“Sorcery,” Nestor said, though he was as pale and shaken as the rest.

“Yes,” said Sharryn. “Of the very strongest. Remember that, goodman.” She turned to the dais. “Bring him down.”

They brought Elias down forthwith and no arguing. Sharryn regarded the man who stood before her. He was looking at the canvas-covered body with tears tracing down his cheeks. She pulled the noose from his neck. There was another angry rumble from the crowd.

Crowfoot stepped forward. “Good people,” she said. “You stand in the presence of the Seer of Truth and the Sword of Justice. By the pledge of the King, there will be order.”

A translucent aura enveloped both women in a haze of light, casting their features in bold relief. Staff and Sword gleamed as if dipped in quicksilver. The illusion was gone in an instant, leaving only a tenuous memory of itself behind. Later, some would dismiss it as simple magic, a glamour conjured up to intimidate the ignorant and the foolish, yet another example of the wizarding sleight of hand that, out of control, had led to the last series of wars that had brought Mnemosynea to its knees. Others wouldn’t be so sure. “I had my doubts about the Charter,” old Pavlos said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after downing a tankard of Makarios’s best. “But after watching those two witches at work the other night I’m thinking we’ve got a king we should keep.”

“Bring a chair for the Seer,” Crow said to Cornelius in a quiet voice. “Set it up on the dais. And cause torches to be lit, as many as may be found, and set them about the square.”

It was done. Sharryn took the seat, staff in hand. Crowfoot stood a little behind her on her right, Sword held in front of her. “I will hear witnesses in this matter,” Sharryn said. It was all very irregular, lacking in the formality the king wanted to mark the dignity of the judicial process, and it was also night, a thing the Council would have abhorred. King and Council both wanted the Seer and the Sword to hold court in the full light of day, beneath the clear gaze of the full populace. But the Sword was out, and its appetite for justice, laid on by powerful geas, must be satisfied.

Cornelius’s voice rang out. “All witnesses having knowledge in the matter of the foul murder of Nella, daughter of Agathi, stepdaughter of Nestor, come forward to be heard.”

“When and where was the girl’s body found, and who found it?” Sharryn said.

Nestor stepped forward. “I found it.”

“Lay your hand upon my staff,” Sharryn said.

He hesitated, and did as he was told. “State your name.”

“I am Nestor, of the town of Daean, of the province of Kleonea.” He looked at the staff as if afraid it might refute his words. It remained inert, a length of polished, knotted pine, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. He gained courage. “I own a bakery. Agathi is my wife. Nella was her daughter.” Agathi sobbed into the shoulder of another woman, who patted her back.

“Tell us where and when you found Nella’s body.”

He looked at the staff, at his hand resting gingerly upon it, and swallowed. “Seer, she was in the bakery when I went to close the shop. She was supposed to do it, but she was ever a flighty piece, more interested in flirting than she was in selling bread.” He pulled his hand free and pointed at Elias. “And I found him with her, crouched over her, interfering with her!”

The crowd erupted. “Pervert!” “Hang him!” “Filthy murderer!” “Killer!” “Hang him now!”

Sharryn waited with flinty composure until the cries died down. “Replace your hand upon the staff. Did you see him kill her, goodman?”

He hesitated, looked at Elias, back at the staff. “Seer. No. I did not see him kill her.”

“You said the girl liked to flirt. Was this man one of the men with whom she flirted?”

The baker scowled. “Seer, she flirted with them all. If she did not do more.”

“I see. Thank you, goodman. You may step back.”

The crowd shifted and stretched to see better. No one was yawning despite the late hour.

“I will speak to the accused next,” Sharryn said.

“Seer, he has not the ability to speak,” Cornelius said in a low voice.

“I understand that,” Sharryn said, and looked around for Zeno. He stepped forward, a little stiffly as the injuries inflicted by the crowd began to tell. “Can you understand him, Zeno?”

“Seer, I can!”

She beckoned to the accused. “Are you willing to have Zeno speak for you?”

The young man nodded once.

“Come forward, then,” Sharryn said, “and place your hand upon my staff.”

He did so without hesitation. His face showed more bruises than Zeno’s, and he limped.

“Your name, goodman.”

He looked at Zeno. “Seer, this is Elias, son of-”

“Your name first, goodman.”

The boy looked startled. It was probably the first time anyone had called him goodman. He squared his shoulders. When he spoke next his voice had deepened and carried clearly to the edges of the crowd, silent now, and watchful. “Seer, I am Zeno, son of Nilos, son of Arete, of the village of Pierus -”

Ten leagues south of Daean, Crow thought.

Was it on the map?

No.

Typical.

“-of the province of Kleonea.”

Sharryn gave a grave nod, and waited, somehow, rumpled and red-cheeked as she was, contriving to appear worthy to bear and exercise the will of King and Charter. The rule of law was so new to the Nine Provinces that no degree of authority could be lost to an apparent lack of dignity on the part of the Two. They were building a myth as much as they were an institution.

“Seer, this is Elias, son of Damara, of the town of Daean, of the province of Kleonea,” Zeno said. His voice gathered force. “He is a smith, and my friend! He didn’t kill Nella, he loved her!”

“He told you so?”

Zeno flushed. “Seer, he doesn’t have to.”

“In fact, he does,” Sharryn said, not unkindly. “Please confine yourself to what the witness actually says. When did he come upon the body of Nella?”

Zeno conferred with Elias, who grunted and gestured. Zeno turned to Sharryn. “Seer, he says that they planned to meet at the bakery after work, to walk to the square and see who was performing for Festival. She was lying on the floor when he walked in.” Zeno swallowed, his bruised face looking a bleached, blotchy purple in the torchlight. “He says her skirts were up over her head, and when he pulled them down he saw the marks on her neck.”

“Was she cold to the touch?”

Elias shook his head violently and grunted at Zeno. “Seer, he says she was warm. He thinks her killer could not long have left her there.”

Sharryn looked at Elias. He had not the build of the blacksmith, but you could not choose your Talent, it chose you. His shoulders and arms were well muscled, though, developed by his trade. His hand grasped her staff as if he needed the support.

“How did you lose your voice, goodman?” Sharryn said.

Elias looked at Zeno, who looked angrily at the crowd, and said hotly, “It’s not because he labors under an evil curse, Seer, no matter what these people say.”

Sharryn waited.

Zeno looked at Elias, who pressed his lips together and gave a curt nod. “His tongue was cut out, Seer.”

“By whom?”

“By the army of Nyssa.”

The crowd moved and muttered, and Crow knew Sharryn felt as she did the wave of almost tangible hatred. Nyssa had not wasted her occupation of Kleonea making friends, it seemed. Not that she’d had many friends in any of the Nine Provinces, judging from the cheer that had gone up as the wizard burned at the stake two years before.

“Why was your tongue cut out?” Sharryn said.

Zeno didn’t have to ask Elias. “Seer, Elias was a spy for the king. He was betrayed to the wizard, who cut out his tongue in punishment.”

The crowd gasped. “The smith spied for the king?”

“A likely story,” growled the baker. His wife, collapsed in exhaustion in her friend’s arms, had strained eyes fixed on the still form beneath the canvas shroud and was oblivious to everything else.