Dana Stabenow - Powers of Detection

The dead girl was blond and buxom. Her skirts were ruffled and dirtied, her bodice torn, and there were dark marks around her throat. The tip of her tongue protruded from her mouth in a manner that put Crowfoot forcibly in mind of the statues of the stone gargoyles lining the cornice of the roof of the Guild of the Magi back in Hestia. Those gargoyles, however, formed a ring of power designed to keep the forces of darkness from penetrating the sanctuary. This girl had had no such defense.

A man stood next to the body, tall, muscles going to fat. He had a heavy jaw and dark eyes set deep beneath a shelf of a brow. Collapsed against his side, tears sliding down her face, was a plump, blond woman, older than the girl but so similar in form and feature that the relationship was obvious.

Sharryn leaned down to close the girl’s wide, staring blue eyes with a gentle hand. This small act of compassion had a soothing effect on the crowd, and Crow could feel a palpable easing of tension.

Sharryn stood up, leaning on her staff, and looked at the couple. “Your daughter?” she said gently.

He jerked his head at the blond woman. “Hers.”

“I am so sorry,” Sharryn told her.

The woman continued to weep with no reply.

Sharryn looked at the man. “Your name, goodman?”

His expression was not friendly, but he said civilly enough, “Nestor. This is my wife, Agathi.”

“And this was…”

“Agathi’s daughter, Nella.”

“Not your daughter.”

He shook his head. “From her first marriage.”

“Ah.” Sharryn looked around for her new bailiff. “Goodman, a blanket or a cloak, if you please.”

Cornelius nodded, picked up the canvas that had been the roof of the dais, and spread it over Nella’s body without waiting to be told.

“Now then,” Sharryn said, looking at the young man with the noose around his neck. “I see you have determined who committed this foul deed.”

“We have,” Nestor growled.

“Good,” Sharryn said. “You have proof, of course.”

“He was found standing over the body.”

“Ah. Who found him?”

“I did.”

The crowd had crept closer again, the better to hear every word. “I see,” Sharryn said.

He stuck out a truculent jaw. “It is our right, under the Charter, to exact justice.”

“It is,” Sharryn told him, “when it is justice.”

Nestor’s face darkened, and there was a corresponding mutter from the crowd.

The young man with the noose around his neck began to struggle against it and received a cuff on one ear in response from one of the two men holding him. Crow recognized him, and then knew the man he was preparing to hang. These were the two who had fought over the girl in the square that afternoon. She looked down at the canvas-covered body. This girl.

Sharryn looked up at the young man in the noose. “Do you deny these charges, goodman?”

His mouth opened, and a kind of animal grunting came out, impassioned, forceful, but sounding more like a pig than a man. Sharryn looked at Nestor.

“A demon has him by the tongue,” he said. There was a murmured chorus of agreement.

“Elias is possessed of no demon!” Zeno said hotly, forcing his way forward. “He is my friend, and a good man! He loved Nella! He would never have hurt her!” He looked around and found Crowfoot. “In the name of the Charter that binds the Nine Provinces, I call for justice! I call for the justice of the Seer and the Sword!” He ran to Crow’s side. “You have to,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Crowfoot, you must help him, he can’t speak for himself!”

“Shut up, you little brat,” someone growled, to a chorus of muttered approval.

“Hang him, then!” someone shouted, and others took up the cry. “Hang him!” “Hang the murdering bastard!”

“No!” Zeno cried.

Someone cuffed the boy across the face, and he flew backward into the crowd. Zeno was lost in a trample of feet.

Crow drew the Sword. She held it point up, hilt before her face, and cried, “Let the Sword sing!”

The moon, a new crescent, was well up in the sky, and its light danced along the blade. A single severe, sustained note sliced through the uproar like a sharp edge through flesh. The crowd melted back at Crow’s approach, revealing Zeno prone on the ground. His mouth was bleeding, his cheek was bruised, and he winced and clasped his side when she nudged him to his feet, but he was ambulatory, and he followed her back to Sharryn. The Sword remained unsheathed, and Crow felt the link kick in solidly, with all the weight of Sharryn’s considerable exasperation behind it.

Did you have to do that?

What did you expect, that I would let the child be trampled? Crowfoot kept her face impassive, but in truth she was as annoyed as the Seer was. Now the Sword could not be sheathed again until a verdict had been reached and a judgment rendered. She let the flat of the blade rest lightly against her left shoulder, both hands clasped on the hilt.

“We need no diviners here,” Nestor said. “We can hang a murderer without your help. Yes, and bury our dead, too.”

His wife sobbed out loud, but there was a growl of agreement from the crowd. They had been cowed by the Sword’s song, but there would have to be some resolution of the murder or, Crow had no doubt, there would be more murder done.

Sharryn kept her tone mild. “You live under the protection of the king, goodman. You are, as are we all, subject to the Treaty of the Nine and the Great Charter.” She added distinctly, her eyes hard, “And you will address me as Seer.”

He stared at her, his expression unpleasant. What he might have said next was drowned out by the crowd.

“To hell with this talk! Killer! Murderer! Hang him!” someone yelled, and there was another movement to press forward. Crowfoot stepped in front of Sharryn and raised the Sword. It sang again, the pure note descending into a clear baritone, a long, low pitch of warning that reverberated in the back teeth of everyone in the square. Many clapped their hands to their ears, a few were brought to their knees. A girl screamed, and babies wept.

It was a warning, as sharp as the edge of the Sword itself. It was the first time the Sword had been heard in Daean, but none who heard it could fail to understand it. The crowd fell back as one. The mob lust for blood had been broken with a single note.

“Sorcery,” Nestor said, though he was as pale and shaken as the rest.

“Yes,” said Sharryn. “Of the very strongest. Remember that, goodman.” She turned to the dais. “Bring him down.”

They brought Elias down forthwith and no arguing. Sharryn regarded the man who stood before her. He was looking at the canvas-covered body with tears tracing down his cheeks. She pulled the noose from his neck. There was another angry rumble from the crowd.

Crowfoot stepped forward. “Good people,” she said. “You stand in the presence of the Seer of Truth and the Sword of Justice. By the pledge of the King, there will be order.”

A translucent aura enveloped both women in a haze of light, casting their features in bold relief. Staff and Sword gleamed as if dipped in quicksilver. The illusion was gone in an instant, leaving only a tenuous memory of itself behind. Later, some would dismiss it as simple magic, a glamour conjured up to intimidate the ignorant and the foolish, yet another example of the wizarding sleight of hand that, out of control, had led to the last series of wars that had brought Mnemosynea to its knees. Others wouldn’t be so sure. “I had my doubts about the Charter,” old Pavlos said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after downing a tankard of Makarios’s best. “But after watching those two witches at work the other night I’m thinking we’ve got a king we should keep.”