He had been here on several occasions, twice to observe a trial, once to give evidence, but never had he thought to sit in the prisoners’ dock himself.
Despite the warning growl from one of the guards behind the dock, Joseph risked a glance to Garth, sitting still and tense beside him.
The youth’s face was pale but composed, and Joseph turned his eyes back to the chamber before him. He would cheerfully give his own life if it meant saving his son’s, but he did not think Cavor would let either of them live.
From the forest Egalion had hastened them with all haste due south to Ruen. Although closely guarded, they were not treated with any measure of harshness, and both Garth and Joseph wondered sometimes at the strange looks Egalion threw their way.
He’d given the guards strict orders not to speak with the prisoners, nor allow them to exchange words between themselves. Egalion himself spent most evenings brooding silently about his camp fire.
If Egalion had treated them firmly but fairly, their treatment had altered harshly once they were under the direct control of Cavor in Ruen. Joseph and Garth were thrown into separate cells, where they lingered for two cold and dark days. No-one spoke to them and no-one entered their cells, although Joseph wondered if occasionally Cavor himself came down to the dungeons to stand outside their iron doors and peer through the peepholes.
Sometimes he’d thought he could feel such venomous anger seeping from the other side of his cell door that Joseph had shuddered and turned his back.
Silence surrounded them, even here in the Chamber of Justice, for Cavor doubtless wanted no-one to hear who it was that the Baxtors had helped escape.
Yet the chamber was packed.
Immediately below the dais where Cavor would sit to pass judgement, the prisoners’ dock to one side, were a veritable horde of scribes, eyes sharp and yet curiously still, their quills sharpened and held at the ready, pots of ink full and easily to hand.
Behind them ranged several hundred observers. Nobles mostly, although Joseph could pick out a score of Ruen’s most important townsmen and merchants, and behind them a goodly collection of the shopkeepers and workmen of the city. Even further to the rear lurked three or four pickpockets and cutpurses—here to witness or to enrich themselves? Joseph did not know and cared even less.
Ringing all were at least four squads of Egalion’s most experienced soldiers, faces blank, bodies tense. Egalion himself stood to one side of the dais, as silent as all the rest, waiting for Cavor’s entrance.
Joseph was not heartened by the empty jury box directly opposite the dock; but then, treason was always tried and judged without the benefit of a jury.
Surreptitiously he dropped a hand to one side and touched Garth on the hip, gently, reassuringly, and was rewarded by a slight relaxing in his son’s muscles. Quickly, before the guard could see and intervene, Joseph sent as much love through the Touch as he could.
More than anything else, he regretted that Garth had been caught in this trap. The boy was far too young to die.
Whatever reflections those within the silent chamber were engaged in ceased the next moment as Cavor emerged from a rear door and stepped crisply to the dais. He was dressed in the blue bearskin-trimmed robes of the highest Justice in the realm; Joseph saw that he wore armour beneath them, the Manteceros gleaming from a brightly burnished chest plate.
Joseph’s mouth twisted wryly; did Cavor need to hide behind armour from the inevitability of Maximilian’s return?
The smile died, and Joseph wondered if Maximilian, even if aided by the powers of Ravenna and Vorstus, could rescue them from this predicament.
Unlike Joseph, Garth harboured no doubts that Maximilian would rescue them. Right was on their side, and if judgement was to be served here today, then Garth believed that it would be passed on Cavor, not on himself or his father.
Garth’s face hardened slightly as he watched Cavor take his place. The man had carefully avoided looking at them, and he arranged his robes scrupulously as he sat in the Seat of Judgement—a high-backed and heavily carved wooden throne. When he raised his head Garth saw that Cavor had just as scrupulously arranged his features; sadness and betrayal shone from his face in equal amounts. Here was a king who had trusted, and who had been betrayed vilely by those he had every reason to trust. Garth had to admire him; few present could have seen beneath the exterior to the lies and secrets kept for seventeen years.
Far to the rear, the mouth of one of the street thieves, his hands uncharacteristically in his own pockets for a change, twisted in a humourless smile. These past days rumours had swept the streets, and the thief had collected them as assiduously as he collected the earnings of other men. Unlike the coin he hoarded, however, the thief had passed the rumours on.
But Garth did not notice the reactions of men in the rear of the chamber. Behind him a guard poked him in the back, and he rose to his feet with his father.
Cavor raised his head to speak, his face composed and grave, his voice ringing with the sadness of betrayal. “My people. It troubles me greatly to request your presence here this day to witness. In the dock,” he did not look their way, “stand two I had once counted among my friends. I trusted them, with my secrets—”
Not all, Garth thought cynically.
“And even with my life.” Cavor shuddered theatrically, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Why they did not slip the knife into my ribs when they had me alone, I do not know. Perhaps they did not have the courage.” He paused. “But I digress.”
His tone strengthened and he sat straighter in his chair. A faint blush stained his cheeks, as if the enormity of the Baxtors’ treason cut to his soul. “Physician Joseph Baxtor, of Narbon, and his son and apprentice, Garth, are charged with treason of the most reprehensible and highest degree. They did knowingly conspire to effect a mass escape of the prisoners justly condemned to the Veins—”
A polite shiver ran through the front ranks of the nobles, although Garth noticed it did not spread to the back of the chamber where stood the ordinary people of Ruen. Undoubtedly many had lost husbands, sons and brothers to the gloam.
Garth’s eyes switched to Egalion. The man’s face was as unreadable as blank stone.
Cavor continued, encouraged by the reaction of the nobles. “Once they had their disorderly rabble freed into the sunlight, they meant to stir a general revolt against the throne of Escator. I have no doubt, my friends,” and Cavor’s tone dropped, as if the words hurt him as badly as the death of a friend, “Baxtor meant to put himself on the throne in order to satisfy his base instincts for power.”
Both Garth’s and his father’s mouths dropped open and Joseph stirred, as if he would say something, but Cavor forestalled him.
“Silence!” he hissed venomously, and the hand he had wrapped about his orb of state trembled violently. “I will hear none of your perfidious and warped words! Your actions judge you, and words will only condemn you deeper into the everlasting fire pits of the afterlife.”
Garth’s chest constricted, almost unable to bear the enormity of the lies Cavor spoke against them.
But then, Cavor had a lot to hide.
To one side, a hint of consternation flickered across Egalion’s face, but he controlled it quickly. Within the back ranks of observers there was a moment of restless movement, but it stilled quickly.
Cavor passed a hand over his eyes, then continued in a quieter and more controlled voice. “They did not succeed—their ineptness resulted in the escape of only one prisoner.” He glossed over the issue of the prisoner. “But I must judge them on their intentions, not their ineptitude, and so,” he took a deep breath and sat back in the Seat of Judgement, “I do so pass judgement. Egalion?”
Egalion jumped, as if his thoughts had been far away.
“Egalion. The covered axe, if you will.”
Despite his determined optimism, Garth shuddered. The covered axe would reveal his and his father’s fate, and Garth had no doubt what it would be.
&n
bsp; Egalion moved to a small pedestal behind the dais, removing a large tray covered with a deep red velvet cloth from its top, then stepped onto the dais and moved around to the Seat of Judgement.
“There is a rumour,” came an anonymous and rough voice from the very rear of the chamber, “that the Baxtors freed Prince Maximilian from the Veins.”
Egalion, still several steps away from Cavor, started and faltered in his stride. He recovered quickly.
“Seize that man!” Cavor yelled, his composure deserting him in an instant. He half stood from his seat, then sunk reluctantly down again.
Guards immediately sprang into the packed audience, but it was too late. Murmuring swelled through the crowd. “Maximilian? Alive? Maximilian? Not dead? What? Who? Maximilian?”
“Aye!” called another, even rougher voice, “and brought back from a living death, ‘tis said.”
Garth and Joseph exchanged quick glances—this must be the work of Alaine the woodsman.
Any further comments were silenced by the guards who had muscled their way into the tight knot of tradesmen and street thieves. They seized four or five men, hustling them out the rear doors, and the Chamber of Justice returned to some semblance of order, although there was still an observable undercurrent of tension, if not of murmur.
Cavor smiled reassuringly, although from his close vantage point Garth could see what an effort it cost him. “See the result of abominable treason, my friends?” he called softly. “No doubt the Baxtors meant to dress up some poor prisoner and hope to pass him off as Maximilian—may his soul rest in peace.”
For the first time he stared at Garth and Joseph. “Or did you think to dye your son’s hair and pass him off as Prince Maximilian?” Cavor laughed, then abruptly sobered. “The depth of your treason hurts and,” his voice dropped, “saddens me. Egalion.”
Egalion now stood to the king’s side. He held out the covered tray, but he lifted his eyes and stared at Garth and Joseph. His bearing was confident, but his eyes were troubled.
Cavor did not notice. The incident at the rear of the crowd had unnerved him, and he wished he’d kept the chamber clear of rabble. But he’d wanted to avoid the look of a secretive trial, for that would indicate secrets to hide, and had ordered the doorsmen to allow in as many as the Chamber of Justice would comfortably hold.
Now Cavor hastened on with the judgement. He indicated Egalion should step forward into clear view, facing the prisoners in the dock. He took one corner of the red velvet and lifted his eyes, staring at the Baxtors.
Both stared back at him, their calmness unsettling, almost defiant.
Cavor swallowed. “Behold my judgement,” he cried, and whipped the cloth from the tray.
Beneath lay the axe of justice, glinting in the sunlight that fell from the chamber’s high windows.
Its blade was turned towards the prisoners in the dock.
Death.
If it had been turned away then the judgement would have been in the prisoners’ favour, but neither of them had harboured any doubts that the wicked blade would face them.
Another murmur spread through the chamber.
Cavor’s face had gone a pasty white. “Death,” he whispered. “Egalion? I would have the sentence carried out immediately. See to it, if you please.”
TWENTY FIVE
CITY SQUARE
The central space of Ruen was octagonal, but had never been called anything else than City Square. Separated from the palace and court complex by a wide avenue, it was used for a number of purposes at any one time: markets (and even the bustling twice-weekly market could not fill its vast area), parade ground, meeting place and, as today, part execution ground.
Whether due to the efforts and rumours of the woodsman Alaine, perhaps aided by the Order of Persimius, or because of the unusual nature of the trial—judging as it did not only a case of high treason (and who had seen one of those in over a generation?) but also the Physician Baxtor and his son—the enormous square was filled to virtual capacity.
Despite its size, the crowd was unusually quiet. Although few knew Garth, Joseph—as were his father and grandfather before him—was fondly and kindly remembered by the ordinary folk of Ruen. All the Baxtors wielded powerful Touch, yet they did not charge high prices for their services. Indeed, on many an occasion, they would only smile and refuse to accept payment if they knew the patient or his family was in financial difficulties.
And Joseph was also closely associated with the old king and with Maximilian. How many times had Joseph Baxtor strolled through this very square with the young prince at his side, smiling and laughing with those who stopped to talk with them?
Maximilian. The crowd was tense. Expectant. Over the past few days unusual and unsettling rumours had swept the city, yet no-one knew their origin nor the full truth of them.
Maximilian. Kidnapped at fourteen. Enslaved in the Veins. Freed by his own indomitable spirit and the magic of powerful sorcerers.
Would he return to claim the throne of Escator? When? And what of Cavor? Darker rumour had it that Cavor had planned the young prince’s disappearance. Few, having heard this rumour, were prepared to repeat it save in deepest privacy.
And Cavor’s trial (if such it could be called) of the Baxtors damned him in many eyes—especially when further rumour placed Garth Baxtor at the heart of the effort to free Maximilian.
Maximilian. Where was he? Did he really exist? Or were the rumours just a cruel hoax, constructed as Cavor suggested, to foment rebellion and civil war?
No-one knew.
But surely, someone, somewhere, must have the answers.
Necks craned and feet shifted nervously. Hands clenched, and then unclenched. The crowd muttered and rustled.
Egalion, squashing his own doubts as best he could (and only he knew how far into the nights they’d kept him awake), marched at the head of the well-armoured execution detail into the square. In the heart of the detail, surrounded on each side by at least eight guards, marched Garth and Joseph.
By this time even Garth’s eternal optimism had begun to pall. He’d expected Maximilian to stand forth in the Chamber of Judgement and challenge Cavor. But nothing had happened. True, one or two men had shouted Maximilian’s name, but the prince himself had remained stubbornly absent.
And a few shouted questions from the back of the chamber had done nothing to halt Cavor damning them to death in City Square.
Garth stumbled and Joseph caught at his elbow, concerned, his own mounting horror evident in his dark eyes.
“I’m all right, father,” Garth muttered, half expecting the guards to strike him for speaking, but they kept their heads averted and their weapons to themselves. Perhaps the Baxtors were as good as dead in their eyes anyway, and a few mumbled words and goodbyes would matter neither one way nor the other.
Joseph’s hand tightened. “There is still hope, Garth. Still hope.”
Garth tried to smile for his father, but it didn’t work.
The guards marched them remorselessly on.
The crowd stirred as the execution detail moved out from the court complex into the square. Troops had kept a way clear for it, and the detail marched sternly and briskly towards the hastily assembled executioner’s platform to one side of the square. The splintered platform rose the height of two men above the heads of the crowd and there was a wide open space before it; no-one was to be denied a view.
Behind the detail came Cavor himself on a magnificent white horse, still in the blue robes of justice, but now thrown back over his shoulder to reveal more of his armour and the sword that swung at his hip. On his head sat the crown of Escator, and below it his face was implacable and showed not a shred of doubt or guilt; those who could see him wondered at the truth of the rumours—surely their king was too confident and too grave to be accounted a schemer who had cheated Prince Maximilian of the throne?
Behind Cavor marched yet more troops, their booted feet sounding an uncompromising dirge.
The e
xecution squad had now reached the platform, and Egalion directed several guards to march the Baxtors to its top. The other guards he ranged two deep about the platform to repel any foolish rescue attempts; yet, despite the number of guards, Egalion could not stop his eyes traversing the crowd in a curious yet apprehensive sweep.
He did not yet want to admit to himself for what or for whom he looked.
Cavor waited until Joseph and Garth, their hands now bound behind their backs, were standing behind the two wooden blocks—their surfaces scarred and stained by years of use—before he spurred his horse forward, scattering several of the crowd before him.
“My people!” Cavor shouted, standing up in his stirrups. “I beg you witness the deaths of two of the most heinous traitors this realm has yet bred!” He repeated the accusations he’d mouthed in the Chamber of Justice (and he’d rehearsed them so often in his mind that he now almost believed them himself), watching the crowd’s reaction with satisfaction. When he’d heard Maximilian’s name shouted in the Chamber of Justice, Cavor had momentarily doubted the wisdom of such a public accusation and execution. But now he was pleased. If anyone else had heard these treasonous rumours of Maximilian then best they realise the consequences of believing in them.
Garth and Joseph Baxtor’s deaths would do more than silence a pair of traitors; it might well stop civil insurrection before it had a chance to breed and fester.
And once I find Maximilian, Cavor thought coldly, once I find Maximilian then there will never be an excuse for rumour again. I’ll do to him what I should have found the means to do seventeen years ago. No-one is ever going to threaten my right to this throne again. Mark or no mark, Maximilian will surely die.
“Executioner!” he shouted, swinging his horse back to face the block. “Do you stand ready?”
A black robed and masked man stepped forward from the back of the platform. “Aye, sire. I stand ready.”
Two guards nudged Garth and his father forward, forcing them to their knees before the blocks. Garth gave his father one long, last look, then looked inward, searching for the inner peace he needed to meet death.