Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

“What happened, Nathaniel? You’re all bandages and scratches and bites.”

“Nothing good, I can tell you.” He reached out and pulled her to him, curling his legs around hers. He reached up and began to unbutton her dress. “I’m thinking, however, if you would be so kind, you’re the tonic that will heal my wounds, and make me forget how they got there in the first place.”

29 June 1767 St. Martin’s Cathedral Temperance Bay, Mystria

As Ian Rathfield sat in the front pew, he was forced to marvel over the efficiency with which the Cathedral had been transformed from House of Worship to House of Justice. The altar had been moved to the side and a high bench had been erected in its place beneath the vaulted ceiling, with room for each judge. Though the finish matched that of the light wood used in the Cathedral’s construction, the bench’s height and sharpness of line robbed the building of any compassion.

The coat of arms of each diocese hung before the judges, with Bishop Bumble in the middle. Bishop Harder, a large, swarthy man with black curls of hair growing from his ears and bushy eyebrows covering half his forehead, sat on Bumble’s right. Blackwood’s Bishop Southfield, a small, balding man with a gargantuan red nose, sat on his left. Each man wore a black robe and a black skull cap.

To the left sat the prosecution table. Benjamin Beecher sat at it and shuffled through papers. He wore black pants, white socks to the knee, black shoes, and a black smock-coat. Even given Beecher’s slight of build, with thinning black hair, Ian found he could not dismiss the man out of hand. Not only did this come from his earlier encounters with the man, in which he found something disturbingly serpentine about his manner, but because of the way he sorted through documents. The man placed them in distinct piles, squaring them up with themselves and the edge of the table. He did so with the concentration Ian had seen on the faces of men preparing to shoot other men at point-blank range.

Opposite him, another table had been arranged in front of the steps leading up to the apse. Steward Fire sat at it, wearing well-worn grey clothes. He’d been clapped in irons, to restrain him and limit his use of magick. Fire’s captors had even gone to the uncommon length of placing him in iron gauntlets. They also fixed a slotted mask to his lower face, presumably so iron could mute magick in his words. Had Ian been so bound, he would have felt as if he was a dog, but Fire bore up as best as could be expected. This, even though the short chains from collar to gauntlets and down to shackles kept him hunched forward.

Bishop Bumble stood. “Your Honors, Mr. Beecher, brothers and sisters in the Lord: we gather here to assess the guilt or innocence of Ephraim Fox. He stands accused of heresy. He did knowingly and willfully, counter to the orders from his Church superiors, lead others into his heresy. He took them beyond the bounds of fellowship in the Church and established them without authority in lands beyond the mountains. His actions did, directly, lead to their worshipping idols, participating in blood rituals, and taking part in ritual human sacrifice. He is a known consorter with demons and a practitioner of Dark Arts.”

Bishop Bumble had just begun to warm up, when a voice from one of the pews interrupted him. “I beg your pardon, Bishop Bumble, but I must ask: Are you prosecuting Ephraim Fox, or standing in judgment over him?”

Bumble’s jowls quivered with unvoiced rage. “I preside here, Mr. Frost.”

The speaker, a tow-headed young man, moved to the aisle and came forward. “I thought I would ask because you seem to be testifying against him.”

“I fail to see how this is a concern of yours, Caleb.”

“I am a parishioner, as you well know. I’ve listened to your many sermons on Faith and Justice. I’ve studied them. I have my degree in Divinity from Temperance College.” Caleb Frost stood next to Steward Fire. “In the interest of propriety, I thought I would stand for the accused, so none may suggest, Your Honor, that haste denied Justice.”

“Very well, Mr. Frost.” Bumble seated himself. “Mr. Beecher, you will proceed.”

Beecher stood. “We would call our first witness. Colonel Ian Rathfield.”

Rathfield stood and raised his right hand.

“Colonel, do you swear to tell the entirety of the truth, and only but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

Beecher moved piles around so one was centered before him. “Colonel Rathfield, when you found Ephraim Fox in Happy Valley, did you see evidence that his settlement there practiced plural marriage, in defiance of the Church’s 1567 prohibition against same?”

“I had no opportunity to make that determination.”

Beecher looked up. “Is it not true you saw evidence of men living in homes with more than one adult woman?”

“I did not enter any such homes, nor did I speak with any of the people, so I do not know what their living circumstances were.”

Bumble pounded a fist on the bench. “Need I remind the witness that he has sworn to tell the truth?”

Ian met Bumble’s angry stare openly. “I have taken an oath before God to do so. I can tell you only what I know to be fact and still abide by that oath.”

Beecher flipped one sheet over, and then back. “Very commendable, Colonel. Did you ever hear the Steward deny that plural marriage was practiced in Happy Valley?”

“No.”

“And did the living arrangements strike you as unusual in Happy Valley?”

Ian hesitated. “There are many things in the west, Mr. Beecher, in all of Mystria, which seem unusual to me.”

“You need to answer my question. Did the living arrangements there, or in Piety, seem unusual to you? A simple yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” Beecher shifted to another pile. “Did you find the Steward employing Rufus Branch as a trusted aide?”

“Yes.”

“Did the Steward prevent him from being brought to justice for crimes he had committed in the Colonies?”

“Yes.”

Caleb rose from the pew behind the Steward. “I object.”

Bumble’s head came up. “On what grounds?”

“Ephraim Fox’s association with Rufus Branch might have broken a law, but there are no church prohibitions against such an association. The Good Lord lived among thieves and fallen women, and prison chaplains actively work to redeem same. This line of questioning is immaterial.”

Bumble’s nostril’s flared. “Mr. Beecher.”

“Yes, your Grace.” The slender man nodded solemnly. “Did you, Colonel, see Mr. Branch working to translate golden tablets which the defendant said they had taken from a ruin in the mountains?”

“Yes.”

“Did he describe these tablets as having been written by God in His own hand?”

“Yes, he did.” Ian’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Fire. Ian had never mentioned that detail to Beecher or Bumble, and he was certain neither Woods nor Strake would admit it. Fire must have told that to them, but why? Then he looked more closely at the man, the way he hunched down. He’s been beaten. He is protecting ribs. I wonder if the gauntlets hide more wounds?

“Colonel?”

Ian’s head came around. “Please repeat the question.”

“In Piety, did you see Ephraim Fox offer an invocation to his Satanic master, then burn the Church.”

“What? No.”

“He did not burn the Church?”

“Yes, yes, of course he did. The entire congregation was in there. It was the only thing to do.”

Beecher nodded, his finger trailing down lines on a sheet. “So you just did not hear the invocation to diabolic forces?”

“I wasn’t near enough to hear what he said. None of us were.”