
Chapter Six

The Impartial Hand of Justice


 Courtroom number 29 is the exclusive and undisputed territory of  the right honorable Judge Kinsey Rankinsfeld, formerly known as Colonel Rankinsfeld in his imperial majesty’s star navy, a blood-drinking Ukuran man of almost god-like powers in his own venue, who daily makes decisions of life and death concerning those brought before his bench. He takes very seriously any infraction of the law.

 It is a magnificent nine pillared, semi-circular chamber with a domed ceiling, lined in mosaics of Travertine marble and polished granite, with a series of sweeping murals, depicting in prosaic style, the Holy Emperor’s triumph over the rebellious forces of the once proud Gythe.

 It has one particular idiosyncrasy that individuates it from many other court rooms, it has almost no seating at all.

 There is seating only for the judge and the stenographer, the accused must stand in a waist high box at the center of the chamber, the mahogany panels of which are carved in scenes of condemned prisoners of war being executed in a variety of archaic and creatively draconian fashions. It stands as a none too subtle reminder of what fate a prisoner faces if he is found guilty of almost any crime.

 The attorney's, both defense and prosecution, are given similarly carved tables on which they might rest their documents, but otherwise, they and their numerous assistants must work on their feet. The visitor's gallery is similarly lacking in seating, though chairs are sometimes provided for the elderly or infirm.

 The Judge has discovered that this policy is an excellent motivator, encouraging brevity from even the most long winded attorney's, frankly they tend to wind down pretty quickly when their feet start hurting. The judge likes to keep the business of his court moving at a brisk and steady pace.

  Peragrine and his legal council are almost the first to arrive, the courtroom contains only the stenographer, already settled at her little table, and a dozen heavily armored bailiffs strung out along the walls, unmoving as statues. 

 Miss O'Hannon looks slightly surprised that the prosecuting attorney and his team are not here, she had been looking forward to talking with Bernar before they got things underway. 

 She has often been able to count on Lord Pyell's rather childish infatuation with her to push him into being reasonable when they contend across cases. 

 When they enter the courtroom, two of the armored bailiffs stride forward to take possession of Peragrine, leading him to the box at the center of the chamber and locking him within its waist high perimeter.

 There is nothing for him to do now except wait, so for the next few minutes he occupies himself with studying the carved wooden friezes of the prisoner box.

 Captive Gythyanke princes chained to hollow iron pillars filled with burning coals and being slowly roasted to death, Gythe women ravished to death by bulls and boars, Gythe soldiers buried to their necks in soil and scythed like wheat, Gythyanke priests dashed to death on the steps of their own toppled alters.

 These and a dozen more awfulness’s are depicted in darkly carved mahogany and it suddenly comes over Peragrine like the rushing of an arctic wind, that any one of these terrible deaths might be his fate if this woman was not successful in his defense, roasting was a popular execution for mage-crimes, the cooked meat went for insane sums in specialty markets.

  Shuddering with apprehension he chooses to turn his attention instead to the study of his attorney. She seems so confident in her own abilities, it is hard to imagine that she could possibly fail at anything she sets out to do. The click, click, click of her steel shafted boot heels is almost as soothing to listen to as the ticking of the mantel clock in his father's study. 

 His so called father, who when Peragrine's presence was detected by his true father's servants, has apparently fled the world taking his true-born daughter with him, abandoning his stolen child to whatever it was that fate might hold in store. At least that is what they have told him.

 Click, click, click, as she prowls about quietly discussing strategy and evidentiary chains with Katya and her other legal assistants. Click, click, click, as she studies some document, her moist red lips moving silently as she reads it through, her white teeth occasionally closing on the tip of a scarlet thumbnail when she is deepest in thought.

 Peragrine wonders what it is like to serve such a woman, he imagines she is very difficult to please. 

 He is still lost in wondering what it is his future will hold, when a sudden flurry of activity at the back of the courtroom draws his attention. 

  Freshly shaven, scrubbed and combed, outfitted in a brilliantly polished set of Imperial dress armor, with helmet under his arm and sword strapped at his side, in strides the good captain, with an extremely troubled looking Lord Prosecutor in tow. 

 "Why Bernar, how nice of you to join us at last." Miss O'Hannon looks at the prosecutor with a brilliant smile, the man won't even meet her eyes, and Peragrine finds this detail more than a little troubling.

 Frowning very slightly, Hart looks as if she is going to ask what’s going on, when the chief bailiff orders all to stand to attention, the judge has at last arrived.

 Judge Rankinsfeld comes to the bench in full judicial regalia, his long crimson and black robe swirling, the heavy seal of his office hung on an ornate chain of gold as thick as Peragrine's little finger. Beneath the open robe he wears a chain-mail shirt and breastplate over leather trousers and high boots, across the breastplate there marches a procession of small golden wolves, proclaiming the Judge's blood link to the ancient house of Astra, the origination point of the Ukuran’s  blood drinking race of near immortals.

 He is an impressive man who wears the classic face of the undying, those ageless features that might place him in his mid-thirties or his late fifties, when in fact he is nearly two millennia in age.

 His hair is the color of iron and his eyes a brilliant, bitter-cold blue-gray, his skin poreless as marble, and his expression as unyielding as iron, he looks every inch the 'Hanging Judge’ that he is reputed to be.

 All attention is instantly focused on the judge as he seats himself and lays the iron staff of his office in its cradle on the bench before him.

 "Well, Miss O'Hannon, it is always a pleasure to see you in my courtroom." He addresses her with a voice like mellow oak and a gentlemanly nod of the head, to which she responds by beaming a smile at him of purest sunlight and queenly in her fashion, bowing her head in return, Peragrine suddenly wonders if he has slept with her, or if he hates her.

 "And you Lord Pyell, this is an interesting accompaniment you bring. To what do we owe the honor of playing host to the hero of Cair-Leonides?" Here the judge's voice is rich with the brotherhood of shared soldiery.

 The prosecutor clears his throat, still looking very uncomfortable. "I uh, I would like, with your permission your Honor, ehem, well, the Baronial estate of Thermia wishes to withdraw all of its charges against the defendant, Peragrine Harker." The Baron's chief prosecutor closes his mouth with an audible click, the judge is looking deeply annoyed and not a little perplexed.

 Miss Hart O'Hannon, lawyer extraordinaire, looks utterly flushed with triumph at the sound of this.

 But Peragrine isn't looking at either of them, he can't seem to take his eyes from those of Captain Darcy, becoming lost in the laughing, black depths of them. The cat-mask of satisfaction he wears is far too secretly pleased to bode well at all.

 Judge Rankinsfeld's face becomes thunderous. "If it is the prosecution's intention to drop these charges then why, may I ask, did it choose to waste the Barony's time bringing this case into my court in the first place?" 

 Lord Pyell blanches visibly, swallowing and opening his mouth as if he would speak, but snapping it shut with another decisive click as Captain Darcy steps forward.

 "Milord Judge, if I may be permitted?" The captain has in his hand a thick sheaf of vellum, centered upon which is the heavy form of the Baronial seal.

 "We would be very interested in whatever it is you have to say Captain." The Judge settles back in his seat, hands laced across the flat plane of his belly, his expression hooded and waiting.

 "I, Sir Johannan Darcy, Knight in the service of his Imperial Majesty Christaphori the Second and security captain for prisoner intake facility #11309, do hereby enact the Emperor's office in the removal of the prisoner Peragrine Harker, prison intake #J-1624FRG7, from the custody of this Barony pending investigation by Imperial authorities as to his possible birth origins.

 The Imperium does not intend at this point intend to drop the charges which have been brought against the young man, it simply wishes to defer them until such time as its investigations are concluded." Here the captain pauses a moment, meeting Judge Rankinsfeld's eyes quite directly. "Frankly, your Honor, this boy may represent the only living male heir to a bloodline of great importance to our emperor. Because of this, it is my intention to take the boy into imperial custody, he'll be contained until a decision is handed down from his Imperial Majesty's offices."

 "Your honor, please! I object to this, this flagrant disregard for the normal operating procedures of the court." Click, click, click, Miss O'Hannon is pacing furiously, back and forth till' the stones fairly ring with the steely tapping of her heels, her scarlet hair flying out behind her like a silken banner. Her eyes glow with indignation as she continues. "My client is the contracted property of the Elysium society, if he should be released into anyone's custody, it should be that of his legal owners."

 "She has a good point captain, he is under contract." The judge leans back awaiting reply, he does enjoy a good fight.

 "I hate to disappoint the lady, your Honor, but it doesn't matter. This is an Imperial edict, the contract is canceled out, it simply doesn't exist anymore. Besides which the boy is of royal blood, which basically means that if the Elysium society chooses to fight this matter, they could be charged with attempting to corrupt and hold in bondage a vessel of the Holy Blood." This last is delivered with a direct and very telling look at Miss O'Hannon.

 "Well Miss O'Hannon, Have you any proper retort to this?" The judge asks, his thin, finely wrought mouth twisting slightly as he addresses her, and Peragrine has the impression that he actually doesn’t like her one bit.

 She takes a very deep breath, causing the pale mounds of her breasts to swell forth above the constriction of the leather corset, and lets it slowly out.

 "No, Your Honor, the Elysium society wishes to withdraw its claim to the young man. If the good captain will please send someone by my offices, I am sure we can take care of all the necessary details in no time." Her face is set in an  expression of sweetly bland acceptance, but her eyes are like chips of green ice when she nods her respect to both judge and captain, Lord Pyell she shoots a look of purest venom. 

 "It seems that the field is yours, Captain Darcy, the boy is yours to do with as you see fit." The judge wears a casual expression that is somewhat belied by the sparkle that glitters in his gray-blue eyes.

 "Provided, of course, that you have all the necessary papers prepared," And here came the clincher. "and of course the Baron's seal of approval on the matter." The fact that the judge has just scored a point and caught the captain trying get away with something is made subtly clear by the brief moment of stillness that comes over the captain's features.

 "Of course, your Honor, I have all the necessary papers here with me, my office is still waiting for the Baron's approval to be sent down in writing. I am quite sure it will be issued immediately upon the Baron's return."

 The captain is thinking fast, he'd hoped to avoid having to involve the Baron, who would likely snap the boy up for himself and the furtherance of his own interests.

 "As your honor is no doubt aware, the Baron is abroad on a hunting trip to the Sithe. The situation only came to light this morning, and so there has been no opportunity to deal with his Lordship in person as yet."

 "Indeed, this court has no doubt that you fully intend to inform our most illustrious overlord of this rather remarkable discovery you have made. But as a humble servant of this barony, I believe that I would be remiss in my duty if I were to release the young man into anyone's custody until baronial approval has been secured." The judge lifts the small iron staff from its cradle before him and taps the heel of it on the bench three times, signifying a ruling. "It is therefore the decision of this court that Peragrine Harker be remanded to the custody of the Barony of Thermia, he will be housed in this facility until such time as a decision is rendered as to the disposition of his case. That is all." 

 Judge Rankinsfeld then stands up and sweeps out of the courtroom, his black and scarlet robes flying out behind him like silken wings.

 Peragrine isn't entirely sure what has just happened, the whole thing had gone so fast. Miss O'Hannon doesn't even look at him again, she just packs all her papers back into her briefcase and strides out, head high, her expression furious, pale-faced assistants in tow. 

 "Well, it looks like you'll be staying with us, at least for a while." The captain's voice is low, neutral, Peragrine turns to look at him. "What happens now, Sir?"

 "What happens now, is we go back to processing and tuck you away in your cell for a couple of weeks while I get everything worked out." Captain Darcy's lean, scarred face holds an expression that is hard for the boy to read, something warm and something cold at the same time.

 "May I please ask you something, Sir?" Peragrine asks softly.

 The Captain’s gray-blue eyes narrow slightly. "And what would that be?"

 Peragrine is silent a moment. "Do you know where my father is?"

 "Which one?" The captain looks at him now, not unkindly.

 Peragrine's voice is barely audible, shaking softly with barely contained emotion as he answers. "Both." As he looks at the captain, his eyes are huge, swimming with fear and hope.

 "We don't have time to go into details just now, but I'll tell you what I can this evening at dinnertime. You'll have a private cell, so I can arrange to bring you your meal, we can talk then, alright?" The captain reaches over and claps his hand on peragrine's shoulder. 

 He felt for the kid, it had to be tough, so many changes coming at you all at once. "C'mon out of the box and let's get you cuffed so you can go back to your cell. I'm gonna give you a break and let you keep those civvies on, at least for now."

 Peragrine glances down at the clothes the club people had dressed him in. "Thank you Sir." Peragrine does as he was told, he comes out of the prisoner box and turns around, placing his arms behind his back and pulling his shoulders together, so that the captain can easily re-apply the bondage sleeve.

 It is pulled just as tight as before, but Peragrine makes no sound of complaint, just keeps his head high and eyes forward as he is led back into the corridors and back to central processing.

 There was one distinctive difference between this journey and the last, now he too was surrounded by a cordon of Imperial soldiers. Their passage was fast and smooth, the others in the halls being quick to press against the walls and make way for them. It was a strange feeling, to be so treated, but it brought reality crashing in to his befuddled mind, it was proof positive of his newfound birthright.

 They were waved through every security gate, the guards eyes remaining pinned to the floor as he passes them. The captain seeming to enjoy taking his time as they stride down the passageway, he keeps his long steps just slow enough that Peragrine doesn't have to trot to keep up.

 They walk along side by side, their steps beating in time. Peragrine's mind beginning to drift along, daydreaming that all is different.

 He imagines that he is gowned in princely garb, with the captain walking by his side, but the captain is the commander of his personal guard and this is his royal palace they walk through, any moment they will emerge into a sunlit courtyard full of immense roses and hummingbirds that dart among the heady perfume drenched blossoms like brilliant flashing jewels.

 Suddenly the rose's perfume is thick in his nostrils and the sun lies like molten gold on everything it touches, birdsong sweet in his ears and the sound of running water. A shallow brook runs through the dense heart of the garden, cresses and water irises thick upon its banks. Peragrine realizes with a lurch that he’s gone dream-walking.

 The brook separates at one point, to run around a small island at the center of which is a small temple in which a dozen or more young girls, no more than fourteen or fifteen, dance sky-clad but for the white and scarlet blossoms that crown their cobweb pale manes.

 They sing a song at once both ancient and hauntingly familiar, it tugs at the edges of memory like a thing remembered from the cradle. Some carry bellies heavy with child, but their dancing and songs are things of purest grace and lilting beauty. Their eyes large and blue and grave with ancient knowledge.

 Upon the bridge that crosses to the little island there lies a pack of smoke gray hounds, who lift their hoary heads as Peragrine approaches, the flickering lamplight of their red mist eyes seems to stare into his soul and beyond. Their skulls as large as market hogs are hung with teeth like ivory sabers, and their paws which seem broad as dinner plates carry claws retractable like a cat's and just as sharp.

 Slowly they rise to their feet, lips skinning back from their great fangs in an expression strangely like an ingratiating grin as their long sleek tails begin to sweep back and forth.

 He has stopped, he no longer sees the captain by his side, but he feels oddly un-frightened. Though they are a dozen yards away, it takes only a few bounds before the hounds are all about him and he is gently buffeted back and forth as they nose and nuzzle him.

 Most of their heads come to just below his shoulder, it is like being among a herd of young bullocks, so powerfull are the bodies of the great beasts as they snuffle and explore him.

 Their smoke gray coats are as smooth and glossy as polished silk, their glowing eyes leaking red mist against his pale skin, their blood scarlet tongues hot and moist against his hands. Each wears a thick collar of finely wrought iron, forested with razor spikes, but the hounds seem to take conscious care not to catch the spikes against his tender skin.

 Then, with a motion quite perfect in its synchronicity, the hounds attention is caught by something beyond him. He turns to see what it is they stare at beyond the rose arbors, there is a man descending the distant steps from the castle tower.

 His hair is a dark nimbus flowing about his shoulders as if he walked beneath the ocean waves, his cloak flying out like silken wings of darkest night.

 His mouth is the scarlet of fresh drawn blood, wet with it where his long teeth have torn the flesh of his lip. His eyes are burning portals of a darkness too terrible to fathom, his gaze fixed on the distant island, on the temple in which dance his daughters.

 This is he, the Father, his father. The hounds leap past him as one, like a rolling fog they flow to the feet of their master, where they whimper and fawn, licking his fingers and rolling their glowing eyes in submission and unrestrained love.

 "Father!" Peragrine's call is a bird's cry on the wind, sharp and carrying. The Father freezes, nostril's widening, he fills his lungs with scent, eyes tearing across the garden courtyard, searching, seeking, seeing a figure like a phantom mist. His long white hand rises, taloned finger pointing as his voice rises in a cry of shock.

 Suddenly the Father is flying at him, mouth a howling 'O' of fury, both arms extended now, hands curled into claws, he will rend and tear him to pieces if he can catch him.

 His cloak of silken darkness seems to swell and grow, filling the sky like a thunder cloud, vicious wind s rise to tear at the tender foliage and blossoms. The air is filled with flying rose petals, like white and scarlet snow, the entire garden alive with the sudden violence of the wizard storm.

 Peragrine's feet are sinking into the ground, the roots of the roses twining like serpents about his ankles, clutching and digging into his skin as he tries desperately to turn and run away from this horror which flies at him. 

 The ground is alive, seething with swelling, pulsing roots, slithering across his skin, weaving tighter and tighter, biting into his flesh and seeking the bone.

 Peragrine throws back his head and shrieks in agony as the roots run beneath his skin, he is thrashing wildly, the Father-thing is almost upon him now, it's hands reaching for his throat. "No, I’m your child, don’t do this!" He screams over and over, shaking his head in wild negation of this approaching death.

 Crack! Crack! He is slapped twice, hard. "Wake up, now! C'mon boy, you come back!" His hands are unbound and he catches easily the hand which is descending to slap him a third time.

 "I'm alright." His voice is calm and strong, eyes steady as he meets the captains worried gaze. "Thank you, I'm sorry about that." Peragrine sits up, gently pushing the captain away. "It's been a long time since that happened." 

 "Since what happened? I thought you were having a seizure." Captain Darcy reaches down and helps the boy to stand, then speaks into his collar radio, canceling the medic  he'd sent for.

  "I used to have these fits quite often when I was younger, the doctors said I had a mild form of epilepsy, not really dangerous as long as they didn’t get worse. For some reason they just happened less and less as I got older, I haven't had one for at least three years. Probably all the stress." Peragrine gives a shaky little laugh, brushing a few pale strands of hair out of his face.

 For the most part what he has just said is the truth, the exceptions being that the dream had never been so clear and that he had never before had a reference point for the nightmare visions he had been forced to endure during these seizures.

 Now he knows who the monster is that has haunted his dreams, this was also the first time the monster had seen him, the first time he had called its attention to him. The first time he had seen everything so clearly and known that he looked his true father in the face.

 "Well, I'm going to have you taken a look at as soon as we get to your cell. Nobody just up and drops dead on my watch." This last is offered with a crooked smile that looks more than a little awkward on the captain's grimly wrought face, his eyes conveying far more warmth than his stony visage seems able to express.

 There is genuine concern in that black eyed gaze, and a hidden capacity for gentleness as well. Peragrine realizes with a warm rush that the captain is actually a very handsome man, very strong, and very handsome.

 "Thank you Sir, I'll do whatever you recommend." Peragrine's eyes are clear sky blue and warm as the sun. "Thank you for unfastening my arms, may I please keep them loose."

 The captain's eyes hood and narrow very slightly, suspicious but curious, after all the boy is held in check by the shock collar, what could it hurt?

 The captain shrugs in a gesture that clearly says 'what the hell?'. "Well, since you've asked so politely, I don't see why I shouldn't treat you like a gentleman. Let's go."

 The captain bows slightly from the waist and sweeps his arm in the direction they should go. The rest of the guards, who all this time have stood stock still, take up their positions about them and then they are off again.
  

 That was very, very close, too close. So the boy is a Traveler, like the Master. If the Master had caught him he might have devoured us both. By the boy's reaction it is obvious he has done this before. How many times, what has he seen, what does he know? 

 It was good to see the garden again, the Daughters dancing in the temple of FirstMother, the face of the Master, even in his fury. Our furry skin shivers to remember his anger. Oh this is a bad, bad boy.

 Bad, bad hounds to fawn and lick this baddest boy's ghost fingers. The Master will beat those bad, bad hounds till' they scream and bleed.

 This bad, bad boy who travels as only his father should be able. This bad boy is dangerous, oh so dangerous.

  The Master will want to eat him slow, eat his heart last of all, make him last and last, and make him howl for death.

 The Wolf gnashes his long terrible teeth, daring not to sink them into the heart that contains him. But wanting oh so badly to punish this bad dangerous boy for daring to exist.

 The cell he is brought to is the same one he had rested in when he was waiting to go to court. A well lit ivory cubicle of extruded plastic, an armored cop with a medical badge was sitting on the bunk when they entered.

 He pops up when he sees them. "You called for a medic Sir?" He already has his hand scanner out.
 
"Yes, the boy had what looked like a stage two seizure, he seems alright now but I want you to make sure." The captain indicates that Peragrine should sit on the bunk. The medic is fast and thorough, scanning the boy from head to toe, paying particular attention to the boy’s brain-wave patterns.

 "Everything looks fine now Sir, all within the normal parameters." The captain looks gratified to hear it. "Thank you lieutenant, that will be all." The medic, imperial purple flashing at the joints of his armor, snaps a quick salute and leaves.

 "I told you I was alright." Peragrine's voice is low, his eyes warm as he smiles slightly at the captain, leaning back on his elbows on the bunk. One knee is lifted, the other leg dangling to the floor, his foot swinging back and forth.

 His expression is one which holds both challenge and promise as he lets his eyes slide up and down the captain's powerfully built frame.

 "Your getting very good at that." The captain says, his face neutral, eyes hooded, mouth held thin and hard.

 "And what would that be?" Peragrine's face becoming sultrier by the moment, his voice softly teasing. He’s not sure what’s come over him, but something about this man has caught his attention like no one else he’s ever met. 

 "Acting like a whore on the make." The captain's voice is hard and disapproving, calculated to bruise as he turns on heel and leaves.

 Peragrine is left staring after him, his cheeks flaming deepest scarlet as he realizes that this is exactly what he’d been doing.

 Overwhelmed with everything that has happened thus far and suddenly terrified by the changes that are taking place inside him, he curls up very small and weeps into his hands until at last he sleeps.


