The Serpentwar Saga

They reached camp without having spoken a word. The fire was burning brightly as Althal placed more wood on it, and rich smells of smoke and crisping game reached Miranda’s nose.

The boys were now asleep and Galain gently set them down upon the ground. Softly he said, ‘It will be light in a few hours. They can eat when they awake.’

The elven woman sat heavily upon the ground, and Miranda knew she was exhausted, emotionally as well as physically. Her home had been destroyed and certainly her husband was dead, and suddenly she was in a strange place with people she didn’t know, without even the most basic personal possessions to call her own. In the language of her homeland, she said, ‘Who are you?’

Switching into Yabonese, the language of the neighboring Kingdom province, and related to the ancient language of Kesh, the common ancestor of the language spoken by Ellia, Galain said, ‘I am named Galain. We are of the eledhel – as are you.’

‘I do not know this word eledhel,’ said Ellia, outwardly calm, though Miranda knew she must be terribly frightened.

‘It means “the light people,” in our own language. There is much you will need to know. But to begin, ages ago our race was divided into four tribes, for want of a better term. Those who are eldest among us, the eldar, are the keepers of wisdom. Those who live here in Elvandar and serve Queen Aglaranna are called eledhel. There are others: glamredhel, the wild ones, and moredhel, the dark ones. Some years ago we learned of your people, whom we call ocedhel, “people from across the sea.” We are not sure if you are properly glamredhel or eledhel who have lost knowledge of their own race. But either way, you are welcome to Elvandar. We live here.’ He smiled. ‘We are like you. Here you will be safe.’

Ellia looked pointedly at his face, studying his eyes. As if reading her thoughts, he pushed back his long hair to show her the upswept, lobeless ears that marked elvenkind. She sighed in relief. ‘Safe …’ she repeated. Her tone showed she scarcely believed.

Miranda said, ‘You will learn that you are as safe here as anyplace on this world.’

Ellia nodded, hugging her knees to her chin as she closed her eyes. After a moment, a tear appeared upon her cheek and she sighed.

Galain left her to her memories, and spoke to Miranda. ‘You make an impressive entrance.’

Spitting the word, Miranda said, ‘Snakes.’

Galain’s eyes narrowed. ‘The serpent men?’

Miranda nodded.

Galain said, ‘We will leave as soon as the boys awake and eat. Sleep now if you can.’

Miranda didn’t need convincing. She lay upon the damp ground where she sat, and within moments was fast asleep.

The boys rode upon the shoulders of Galain and Althal, while Ellia and Miranda hurried along. Miranda knew they were not moving as quickly as they would have been able to unburdened, but she had to struggle to keep pace. Only Ellia’s awkwardness gave her some small comfort, for it was a lifetime living in the woodlands that gave these elves their surefooted passage in the undergrowth, not their race.

The boys had awakened and eaten, and without discussion the party had left the campsite near the river. They had moved for the better part of the day, and had paused only long enough to eat some dried meat and fruit at midday. Then they had moved steadily through the trees until an hour before dusk.

Galain had gone hunting while Althal made a fire. Within the hour, Galain had returned with a brace of rabbits. While not sumptuous fare for four adults and two children, there was enough so that no one slept with hunger pangs.

Morning came too quickly for exhausted children and two tired women, but they were again on the trail as the sun rose in the east. By noon they encountered a patrol of hunters who quickly exchanged information with Galain and Althal. The conversation was lost upon Ellia, who was ignorant of the subtleties of eleven communications, and Miranda missed a great deal.

Near midafternoon, they came to an enormous clearing. Ellia stumbled, her mouth opening in awe, and even Miranda was impressed.

Across the clearing rose a mighty city of trees. Boles to dwarf the mightiest oak rose high above them, blotting out the sky. A canopy of leaves formed a massive roof above the trunks that stretched away beyond sight. Dark green, the awning of treetops was punctuated by an occasional tree of a different color, some golden, others white, a few sparkling with emerald or azure lights. A soft glow seemed to tease the limits of vision, as if a magic haze enveloped the entire area.

Galain said, ‘Elvandar.’

They crossed the clearing, and as they approached the nearest trees, Miranda could see figures moving. Workmen labored, curing hides, fashioning weapons in forges, and carving wooden implements. Others fletched arrows, worked stones, or prepared food. But the common nature of these tasks took nothing from the impact of the city itself; Elvandar was perhaps the most magical place upon the world. Soothing sounds, rather than the loud noise of workers, filled the air, and voices were musical rather than harsh.

Reaching a giant tree, Miranda saw stairs had been cut from the living wood of the huge trunk.

‘If you have a fear of heights, say now, Miranda.’

Miranda came out of her revery and saw Galain studying her and Ellia. She said nothing, shaking her head, and Galain led them upward.

As they climbed, Miranda saw that some of the larger branches were flat on top, forming narrow roadways upon which elves walked, moving from tree to tree. Many of the trees were hollow, and what seemed to be small dwellings were fashioned inside.

The elves who passed smiled in greeting, and several were openly delighted upon seeing the twin boys. Most wore leather, brown or green in color, but others wore soft robes, decorated with gems or beads. All were uniformly tall; some were fair, but others were as dark of hair as was Miranda.

A few wore furs and carried weapons, with metal-studded armbands and necklaces of gold set with precious stones. These looked openly at the women in curiosity, and their expressions were less friendly when turned upon Galain.

As they passed, Althal spoke. ‘The glamredhel are still not completely at ease here. But then they’ve been with us but a short time.’

‘How long?’ asked Miranda.

‘Those two who passed, not yet thirty years.’

Miranda had to suppress a laugh. ‘Barely a long visit.’

Galain turned and smiled, showing he understood her humor. She wasn’t sure if Althal shared his understanding.

To the back of a large branch a platform was anchored, and from it rose a stairway of wood and rope. Mounting it, the two elves escorted Miranda and Ellia to another, larger platform, and along a broad thoroughfare. This led to a maze of platforms, small markets, and meeting areas, and at last they reached a gigantic platform, dominating the very heart of Elvandar.

Entering, Galain led them to the center, where he faced two figures sitting upon a dais. He and Althal gently put the boys down and bowed. ‘My Queen,’ Galain said, ‘and Tomas.’

The woman was impressive, a regal-looking elf with golden-red hair and eyes the color of ice-blue glaciers. Hundreds of years old, she looked much as a human would in the prime of youth, her face unlined and her body still straight and limber. Her features were chiseled and delicate, but there was strength in her bearing.

The man at her side was even more striking, for he was not quite human or elven in appearance. Six inches over six feet in height, he was broad of shoulder and deep in the chest without looking bulky. His eyes were an even paler blue than his companion’s, and his hair was sun-streaked yellow. His features were human: even brow with straight nose, full but not soft mouth. Yet somehow an agency had molded those features, casting an alien image over them. He was too regal to be handsome, yet when he smiled, a boy’s charm appeared.

The woman rose and Miranda bowed, and Ellia looked confused. At last she curtsied clumsily, while the boys clung to her.

Ignoring formalities, the Elf Queen came up to Ellia and gently took her in her arms and embraced her. Then she knelt before the boys and touched each upon the cheek. She said something softly, and Ellia said, ‘I don’t understand.’

Galain said, ‘Our Queen speaks to your companion.’

In the Keshian dialect most like Ellia’s, Aglaranna said, ‘I said, “You bring us treasure.” Your sons are beautiful. We are so much the richer for their joining us.’

Ellia’s eyes welled with tears as she said, ‘They look like their father.’

Tomas rose, and as he crossed to stand before Ellia, he said, ‘It is not the way of my wife’s people to speak the name of those who have traveled to the Blessed Isles. In his sons he lives on. You are more than welcome here.’ To Althal he said, ‘Take these newly come to us and find them a home. See to their needs.’ Then he addressed Ellia. ‘You are safe here, and under my protection. No harm will come to you or your sons in Elvandar. At first our ways will seem strange to you, but you will come to know that they are your ways, truly, and that your fathers’ fathers had been apart from us too long. Welcome to your true home.’

Weak with relief, Ellia allowed herself to be led away, one child holding fast to each of her hands. When they had left, Tomas said, ‘And who are you?’

‘A friend of your son’s,’ answered Miranda.

Galain leaned upon his bow and said, ‘I thought your name familiar.’

Tomas’s expression remained neutral. He motioned for Miranda to come away from the dais and led her over to a table, where several elves had placed refreshments. Motioning for a few members of the Queen’s court to attend, he said, ‘How is Calis?’

‘Disturbed,’ answered Miranda. ‘Has he told you his mad plan?’

By the fearful expression on Aglaranna’s face, she could see he had. Tomas nodded.

‘Well, for better or worse, I’m helping him.’ Then she shook her head. ‘Though how much good I’m doing is …’ She picked up a pear and bit into it, chewed, and swallowed. ‘Now, the snakes know someone with some talent was snooping around their army.’ She explained what had happened: her scouting the advancing army across the sea, the encounter with Ellia and the boys, her escape, and the final attack at the bank of the river.

After she was finished, Aglaranna said, ‘It was unlikely they’d think their mad campaign would escape the notice of those with power for long. It may be they think you one of any number of magicians or priests.’

Miranda nodded. ‘And they have no way of knowing where I am. The one who found me is in no condition to tell them. The others might suspect I’m here, but they won’t attempt to breech your defenses … yet.’

Tomas said, ‘We can speak more of these matters in the morning. You should rest. Night is almost upon us and you look fatigued.’

‘Oh, that’s what I am,’ agreed Miranda, ‘but by morning I plan on being a great distance from here. There is much to be done and little time in which to do it. I must seek out your son and confer with him, and next convince some otherwise reasonable men to agree to a most foolish and dangerous undertaking. Then I can be about other business. I hadn’t planned on coming here straight away, but now that I’m here, can you tell me something?’

‘What?’

‘Where I can find Pug?’

Tomas glanced at his wife and said, ‘We’ve not seen him for years. The last message I had from him was seven years ago. He said he was concerned over the reports my son brought back from his last voyage to Novindus. He had consulted with the Oracle of Aal, and …’

‘And what?’ prodded Miranda.

Tomas’s blue eyes regarded Miranda for a moment, as if measuring her. He said at last, ‘He said he feared that his own powers would be lacking in the coming battle and he needed to seek allies.’

Miranda smiled and there was nothing of humor in that smile. ‘His powers were lacking.’ She shook her head. ‘Who else on this world matches him in power, save you?’

‘Even my powers pale compared to what Pug can do if need be,’ answered Tomas. ‘My arts are set by my heritage, and are as they were at the end of the Riftwar, fifty years ago. But Pug, he studies and learns and masters new things yearly, and it may be no one since Macros the Black can approach his might.’

At the mention of Macros, Miranda made a sour expression. ‘Much of what is alleged about his prowess was based upon his listeners being gullible, by all reports.’

Tomas shook his head. ‘I have been places you could only imagine, woman. And I stood at Macros’s side in the Garden of the City Forever, and I saw the creation of this universe. He may have been a man given to overboasting at times, but not by any great margin, I will avow. His powers approached the gods’, and his skills would be welcome in the coming fray.’

Miranda said, ‘Still, by all reports the Black Sorcerer is fifty years vanished from his realm. So then, whom could Pug be seeking?’

Aglaranna said, ‘Find the where, and that may tell you who.’

Tomas said, ‘If he is not upon this world, then I suspect you must go to other worlds. Have you the arts?’

Miranda said, ‘If I don’t, I can find those to help me who do. But where to begin the search?’ She looked at Tomas. ‘Reputedly, you and Pug were as brothers. You would know where to begin the search.’

Tomas said, ‘I can think of only one place, but it is much as if I said search the sea for a particular fish. For the place to begin searching is as vast as any place in all the myriad possible universes.’

Miranda nodded, saying, ‘The Hall of Worlds.’

Tomas nodded, too. ‘The Hall of Worlds.’

• Chapter Seven • Trial

Roo stirred.

He felt a hand on his leg, and in his sleepy state he brushed at it weakly. He felt it clamp down and suddenly he was wide awake.

An ugly face loomed over his, leering and grinning. ‘You’re an ugly sod, boy, but you’re young.’ It was the nervous man with affected speech of the day before who was now fondling Roo’s leg.

‘Ah!’ shouted Roo. ‘Keep away from me!’

The man laughed. ‘Just having a joke, me lad.’ He shivered. ‘Damn cell will give a man his death. Now shut up and go back to sleep, and we can both get warm.’ The man turned over, back to back with Roo, and closed his eyes.

The brute called Biggo, who had regained consciousness an hour after being tossed into the cell, said, ‘Don’t terrorize the lad, Slippery Tom. This is the death room. He’s too much on his mind to be thinkin’ of romance.’ His speech had the lilt of Kornachmen of Deep Taunton, rarely heard in the West.

Slippery Tom, ignoring the jape and the accompanying laughter, said, ‘It’s a cold morning, Biggo.’

Seeing Erik now awake, Biggo said, ‘He’s not a bad sort for a liar and murderer, is Slippery Tom; he’s just scared.’

Roo’s eyes widened. ‘Who isn’t?’ he said with a frantic note in his voice. He closed his eyes tight, as if to shut out everything by force of will.

Erik sat back against the unyielding stone wall. He knew Roo had spent a fitful night, awakening several times shouting in his sleep as he wrestled with personal demons. Erik glanced around the cell. Other men slept or sat quietly in their place as the night wore on. Erik knew that the bravado Roo had exhibited since awakening in the cell the day before had been some sort of madness: he couldn’t accept the inevitability of his own death.

Biggo said, ‘Spanking young bottoms is common enough in the prison gangs, but Slippery is just looking for someone warm to cozy up to, lad.’

Roo opened his eyes. ‘Well, he smells like something died in his shirt last week.’

Tom said, ‘And you don’t exactly remind me of flowers, youngster. Now shut up and go back to sleep.’

Biggo grinned, and his bearlike face looked nothing so much as that of an overgrown child, one with broken and crooked teeth. The beating administered by the guards the day before had done nothing to enhance his appearance; blue, purple, and red lumps decorated his visage. ‘I like to sleep cuddled with someone warm. Like me Elsmie. She was sweet.’ He sighed as he closed his eyes. ‘Too bad I’ll never see her again.’

‘You talk like we’re all going to be convicted,’ said Roo.

‘This is the death cell, me lad. You’re here because you’re going to be tried for your life, and not one in a hundred who has sat here lived two days past his trial. You think you got a way to beat the King’s justice, boyo?’ asked Biggo with a laugh. ‘Well, good on you if you do. But none here are babes, and we all knew what the deal was when we took to the dodgy path: “get caught, take your punishment.” That’s the way of it, for a fact.’ He closed his eyes, leaving the two young men to their own thoughts.

Erik had been awake most of the night, falling asleep only a few hours before, wrestling with the same questions. He had never been a religious sort, going to temple on the festival days, joining the vineyard workers in the blessing of the vineyards every year. But he hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to face Lims-Kragma in her hall. He vaguely knew that every man came to stand before her, to account for his deeds, but he always thought of that as some sort of priest talk, what Owen Greylock had called a ‘metaphor’ where one thing said stood for another. Now he wondered: Would he simply end? When the box was kicked out from under his feet and the rope either snapped his neck or choked the life from him, would it turn all dark and meaningless? Or would he awake in the Hall of the Dead, as the priests claimed, joining the long line of those waiting for Lims-Kragma’s judgment? Those found worthy were sent on to a better life, they said, while those found wanting were sent back to learn those lessons that had eluded them while living. There was talk that at some point those who lived pure lives of harmony and grace were elevated somehow, beyond human understanding, to a higher existence.

Erik turned his mind away from the question, again; there was no answer he knew, until he actually faced death. Either way, he thought with a silent shrug, it’ll be something interesting or I’ll not mind. He closed his eyes on this thought, finding it strangely comforting.

The door at the far end of the hall clanked open, iron bands striking cold stone. Two guards with drawn swords led a prisoner into the hallway. Another two guards walked before and after him, holding wooden poles looped through iron rings on a wooden yoke set around his neck. The pressure on the yoke kept the man from being able to reach either guard, and the awkward procession made its way to the door of the death cell.

The prisoner was otherwise undistinguished. He seemed a young man, little older than Erik or Roo, though this was hard to determine, as his race was alien to the two young men from Ravensburg. He was one of the yellow-skinned men from Kesh, from a province called Isalani. A few had passed through Ravensburg from time to time, but they were still the object of interest to the provincial residence of that town.

This man was plainly dressed, in a simple robe, with an empty carry-cloth – a large cloth used to carry belongings, in place of a backpack – hung around his neck. His feet were bare, and his head was uncovered, showing a thatch of thick black hair roughly cut above the ears, but falling long in back. Black eyes regarded the unfolding events without expression.

When the door was reached, the first guard unlocked it and ordered the prisoners to move to the far end of the long cell. Once they had obliged him, he opened the door and the two men with the poles steered the prisoner to the opening. With practiced dexterity, the lead guard unfastened the neck yoke and the two guards slipped the poles out. The collar was removed, and with unnecessary force the remaining guard put his boot to the prisoner’s back and shoved him into the cell.

The prisoner stumbled one step, but caught himself and stood motionless. The others looked on in curiosity.

‘What was that all about?’ asked one man.

The new prisoner shrugged. ‘I disarmed a few of their guards when they tried to arrest me. They objected to that.’

You disarmed them?’ said another prisoner. ‘How did you do that?’

The young man sat down on the vacant stone bench. ‘I took their weapons from them. How else would you imagine I did it?’

A few of the prisoners asked the newcomer his name, but no conversation was forthcoming, as the new prisoner closed his eyes while remaining seated upright. He crossed his legs before him, each foot resting upon the opposite thigh, and put his hands, palms upward, on his knees.

The other prisoners looked at him for a few minutes, then returned to sitting and waiting for whatever fate would bring them next.

An hour later the hall door opened again and a company of soldiers entered. The man Erik had met before, Lord James, walked in. Then the men in the cell began to mutter as a woman entered, followed in turn by a pair of guardsmen. The woman was old, or at least she appeared that way to Erik. Older than his mother, at any rate. Her hair was a startling white and her brows were pale enough for him to think her hair had always been this color. The lines in her face notwithstanding, Erik thought she was nice to look at, and she must have been beautiful when young. Her eyes were an odd blue, almost violet in the darkness of the cell, and she carried herself with the bearing of nobility, despite an expression of sadness on her face.

Erik wondered what could be the cause of this expression of regret: could she have some sort of feeling about the men who would be tried in the Prince’s chamber this day? She stopped before the bars, and the sullen prisoners were completely silent. For some reason, Erik found himself standing, feeling the urge to touch his forelock, as he would to any lady of quality who passed on the road in her carriage. Roo followed his example and soon the other men were standing as well.

The woman ignored the filth and wretched stench of the cell as her hands closed upon the bars. She was silent while her eyes searched out every face, and when her gaze at last turned upon Erik, he found himself suddenly afraid. He thought of his mother and Rosalyn, and thinking of Rosalyn made him think of Stefan, and suddenly he was ashamed of himself. He couldn’t look at the lady any longer and lowered his eyes.

For long minutes the woman stood silently, her rich gown becoming dirtied by contact with the rusty iron of the bars as she leaned against them. Erik glanced up and found that as she looked from man to man, only the new prisoner could return her gaze, and at one point he even smiled slightly. But for several of the men her penetrating gaze was too much, and they began to weep. Then at last her own eyes began to fill with tears and she said, ‘Enough.’

Lord James nodded curtly once and motioned for the two guards to escort her out of the cell. When they were gone, he said, ‘You men will face trial this afternoon. Kingdom justice is swift; those of you found guilty of capital crimes will be brought back to this cell and in the morning we will hang you. You’ll be given one last meal and time to make your peace with the gods. Priests of the twelve orders will come for those who ask for shriving, and for the rest of you who don’t wish to speak with a priest, well, you can spend time contemplating your sins. If you have an advocate, he will be allowed to speak for you before Prince Nicholas; if you don’t, you must speak for yourself or the Crown will convict you by default. There is no appeal, so make your brief persuasive. The King is the only man who can overrule the Prince, and he’s busy.’

Without another word, the Duke of Krondor turned and left the cell block. A guard waiting in the connecting hall reached in and pulled the door shut behind him.

The men stood silently for a long minute, then one, the man called Slippery Tom, said, ‘Something about that witch gave me a chill.’

‘It was like having me mum finding me with my brother’s sweets on festival day,’ said another.

Slowly they sat, and when every man was back in his place, Roo turned to Erik and asked, ‘What was that all about?’

Erik shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do.’

‘She read your minds,’ said the newcomer as he returned to his contemplative pose.

‘What?’ came from several of the men. ‘She read our minds?’

Without opening his eyes, but with a very faint smile, the newcomer said, ‘She was looking for some men.’ Then suddenly his eyes opened and he glanced from face to face. ‘I think she may have found them.’

His eyes lingered on Erik and he said, ‘Yes, I think she has.’

The midday meal was plain but filling. The guards brought in a platter of bread loaves and a round of hard cheese, as well as a bucket of a vegetable stew. No knives, forks, or other potential weapons were permitted, but dull-edged wooden bowls were provided for the stew. Finding himself suddenly hungry, Erik shouldered through the press at the bars as the guards handed out the food.

‘Here, now!’ shouted a guard. ‘There’s enough for all of you, though why you’d have any appetite when you’re going to hang tomorrow is beyond me.’

Erik took a bowl and grabbed a loaf of bread, broke off a hunk of cheese, and returned to where Roo sat. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’

Roo said, ‘If the guard’s not lying, there will be more when I get to the bars.’ He rose slowly and moved to where the press of prisoners was lessening, then took his bowl and held it close to the bars as the guard filled it with a metal ladle. Then a loaf of bread and some cheese was given to him, and he returned to Erik’s side.

One of the prisoners said, ‘The food’s better here than at me mum’s!’

That brought a weak laugh from two of the men, but the rest ate in silence.

Shortly after the meal, the guards came to escort the prisoners to the Prince’s court. Each man’s leg irons and shackles, wrist irons and collars, and all the chains were inspected. The newest prisoner, the Isalani, stood silently as the wooden collar was presented to him. He said, ‘I will cause you no difficulty.’ Then with an enigmatic smile he said, ‘I am interested in what is about to occur.’

The guard sergeant seemed to think about it, but the man walked quietly out of the cell and stood in place behind the man who had been led out before him. The guard sergeant made a curt nod, indicating it was all right, and the other prisoners were put in the line.

‘All right, any of you makes a break, we shoot you down and that’s the end of it. So if you prefer a crossbow bolt to the rope, now’s your chance. But be warned, if the bolt doesn’t kill you outright, it’s a messy, pitiful way to go. Saw a man with his lung punched out of him; that was a sight. Now, move the prisoners along!’ The company of crossbowmen lined the hallway where they marched, and the prisoners, now numbering twelve, were led through the palace, up to the Prince’s hall.

Dirty, poor, and miserable, these men were ushered into the presence of the second most powerful man in the Kingdom, Nicholas, Prince of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles, brother to King Borric, Heir Apparent to the Crown. The Prince was a man of forty-some years of age, and his dark hair was still almost entirely without grey. His eyes were dark brown and deeply shadowed; the stress of burying his father was obvious, etching deep lines on his face.

He wore mourning black, and his only badge of office was his royal ring. He sat in the large chair at the end of the hall, raised upon a dais. The chair next to his, used by his mother when his father ruled only days before, was empty. The Dowager Princess Anita was in seclusion in her quarters.

Standing beside the throne was the Duke of Krondor, Lord James, and beside him, the mysterious lady who the Isalani said read minds.

The prisoners were ushered into the Prince’s presence and the guard sergeant had to order them to bow. The men made an awkward attempt, and at last the court was called to order.

Several onlookers lined the sides of the halls, and Erik noticed Sebastian Lender among them. That made him feel slightly better than he had in days.

The first prisoner was called before the Prince, a man named Thomas Reed, and to Erik’s surprise, the man called Slippery Tom moved before Nicholas.

Nicholas looked down on Slippery Tom. ‘What are the charges, James?’

The Duke of Krondor nodded to a scribe, who said, ‘Thomas Reed stands accused of theft and aiding and abetting in the murder of the victim, a spice merchant named John Corwin, late of Krondor.’

‘How do you plead?’ asked James.

Slippery Tom glanced around the room and tried to present as pleasant an expression as possible to Nicholas. ‘You Majesty –’ he began.

‘“Highness,”’ interrupted James. ‘Not “You Majesty,” “Your Highness.”’

Grinning as if this social gaffe were his worst offense, he said, ‘You Highness, it were this way –’

James interrupted, ‘How do you plead?’

Suddenly angry eyes regarded the Duke as he said, ‘I was attemptin’ to explain this to His Highness, sir.’

‘Plead first, then explain,’ said Prince Nicholas.

Tom seemed to think of his options a moment. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I guess I would have to say I was guilty, but only in a sense of it.’

‘Enter the plea,’ said James. ‘Do you have anyone to speak on your behalf?’

‘Just Biggo,’ said Tom.

‘Biggo?’ said Nicholas.

James said, ‘The next defendant.’

‘Oh, well, then tell me your story.’

Tom began to spin an improbable tale of two poor workmen attempting to do the right thing in a bargain gone sour with a spice merchant of dubious character who cheated the two basically honest workers. When confronted with his perfidious acts, the spice merchant had pulled a knife and in the ensuing struggle had fallen on his own blade. The two wronged men, regretting the malefactor’s death, had taken his gold only in the amount they were owed, which happened to be all he was carrying. ‘And that’s not all he owed us,’ said Tom.