“I'll never do that,” Jack said with conviction. “I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll never do that.”
“Well.” Hastings drummed his fingers on the table. “You may find that she can be very persuasive. And considering who is making the ruling, it might not go our way.”
And Jack couldn't help but wonder what outcome Hastings hoped for. If Aunt Linda won her suit, he would be out a warrior.
Fitch peered up at the frowning façade of the Carlisle Citadel Railway station, blinking against the falling raindrops, then he returned to at his guidebook.
The station dates to 1847. It was designed by Sir William Tite, who also designed The Bank of England and the Royal Exchange in London. Tite used a Tudor Gothic style to harmonise with the crenellated towers of the nearby Citadel. Carlisle Castle was once the prison of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was captured by Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745.
If the railway stations look like castles, what must the castles be like?
“Fitch! Will you come on? We only have an hour. If we don't find something for lunch, we're going to starve all the way to Edinburgh!” From the expression on Will's face, this would be a completely preventable tragedy.
“There'll probably be a food car on the Edinburgh train,” Fitch suggested.
“Cadbury Dairy won't do it. And I don't want to miss the train.”
“Chill, Will. In a minute.” Fitch pulled out a digital camera and snapped several photographs, including one of Will looking annoyed. The camera was borrowed from the media center at school. Officially, Fitch was covering the tour for the school Web site. He zipped it back into the pocket of his rain jacket. “I wish we had time to tour the castle.”
“Right.” Will squinted out at the dismal scene. “Aren't you castled out?”
Fitch scanned the map in his guidebook and made a quick calculation. “Look, the Citadel and cathedral are just over there. I can be up and back in an hour. Buy me something for lunch, a meat pie, maybe. I'll pay you back.”
“My parents will be pissed if you miss the train,” Will warned.
“I won't.” Fitch hunched his shoulders against the weather and Will's disapproval, and crossed the court between the train station and the Citadel, skirting the sodden flower gardens. He had time for a quick look around, at least.
After circling and photographing the Citadel towers, Fitch turned on to English Street, heading for the cathedral, whose spires poked above the surrounding buildings. He jostled through crowds of tourists driven from the lakes into town by the weather. Ahead of him, a girl in a bright red slicker stepped from a doorway, catching a fistful of her dark curls to keep them from flying in the wind. As she turned, Fitch caught a full view of her face.
It was Leesha Middleton, recent high-school student. And wizard.
He ducked his head and thrust himself backward into an entryway, colliding with a woman overburdened with packages.
“You appalling young hooligan! D'you know what these ornaments cost?” She shook a bejeweled finger under his nose.
He'd blundered into one of those year-round Christmas shops. Automatically muttering apologies, he peered out into the street again. Leesha looked both ways, then turned north, toward the cathedral.
What was she doing here? Hunting Jack was the obvious answer. Could he be somewhere nearby? Leaving the tongue-lashing behind, Fitch stepped out onto the street, following Leesha. Somehow, he had to find Jack and warn him. It didn't matter if he missed the train.
Leesha walked briskly, seeming confident of the way. They passed a small church at the edge of the cathedral close, then the cathedral itself, turning left onto Castle Street. I may see the castle after all, Fitch thought. But Leesha skirted the fortifications, making for a park near the river. She disappeared into the woods, and Fitch put on speed, looking for the spot of red to guide him.
It was gloomy under the trees. When the wind blew, water showered down from the leaves overhead. The riverside was nearly deserted, the more sensible tourists having taken refuge in the pubs and cafes in the city center. Where had she gone? He pivoted, swiping rain from his face.
His only warning was a slight sound behind him. Then a hot grip on his shoulder and the words, driving him down, down into the soggy leaves. He lay flat on his face in the wet muck, but couldn't turn his head to clear his mouth and nose. In a moment of panic, he thought he might suffocate, but hot hands shoved him over onto his back. He lay there, helpless, blinking against the raindrops that spiraled down on him from the canopy above.
Leesha knelt next to him. She pressed her bare knee against his windpipe until spots swam before his eyes. Finally, she released the pressure, and he sucked in great lungfuls of air. She sat down on the wet ground next to him with a sigh.
“I never liked you very much, Harmon” she said. She pulled a lipstick from her pink purse and reapplied it. Then drew her knees up until her skirt nearly disappeared. “Always telling Jack he should break up with me.”
She came up on her knees again, leaning over him. She gripped the heavy chain around his neck and yanked him half upright. The metal heated, burned into his flesh. “What the hell do you think you are, with your grungy Salvation Army clothes, living in that dump over on Madison like a bunch of cockroaches? Nothing, that's what.” She spat in his face, then released him. He fell backward like a rag doll, bouncing a little.
“We're going to go see Jack.Would you like that?” She smoothed the wet hair away from his forehead, noticed the hoop in his right ear, and tugged at it experimentally. Tugged again, harder, until blood trickled into his ear. Fitch took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Oh, Harmon,” she whispered. “You should see your face! You scare so easily.”
She stood, brushing wet leaves off her skirt. “You sit tight. I'm going to go get Will.”
The hearing on the suits was to be held the next morning at ten a.m. in the great hall of the castle. Only “interested” parties were permitted to attend. That didn't include the thousands of spectators who collected outside. Rumors were flying in the Ghyll. The oddsmakers in the colorful blue-and-white striped betting tents along the midway were in a quandary. A huge crowd of people was gathered outside of the cottage when Jack and Hastings left for the hall. “Jack! Jack!” they chanted.
As they pressed through the crowd, Jack felt a hot wizard hand fasten around his arm, and not gently. He turned to face an athletic-looking man with stick-straight black hair, dressed in the livery of the Red Rose. He had a thin, cruel mouth and a shadow of beard along his jaw.
“Hello, Jack. I'm Simon Paige, Ellen's trainer. I've been working with her for years. I just wanted you to know that I can't wait to see your blood spilled tomorrow.” His lips drew back from his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Don't worry. I told her to take her time. We want to make sure we give these people their money's worth.”
Angrily, Jack shook off the wizard's hand. Simon Paige was laughing as he turned away.
The guild had set up a makeshift court in one end of the great hall. D'Orsay and the other judges were sitting on a raised dais and rows of chairs were drawn up around the platform.
Hastings's hand on Jack's shoulder kept him moving to the front of the hall. “Most of these people are members of the Council of Wizards, the guild's governing body,” the wizard explained. Jack and Hastings were directed to chairs just in front of the dais, where the judges could look down on them.
Jack spotted Linda sitting at one end of the front row, surrounded by several of the Jefferson Street neighbors. What were they doing here? Jack caught Linda's eye, and she nodded to him, managing a smile. Iris and Blaise lifted their hands in greeting.
Hastings frowned at Linda. “She should have sent a proxy. This is no place for an enchanter.” Jack wondered what he meant.
Jessamine Longbranch and several wizards of the White Rose were also seated together at the front. The surgeon smiled at Jack as if he were chocolate.
Geoffrey Wylie swept up the center aisle, into a swarm of red wizards. Before he sat down, he surveyed the crowd. When his gaze lit on Linda, he flinched as if startled. Lifting his hand to his scarred cheek, he scowled at some unpleasant memory. He continued to watch her after he sat down, running his tongue over his damaged lips. Jack looked for Ellen, but didn't see her.
D'Orsay called the court to order. “This is an informal hearing called to rule on two suits that have been filed relative to the participation of the warrior representing the Silver Dragon in the tournament scheduled for tomorrow.” He spread several papers out in front of him. “It appears these two claims are closely related. We will take testimony relative to them both, and then rule in the order that makes the most sense to the court. First, we must rule whether Jackson Swift is indeed a warrior, despite the fact that he seems to meet the usual criteria. I would like to ask the plaintiff in the matter to explain herself.”
Linda Downey rose to her feet. She was dressed for court in a loose black tunic and trousers, and her hair was uncharacteristically subdued. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her lips a bruised purple-red. She moved with an unconscious grace, like the progress of light across the stage.
Her presence was having an effect on the judges. They leaned forward to get a better look at the enchanter.
“Thank you, Master D'Orsay. I will be brief. The details of the matter are in my deposition. I am the aunt of the player in question, and am also his godmother. His mother is my sister, and Anaweir. His father is also Anaweir. Jack was born a wizard, Weirflesh without a stone.” She paused, and a murmur ran through the gallery.
“I asked Dr. Longbranch if she could replace his Weirstone. She took that opportunity to implant a warrior's stone into my nephew instead of the wizard stone he needed. Apparently by so doing she hoped to create a warrior from a wizard.”
Linda motioned to Jack. “If you examine him, you will find the surgical scar from the implantation. There is no provision for created warriors under the rules. It was a nasty and inappropriate experiment on another wizard. What we have here is a boy who, under the Rules of Engagement, should never have qualified for a tournament, although it is easy to see why he seemed to meet the criteria.”