Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1 - Chapter 5: Chapter 5

It was fairly easy to get into a place one wasn't supposed to be in. It was simply a case of working out whether someone needed tipping off, blackmailing, or murdering; and castle guards almost always needed murdering.
Arlen had lost count of the number he had sent down the river, naked and floating face down, and barely glanced up as this last one drifted away on the current. He secured the dead man's helmet on his head and slipped down the visor, and only then did he turn to stare out onto the water. He placed two fingers against his chin and then pointed them to the sky as a prayer to Nict for the man's soul, and then promptly forgot about him. By the time he'd reached the bottom of the steps in one of the castle's many back entrances, he couldn't remember what his victim's face had looked like.
"That was one hell of a piss, Derell." One of the dead man's colleagues stepped out from behind the wall, face disgruntled. "How long you been holding onto that one for?"
"Got issues," Arlen grunted, in a perfect imitation of the dead Derell's voice. "Fuck off, Jared."
Jared held his hands up for peace, slipping down his own visor. "Just don't wanna be late for a trial, is all. Lord won't take kindly to hearing that we were late cuz your bladder's janky."
"Make you janky in a minute," Arlen muttered, and grinned behind the visor when Jared sighed. He had picked his victim well; Derell's colleague didn't suspect a thing.
He had broken into the royal household so many times before that he had no trouble leading the way to the courtroom. He would wager there weren't many areas of the castle he hadn't seen, but he had spent a good deal of time in the courtroom in particular. His employer always liked to have a witness in the Assembly, even though the Devils were never invited to attend. It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed, that a guild of assassins, rogues and general good-for-nowts were not invited to participate in judicial proceedings, but if anyone in that room thought it meant no Devils were present, they were terribly stupid. The High Lord himself would be looking for signs of him. By the time they found Derell's body, however, Arlen would be long gone.
They entered the courtroom via the back entrance; the prisoners would be entering via the ceremonial arch at the front. The door Arlen stepped through was little more than a hatch hidden behind the Lord's high-backed chair for discreetly allowing guards and Heads of Houses in and out. Some Heads were already seated; Eril of House Orthan sat on Harkenn's right, and Kerrin of House Kiel on his left. Varthi's Head of House was absent as usual – probably bludgeoning the leader of another tribe to death and baking their brains over a coal fire, Arlen thought snidely. Nict had not yet arrived and neither had the Head of the Heretical Orders. The Unspoken seat was occupied by Yddris, and Yddris's eyes were on Arlen the moment he stepped through the hatch.
They had always danced this dance, Yddris and Arlen. Yddris would always know, and Arlen would always make his exit long before it was possible to arrest him. What perverted witchcraft the Demon Catcher used to identify him Arlen didn't know or care to find out, as long the Unspoken kept out of his way. He had no great fondness for Unspoken in general, but something about Yddris rubbed him entirely the wrong way. He was bristling by the time he reached Derell's vacant position in the ranks.
Shortly after he settled into place, sword drawn and placed point down between his feet with his hands clasped around the hilt, the great doors of the entrance echoed with knocking. The general bustle of the court reduced to a simmer. All attention turned to the broad platform below as two guards heaved the doors open. Out of the corner of his eye, Arlen saw Callan of House Nict flit to his seat like a withered shadow, and the new Head of Heretical Orders follow with much less grace to take her seat beside Yddris.
When the prisoners were brought through, Arlen felt almost disappointed. Their arrival in the city had caused such a stir that it had even reached the Dead Quarter hours after it happened, and yet all he saw below was a pair of frightened children. They were both tan, with hair the colour of grain, and similar enough in their features to be related. They kept their eyes on the floor, but the girl looked as determined as the boy did despairing. Only briefly did the male prisoner look around as he entered before his gaze shot to the ground again, and Arlen winced. Even from at the back of the courtroom he had seen the boy's tears, which meant anyone who was looking would also have seen them. He heard a quiet scoff from the direction of the Heads' panel, and suspected it came from Eril.
"Not much to look at, eh?" Jared muttered beside him. "Surprised anyone would think they were capable of something like this. Just look at the boy. Soft as dog shit, he is."
Arlen grunted in response. It was true that the boy didn't look like he could light a match without spooking let alone open a portal, but looks could be deceiving.
He knew that all too well.
"The girl, though," Jared added after a moment, "She looks like a difficult one."
Arlen glanced over again. The prisoners had been made to kneel on the platform before a copy of the Assembly Script. Neither of them knew what they were looking at, judging by their expressions. Jared was correct, however bluntly he had put it; the girl looked like the one with the backbone. She frowned at the Script as if attempting to decipher it. The boy was still trying to get himself under control.
The Lord entered at that moment, drawing the room's attention. The slave girl Anarabelle followed behind, chained at the wrists and neck. Arlen glanced her way and then averted his eyes. Slender and lithe and tall, with dark hair and large, liquid eyes, she was deceptively innocent-looking, but every Devil that had ever set foot in the castle had been warned against getting in her way. A strange legacy for a slave, but one that no one was willing to challenge; Faellian Harkenn had a reputation for surrounding himself with terrifying women.
Harkenn seated himself as if he were merely sitting to dinner, and fixed the prisoners with a long stare.
"Grace Haverford," he barked. The court stirred to attention. The girl's head snapped up. "Rise."
She got to her feet.
"You have read the Assembly Script?"
"No, sir."
A muffled gasp went around the room. Arlen smirked under his visor. This was going to be interesting.
Faellian sat forward in his chair, stare turning to a glower. To the girl's credit, her wince was minute.
"Why not?"
"I can't read it, sir," she said. "It's in a script I don't understand."
Faellian's eyes narrowed. "But you both speak Common."
"It is written differently where we're from, my Lord. I cannot read it."
"I see." The Lord sat back. Then he sighed. "I can't bear to hear it read out in full today. We'll get by without it." He waved a hand. "But do not bother to lie, girl, the court can tell."
"Yes, sir." Grace Haverford inclined her head, deep enough not to give offence, but shallow enough to make her feelings known. Arlen glanced down. Her companion was looking between her and the Lord as if considering intervening.
"The rest of this whole situation is quite out of the norm," Faellian said after a long pause, addressing the disgruntled looks of the Heads at his high table. "Why not throw this little detail out, as well?"
Lord Eril leaned over and murmured something.
"I'm sure your concubines would agree wholeheartedly, Eril," Faellian said in response, loud enough for everyone to hear. The old man turned delicately pink as a ripple of laughter went around the room. "Now, to business." He sat forward again. "Yesterday evening, witnessed by most of the city, a portal opened over Shadow's Reach around Second Rising. From this portal many have given testimony to seeing you and your brother fall through, as well as a Listener native to Nictaven. Do you dispute this?"
"No, my Lord."
"I would like you to give the Assembly an account of what happened."
"Well." The girl cleared her throat, seeming suddenly aware of all the eyes on her. "My brother and I were on a trip to an island off the coast of..." she faltered, and then began again, "a country in our world called Scotland. There was a place of worship there once, though only the ruins are left. I wanted to investigate for the purposes of education and my brother agreed to come with me."
"Do you concur?" the Lord asked the boy, who looked up and nodded.
"Y-yes, sir."
"You can stand too, if you wish."
There was a definite tremble to the boy's legs as he stood. He had stopped crying, and wiped the tears from his face quickly before setting his jaw and standing rigid beside his sister. Somehow she still looked the bigger of the two. Arlen almost pitied him for the attempt.
"And what happened then?"
"The crypt was still intact," the girl continued. "I'd been asking around to see if there was anything worth investigating, and someone told me it was still standing. Nothing seemed wrong at first and we were there for an hour or so with nothing happening before we found the crypt entrance. I got part way in, to see if it was safe. And then we heard the demon down there." She paused. "It attacked Jordan and then came after me. It dragged me into the crypt and then this bright light appeared and I was falling. I ended up here."
An expectant silence stretched across the room. Even Arlen was surprised. He had been expecting something more dramatic; he had killed someone to be able to hear this testimony, after all. He glanced over at the angel slave. Her face was stoic. She didn't lean over to report a lie to the Lord, even though he was turned towards her in expectation of one. Her expression was peculiar, eyes fixed on the girl below.
"So how are you still alive if it attacked you first?" the lord asked, turning to Jordan. "Yddris, correct me if I'm wrong, but Listeners don't generally leave survivors, do they?"
Yddris didn't move, but it was obvious he was watching the boy intently. "No, sir."
The whole court turned to look as Anarabelle moved. She leaned in and whispered something to the lord, and judging by the plain terror on the boy's face, he knew what it meant.
"Any theories, boy?" Faellian said. His gaze turned a shade more dangerous. "Something you haven't mentioned yet?"
"I d-don't..." the boy stammered, "I mean... I felt something. Before it happened. Um... I didn't do anything that I know of. I was trying to push it off me and...after a minute it sort of shrieked and went after Grace instead."
"Explain this feeling," the lord said.
"A-a crackling," Jordan replied, "All over my body. It felt like... like rug burn."
At the end of the row, Yddris raised his hand. Faellian waved his permission without looking; Arlen narrowed his eyes.
"When you were in proximity with this demon," the Unspoken said, in his grinding, gravelly voice. "Did it cause physical pain?"
"A lot, at one point, yeah," Jordan said.
Lord Eril raised his hand, but didn't wait for Faellian to give him permission before pressing an attack.
"So you freely admit to possessing magic?"
"Magic?" the boy repeated blankly. "I don't have magic."
Faellian's mouth pinched into a grim line directed at Eril, but spoke to the demon catcher. "Do you believe this boy is Gifted?"
"Not necessarily, my Lord," Yddris replied. "If he is, there's no way of telling at this stage. There have been many instances where people have been able to sense demons when they themselves are in mortal danger, but no Gift ever emerged. Whatever latent magic he possesses now is not strong enough to even manifest. It is definitely not strong enough to open a portal, let alone one as big as that, which I believe Lord Eril was suggesting."
"If I may, my Lord," Kerrin said. The head of House Kiel sat several inches shorter than Lord Eril, but weathered his glare with impressive stoicism. "As far as we know, the Gift is unique to Nictaven. This boy is Otherworld. He is clearly not familiar with magic, so it is not the norm in his world. There would be no precedent for any Gift manifesting."
"My dear woman," Eril said, puffing up in his seat. "There is no precedent for any of this!"
Faellian held up a hand for quiet. Kerrin settled back in her chair with silent dignity, and Eril almost chewed on his words to keep them back. The glare the old man set on the prisoners below was heated, but only the girl noticed and flinched. The boy was staring at Yddris with an odd look on his face; Arlen had seen looks like that on the faces of men in which he'd recently embedded a blade.
"Kiel's teeth, look at him," Jared murmured. "I think he might shit himself."
"Anyone would," Arlen said, remembering at the last moment to slide back into Derell's voice. "The Gift is a sentence in itself."
Jared grunted, and after a moment added, "Not knowing about magic, though? I find that hard to believe." He chuckled. "Imagine if he shat himself in front of the Assembly. There's a song in that somewhere."
Arlen imitated Derell's throaty laugh. "Somehow I don't think they'd be singing it at the High Table."
"Regardless of whether the boy is likely to manifest a Gift or not, we have established, via questioning and examination of the accused by the court and an Unspoken, that he does not have the magic required to perform such a feat on his own. Is the Assembly agreed on this?" The Lord's voice drew Arlen's attention back to the trial, loud and irate as it was. A sea of hands went up around the room, index fingers pointing to the ceiling. Only a few kept their hands down, the majority of them seated in the Orthanian benches.
"Is the Assembly agreed that this is the case with his sister, also accused?"
Hands went up again, though Arlen thought there were fewer of them this time.
"Agreed." Harkenn's hand came down on the table with a force that echoed around the room. With the Lord's freak heritage and resulting strength, there was no need for a gavel.
Attention turned back to the prisoners.
"Were you alone on this trip of yours?" the Lord asked. "No one else was with you?"
"No." When Jordan made no move to speak, Grace stepped in. "We were alone. The island was really small, so unless there was someone in the crypt with that...demon...we would have noticed if anybody else was there. My Lord."
Faellian glanced sidelong at Anarabelle, who ignored the look.
"Very well." He sighed. "Do the Heads have any further questions?"
Eril's hand shot up first. The Lord's gesture for him to speak was weary, but Arlen didn't hear what was said next. Movement caught his eye down below. In the courtroom there were two lines of guards; the one that stood at attention around the edge of the room, behind the raised stands of the Assembly, and the other, which stood in the centre around the platform to hem in the accused. Between that row and the upper row where Arlen stood sat only priests, merchants and civilians; or should only have been, which was why the guard sneaking up through the rows in his direction caught his attention straight away. Glancing across the room, he saw others at varying levels, sidling through rows in a roundabout manner but all ultimately converging on his position.
From the high table, Yddris was staring his way.
For a moment, Arlen did nothing. The debate was still going back and forth between the Heads and the accused, but he was no longer listening.
"Oi, Jed," he muttered in Derell's voice, leaning over to Jared. "Janky bladder's screwing me up. Think you can cover me?"
Jared let out a low groan. "You can't just go piss in the middle of the Assembly."
"I bloody will if I can't get out of here." His gaze flicked to the far side of the room; two guards had made it to the top level and were edging around it towards him. If he waited too long, his exit would be blocked. He gestured down at the row below them, a line of young boys and girls with shaved heads wearing pale yellow tunics. "Don't think Lady Kerrin's acolytes would appreciate that much."
"Oh, fine," Jared growled. "Hey, what do you reckon Arun's coming up here f..."
Arlen didn't wait to hear the rest. He crept towards the Heads' table and exchanged a heated stare with Yddris as he passed. Like metallic insects, the guards in the crowd started moving faster, and he heard footsteps behind him as he descended the stairs. There would be more waiting for him at the bottom.
"Boys," he muttered, nodding at the line of soldiers waiting for him as he reached the entrance, "You see which way he went?"
They only hesitated for a moment, but that moment was all he needed. He took off at a run back towards the exit, leading a pack of yelling, clanking soldiers. He shed pieces of Derell's armour as he went, throwing them over his shoulder and cackling as the men slipped or fell over them. In a brief glance back he saw that he had thrown off two out of five, and one of the three remaining was limping. He aimed his gauntlet at the injured soldier's knee and put on a spurt of energy.
When the two guards shot out into the night and stopped, all they saw around them was a gloomy courtyard. A pile of abandoned armour lay in the centre, glittering in the faint rays of the East Moon.
As they turned and began to search, a slender shadow detached itself from the vast black bulk of the gatehouse and slipped away.