanded, leaning forward. ‘Did you plan it, or was it a spur of the moment killing?’
Othello’s gaze never wavered. He was like a statue, unblinking and still, but for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
‘Well, it looks as if your gag did the trick, Jakov,’ Rook said, braying with laughter. ‘He’s been struck dumb!’
There was a soft chuckle from behind, and Fletcher turned to see old King Alfric smiling.
‘Still, he does look at me in a distinctly disrespectful way, wouldn’t you agree, Charles?’ Rook said, the humour suddenly gone from his tone.
‘He does indeed. Incredibly disrespectful. Slovenly in appearance, too. Beard unkempt, hair all over the place,’ Charles replied, rubbing his chin. ‘His grooming does not show this courtroom the respect it deserves.’
They were play-acting now, Fletcher could tell. It was like watching a poorly performed pantomime, and it filled him with dread – this was preplanned.
‘Jakov, why don’t you come here and give it a trim,’ Charles said, beckoning the large guard over.
Othello’s face paled. He tried to stand, but Charles slammed his hands on to the dwarf’s shoulders, keeping him in the chair. Ordinarily, the brawny dwarf would have had no trouble escaping Charles’s grip, but the chains impeded him, leaving him swaying back and forth.
‘You can’t!’ Fletcher shouted, tugging at his manacles. ‘It’s sacrilege to cut a dwarf ’s hair!’
He heaved on them until the metal bit his skin, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his fingers.
Arcturus turned to King Harold, but the monarch sat in silence, his arms crossed. Lord Forsyth, Didric and Lady Faversham were grinning with savage abandon, and old King Alfric was whispering excitedly into Didric’s ear.
‘This is against his civil rights,’ Arcturus said, appealing to the jury. ‘This is illegal!’