Chapter 64
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why, then, ’tis time to do’t.—Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?
—William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Macbeth, quoted by Amelia Dyer at her Convocation trial
He entered the Medieval Stratum and made our way to the Palace of Westminster, forever the home of Parliament.
Beyond it lay Westminster Abbey, hulking in the twilight.
But in front of us the walls of Westminster Hall rose tall and majestic.
Flint and stone dressings framed thirty-foot windows divided by plate traceries.
Bright light from within lit the stained glass in vibrant hues that spread across the yard behind us.
Lakshmi had explained that, by tradition, all trials were held at Westminster Hall on the Medieval Stratum, because this was the era in which it was built.
The doors opened and a tall, slender man appeared. His shadow bore the thin scarlet rim of a raptorial. He dressed us down with his eyes, then nodded to Lakshmi. She stepped forward, and the two exchanged hushed words. A moment later, the man motioned us to follow.
Just inside, an elderly woman played a bright russet light on a terra-cotta lantern and peered into our shadows.
She nodded, and six raptorials appeared to escort us up the steps to the vestibule of St. Stephen’s porch.
Vaulted stone arched high above us. On our right, multicolored light shone through dozens of stained glass windows.
On our left stood the massive opening to Westminster Hall, from which we heard a crowd of murmuring voices.
Church asked our raptorial escorts to give us a moment to confer privately. They withdrew a few paces, and Church pulled us into a small circle. “Preposterous as it is, the central accusation is still that you killed Henry.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to make this about Brach,” I said, “about how his killing Henry was a crucial part of his plan to take his revolution topside.” “We have precious little evidence to prove Brach’s culpability,” said
Church.
Cassius was our only evidence tying Brach to Henry’s murder. But if he confessed, he’d be dismissed. I couldn’t let that happen. Besides which, it just felt like I was missing something.
“More than that,” Church went on, “if you accuse Brach without evidence and lose the trial, punishments for any of your other Precedent indiscretions will seem like child’s play.”
The raptorials signaled our time was up and led us around a short wall of fluted stone to the long view of Westminster Hall. I had to stop and take a breath, trying to fathom what I’d gotten myself into.
The hall stretched a good seventy yards long and sixty feet across.
Great vaulted ceilings framed with massive timbers rose a hundred feet from the floor.
Down both sidewalls giant tapestries hung depicting scenes drawn from all eight Strata.
Beside them stood thanatists and raptorials wearing clothes from the era their tapestry represented.
And above the wall hangings, large galleries rose.
Most were filled with thousands of whispering spectators, their clothes likewise matching the era of the nearest drapery.
All save one—a narrow, private box gallery at the center of the far wall, set with five black wood chairs.
At the center of the hall were eight tables set in a broad octagon, with space between them and a high-backed chair behind each. A single short table sat at the center of the octagon, a pair of chairs on either side. Next to it sat a black-iron box the size of a walk-in safe.
At the far end of the hall, a set of doors opened.
Brach and Emaline entered, lanterns and bows and threads dangling from their belts.
Behind them were Bazalgette, Swan, Rutherford, Purcell, and two women I didn’t recognize—one in a wool Saxon peplos, with a belt dangling keys, amulets, threads, and a bow; the other in Roman leather armor with a crimson robe fastened over one shoulder.
The shrill call of a horn echoed into the great hall.
Everyone seated in the galleries stood. The horn sounded again, and the thanatists next to the tapestries drew their bows and played long, tremulous notes against their lanterns.
The lamplight touched the drapery fibers and lit them like a thousand tiny filaments, causing them to shimmer.
Their depictions sprang to life, the fabric suddenly gone, the broad draperies now become portals.
Mild breezes wafted in from these openings with the heady aromas of livestock, industrial smoke, sewage, and—thankfully—a bit of fresh air.
Groups of men and women emerged from each of these gateways. When they’d all passed through into the hall, the attendant thanatists ceased to play their lamps, and the portals closed, becoming tapestries again.
The chancellor from the medieval portal, a gaunt man with a deeply receding hairline and wearing a long, black coat with silver decorative buttons down the sides, approached his table and sat. His attendant thanatist and raptorial took positions behind him.
“I’m Master Wat Tyler,” said the man. “Here to represent the Medieval Stratum. And today I’ll also be presiding. I remind everyone, though, that my vote counts the same as our other distinguished chancellors.”
Church whispered, “He led the Peasants’ Rebellion.”
“Yeah, first guy to ‘march on the Capitol,’ ” I whispered back. “They put his head on a pike for it.”
“We’ll begin with the Raptorial faction,” Tyler said, “represented by Chancellor Nancy Wake.” The woman wore a smart grey suit with the George Cross medal over her heart.
“She doesn’t get an actual vote, but I’d wager she’ll see things our way,” Church said under his breath. “She hates authoritarians.”
Jack nodded and whispered back, “She once topped the Gestapo’s wanted list.”
“The Modern Stratum,” Tyler went on, “is represented by Chancellor Jack Churchill.”
A thickset man in British battle dress sauntered to his table wearing a broadsword on his hip and carrying a set of bagpipes.
“The Victorian Stratum,” Tyler continued, “is represented by Captain Richard Francis Burton.”
A man with a deep scar running down from his left eye and sporting a French-forked beard took his seat.
“The Renaissance Stratum,” Tyler said, “is represented by Grace O’Malley.”
A short, lean woman with long, red, wavy hair and wearing a green ankle-length dress over a white blouse sat next.
“The Saxon Stratum,” Tyler announced with a grin, “is represented by Lady Aethelflaed.”
A broad-shouldered woman wearing a conical helmet and short-sleeved chain mail over a crimson undershirt strode in and sat heavily.
“The Roman Stratum,” Tyler said, deference in his voice, “is represented by Lady Boudica.”
Lady Boudica glared at me as she approached her seat. Her long, tawny hair was braided back. She wore a large golden torque, a bright red-and-green tunic, and rather casually carried a dagger in her left hand.
“And finally, the Ancient Stratum,” Tyler declared with a flourish, “is represented by King Caswallawn.”
A barrel-chested man with large hands and long, black-and-silver hair walked to his seat. He wore a dark-blue and black cloak fastened over one shoulder with a gold ring.
The chancellors’ attendant thanatists and raptorials all took their places behind their respective representative, but remained standing. Then Tyler raised a hand.
From behind a drape in the private gallery, four figures emerged and sat in the black wood chairs.
Schism leaders. A lean man wearing a scarlet robe and nemes—Brotherhood of Heka.
A young man in a gilet and fingerless gloves—S.L.A.M., I figured.
An elderly woman wearing clothes fashioned of animal skin, with charcoal stripes on her neck and chin—Children of the Ashes.
And a lithe woman in black leathers, crescent moons on her cheeks—Dusk Parade.
The vacant fifth chair obviously belonged to Brach.
Once the schism heads were settled, the chancellors sat and Tyler pointed at us.
Church stepped forward and motioned for us to follow. On the far side, Brach and his entourage did the same. We stopped on opposite sides of the octagon. Emaline looked over at me, eyebrows slightly raised. I subtly shook my head. She sighed and looked away.
Tyler pounded the table with his fist. “Let’s get on with it. Counsel for the defendant. Please introduce yourself and your punter.”
The gallery chuckled, then quieted as Church began. “Chancellor Tyler”—he bowed—“Counselor Alastair Cooper and Mr. Jack Solomon honor the summons to trial and request admission into the circle to answer and argue.”
Tyler raised a hand again. Church and I left Kincaid, Chuey, Lady, Cassius, and Lakshmi outside the octagon, walked into the center, and sat in a couple of stiff chairs at the cold mahogany table.
“So then,” said Tyler to Brach, “it is your complaint.” “That it is,” said Brach.
Tyler motioned him into the center. Emaline followed him in, the rest of his entourage remaining on the other side of the octagon.
“Before we begin,” said Chancellor Wake, “I want you to know, Mr. Solomon, that we are all of us saddened by the passing of Mr. Wilkinson. Disagreements aside, he was a caring man.”
Most of the chancellors muttered in agreement.
Chancellor Churchill came around his table, adjusted his sword, and sat on the table’s edge. He knocked the wood hard once and said, “Mr. Solomon, I’m Jack Churchill. You may call me ‘Mad Jack’ to keep things clear.” He laughed. “The bastard who killed Henry’s going to rot. Pray God it’s not you.”
I whispered to Church, “He carried that sword into World War II.” “Mad Jack and Henry were friends,” Church whispered back.
Brach stood and cleared his throat. “With all due respect, commiserations and threats must wait. And I say that as one who was a closer friend to the deceased than anyone else here. Instead, to do the man justice, I urge that we get straight to the matter.” He leveled a withering stare at me.
“Mr. Solomon stands accused of killing Henry Wilkinson. I submit that before he compounds this charge further or tries to flee, he be boxed.”
Captain Burton knocked his table, stroked his French-forked beard, and said, “My research shows Mr. Solomon is from the Americas, which is part of the Sotadic Zone. Might the murder of Mr. Wilkinson have been an incident of repressed sexual feelings given violent release?”
Brach turned to face the Victorian gentleman.
“Captain Burton, sir, I don’t believe so.
Mr. Wilkinson had a long and happy marriage to a Mrs. Martha Wilkinson.
And Mr. Solomon, by all accounts, enjoys the company of a good woman.
Rather, I would ask if it isn’t the least bit suspicious that the day before Mr. Wilkinson’s death, he revised his will and named Mr. Solomon his sole beneficiary. ”
“Including the Iron Horse?” asked Burton. “Indeed,” said Brach.
I knocked on our table.
Tyler rolled his hand. “Something to add, Mr. Solomon?”
“I didn’t know about the will,” I said. “And even if I had, it would be circumstantial, wouldn’t it?”
A round of soft laughter rained down from the galleries.
“Mr. Solomon,” said Tyler, “this isn’t some topside court where the burden of proof rests entirely on the prosecutor. The chancery gets to have a look at context in rendering its judgment. So, you best go easy on your objections, eh?”
Church offered a conciliatory smile and pulled some documents from his satchel. “Mr. Solomon is new to Precedent Law, but I can attest that Mr. Wilkinson had long planned to bequeath—”
“Which is beside the point,” interrupted Brach. “Mr. Solomon is a failed musician. The day of the murder, he’d been relieved of his only prospect to sustain himself with his trade. And that same evening, when Mr. Wilkinson told Mr. Solomon of the will, Mr. Solomon saw his opportunity and took it.”
“But I’m telling you,” I almost shouted, “I didn’t know about the will until after I’d identified Henry at the morgue—”
Someone in the gallery booed, and the rest of the rabble laughed and whistled until Tyler shushed them.
“So you say,” said Brach. “But I’ll take it a step further.
We all know that a mortal human’s only interest is self-interest. With that in mind, I offered you all the fame and fortune of a successful music career.
Yet you turned me down.” Brach looked into the face of each Strata chancellor in turn.
“I submit that Mr. Solomon realized the potential of possessing sole access to the Abyssal Steps, and so hastened his proprietorship by killing Mr. Wilkinson.”
Church held up some papers. “I would remind the chancery that the will alone does not transfer proprietorship. The ward must also accept its owner and bond to him.”
“Which,” argued Brach, “is not something Mr. Solomon would likely have known before he murdered Mr. Wilkinson.”
Lady Aethelflaed rapped her knuckles on her table. She took off her helmet and pinned Brach with a hard look. “Has the ward bonded with Mr. Solomon?”
“Lady Aethelflaed,” said Brach, “with all due respect, that is entirely beside the point. Mr. Solomon has flouted Precedent Law. He must stand to account, just as Edward should have answered for the assassination of your husband, despite the grace of your subsequent rule.”
Grace O’Malley drummed her table with her fingers. “Mr. Brach, you have not answered Chancellor Aethelflaed’s question.”
Church whispered, “O’Malley survived Queen Elizabeth’s eighteen Articles of Interrogatory. She loathed the Irish and English monarchs. She’s our wild-card vote.”
“The answer, my ladies, is currently yes,” Brach admitted.
“But during his short tenure, he’s already once lost that bond, and has compromised his ability to renew it.
The truth is that unlike either of you, Mr. Solomon has but a tenuous grasp on what it means to truly lead.
And I’ve not yet even mentioned his attacks on other thanatists, such as Sir Bazalgette, nor his pursuit of illegal Orcus thread, which should concern us all.
No, my ladies, he is, quite frankly, dangerously ill-equipped to steward the Iron Horse and its Abyssal Steps—”
I knocked our table and stood up. “You might be right, but that is also beside the point.”
“Really,” said Brach, “and to which point do you refer?”
Church gently grabbed my arm and whispered, “We don’t have hard proof, Jack. And we certainly haven’t heard much goodwill here. Tread lightly.”
The hell I would.
I pointed a trembling finger at Brach. “You murdered Henry Wilkinson.”