Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

Beecher smiled easily, his brown eyes narrowed. “No one but Ephraim Fox and the people who had sacrificed themselves under his influence. Colonel, you were present when he used magick to kill Becca Green’s mother?”

“He tried to save her.”

“Are you sure, Colonel? He used magick on the girl, didn’t he? But did nothing for the woman?”

“He used magick to save me.”

Beecher’s head came up. “To heal you from a head wound, of which you have no memory receiving, and of which there is no mark on your head, isn’t that right?”

Ian frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“Not that you are not a hero, Colonel. We all know you are.” Beecher smiled toward the defense table. “The Frost Weekly Gazette made that very clear in its last issue. No, sir, it is the contention of this court that Ephraim Fox knew you were incorruptible, therefore he used magicks, proscribed magicks learned from the same Satanic source which produced the tablets, to alter your memory so it could contain no memory that would convict him of heresy. Moreover, we contend that he did this with each of your companions, in turn, as opportunity allowed while they brought him here.”

Caleb stood again. “I object.”

Bishop Harder leaned forward. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that the Colonel is being asked to speculate about events of which he has no memory. On the grounds that Mr. Beecher contends that the Colonel’s lack of memories proves that Ephraim Fox used magick to steal those memories. In short, lack of evidence becomes proof that a crime was committed. By that logic, one could conclude that because the Tribunal is not wreathed in flames and reeking of sulphur that you all have been raised to the bench directly from Hell.”

Beecher slowly clapped his hands. “You would be correct, Caleb, save for one thing.” He raised a thick sheaf of documents bound with twine. “We have a witness to all of this. Ephraim Fox himself has confessed to doing it all, and Colonel Rathfield has just revealed how insidiously thorough he truly was.”

Ian reached his apartment by midday and drew all of the blinds. Though he had desired to stay at Strake House just to be close to Catherine, he could not tolerate knowing that she and Owen shared a bed just down the hall from his rooms. He had to get away, so he’d found furnished rooms in Temperance and hid himself away there.

The rooms were not much, and he could have afforded better, but he settled for two small rooms, shabbily painted and floored with dark wood. Most people would have found the rooms quite spare, despite their being furnished with a table, two chairs, a wardrobe, and a bed. For a man used to living in a tent on campaign, the rooms seemed a bit full.

On his trip from the Cathedral he ventured all the way to the docks and procured a bottle of whiskey from a tavern chosen at whim. He carried it home inside his coat, then set it on the parlor table. He sat across from it in the near dark, aching to drink himself into oblivion and yet not daring to risk the consequences.

He had never imagined the trial to be anything less than a sham. From the very first, when Bumble had charged him with the added duty of finding a pretext through which the Steward could be dragged back and put on trial, he understood the danger Fire presented. The man’s preaching could lead people astray, and as a man who knew well his own sins, Ian recognized the threat to their souls. He had not thought far enough ahead to imagine that Fire might be killed, but he did realize that separating the man from those he might influence was important.

But the trial was not being conducted to convict Ephraim Fox. Bumble had extracted a confession from him, so conviction was a formality. The trial was about Bumble being able to display himself as a leader protecting the people. He’d had Ian there merely to show that even an officer of the Queen’s Army had to answer to him. Had Caleb Frost not offered himself as a focus for Bumble’s ire, Ian’s reticence to openly condemn the Steward would have had terrible repercussions.

Though he had tried to do the honorable thing, Ian felt soiled. His leg throbbed, and it was from more than just having stood to give his testimony. Bumble had turned Ian’s mission to his own advantage, sullying a duty which Ian had performed to the best of his ability. The trial mocked him, and though Bumble had backed away from extorting his cooperation this time, Ian had no doubt that Bumble would use him ruthlessly in the future.

He reached for the bottle, thinking to uncork it and let the amber liquid burn down his throat. It had been nearly two years since he’d drunk any hard liquor-not since the night his wife took her own life. In that time he’d only ever drunk wine, and only if it was diluted with water. But he wanted the whiskey for its ability to steal memories-of the trial. Of more.

Someone knocked at the door.

Ian almost ignored it, but his visitor rapped again. He forced himself up and limped to the door. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob, then he opened it. Only one person knows I’m here.

“Thank God, Ian!” Catherine Strake pushed passed him, then turned and embraced him. “I was there. I saw.”

Ian pushed the door closed, but could not escape her grasp. He knew she shouldn’t be there, and he knew he should set her back at arm’s length, but he felt hollow. He felt as if he would collapse, save for her holding on to him. So he slipped his arms around her.

“I wish you had not seen.”

“Why?” She took his face in her hands, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You were magnificent, Ian. You were more a hero in there than you were killing dire wolves or at Rondeville. You stood up to that tyrant, Bumble. I have never seen a man so brave.”

Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Her hands slipped into his hair, pulling him down to her, and he crushed her to him. He held on tightly, kissing her hotly, fiercely. She moaned into his mouth and ground her body against him. He felt himself begin to respond, and then they drew apart only enough for four hands to make quick work of buttons and bows, belts and garters. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the room’s small bed, laying her down there on a quilted coverlet.

She drew him to her, shaking her head to loosen her hair. With nibbles and playful licks, quick caresses, and the long slide of her legs against his, she enflamed him. She rolled him onto his back and grasped him, sliding him into her. They moved together, their hips rising and falling, she a vision of loveliness, her breasts swaying with the fluid rhythm of his thrusts. Her eyes closed and back arched, her mouth falling open, her hands clawing at his shoulders. She cried out, sharply, her body shaking and then, with him still hard inside her, she lay forward on his chest and licked at his neck.

“Let me catch my breath, lover, and then…”

Ian thought, just for a moment, to push her away. I should not have done this to Owen. He even grasped her shoulders to do that, but she ducked her head and licked at one of his nipples, then kissed him. And as she brought her head up, he saw in her eyes the light he had once seen in his wife’s. In that instant, though he knew himself damned, he also knew himself to be loved. To trade one for the other seemed a wise bargain, and one from which he could not depart.

He smiled. “Yes, lover, catch your breath, and then I need you to show me how much you love me.”

29 June 1767 Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria

Miranda squeezed Owen’s hand tightly as they reached the docks. She stopped moving forward. He looked down and saw fear flash over her face. Then the little girl’s eyes began to well up with tears.