Exile: A Prophecy Stones Novel

By David E Owen

The world of Mundo is in chaos. The leader is gone, probably dead, and the child tasked with protecting the world has been killed. It is all now up to Kynn, Jessica and Peyla, the three remaining friends, to find a way to battle the mighty army of Mool, and somehow fight the evil Magic of Fajra, the Fire Witch. They have right on their side, but sometimes being right is not enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244674137

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Exile: A Prophecy Stones Novel

Exile

The Prophecy Stones (book IV)

The Map of Mundo

A close up of text on a white background Description generated with high confidence

Copyright

David E Owen (publisher)

2018

Copyright © 2018 by David E Owen

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2018

ISBN 9781973412625

David E Owen (Publisher)

Vivian Street, Derby. UK

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Rhian and Gwyneth, my sisters, without whom this book would never have been completed.

Thank you for your patience, guidance and use of the red pen…

Preface

Exile is the fourth book in the Prophecy Stones series, following Fire Pool, Light Seeker and Dark Betrayer. But don’t let that put you off starting this if you’ve not read the previous novels.

Events in earlier stories do impact on Exile but are explained to avoid detracting from enjoyment of this story. If you wish to know more of earlier happenings, however, you will need to read the other novels. Happy reading

Supremacy

They were Nefer: highly regarded, elite soldiers with years of experience in Mool’s Army. Their patrol sector was Three on the Offensive Map: dangerous; accessible to enemy counter-measures from the Red Cloaks of Rant. Nefer always scouted in companies of twenty-four, with three officers having specific charge for their own sector of seven. Twenty-four was considered minimal for defensive purposes against Cloaks, with more deployed at times of high tension. This wasn’t such a moment: no attacks for two weeks, and a storm front bearing down on the area. Command had decreed the patrol should continue, but on Regular rather than Alert status.

With the black of nightfall came the rain. It fell in a deluge, soaking everything instantly, hitting leaves and ground with a clamour that drowned other noises. Not a night to be outside. The twenty-four Nefer patrolling Sector 3 split into three smaller components to find shelter until it blew over.

One group of eight found a suitable place: a thicket of dense overgrowth, a dry spot at the centre. They assumed the other sections were doing the same. Nefer were the ‘bad boys’ of the army, always on the lookout for trouble, ready to create it when none existed. This storm was interrupting their plans: a nuisance, though expectations had been low.

They'd found nothing, not surprisingly, for the forecast, made by three enthusiasts who spent their days studying clouds and weather patterns had predicted a stormy front approaching. It was madness to be out in this, but they had their orders: patrol!

We can keep searching under cover, grinned the young officer, trying to demonstrate a flexible leadership and care for his charges. This was his first full command, the third day, and no contacts yet. He was anxious to get the men on his side and for that he needed action. For the moment, to compensate, all he could fall back on was humour and a show of compassion for their dilemma.

They didn't care. Not about him, his style, nor about people from Rant trying to cross the plains. But they did care about getting out of the storm. They squeezed together, forcing the officer to the outside of the space– where rain was most likely to get through the canopy. They grinned behind his back. He could order them to swap places, but he wouldn't. He wasn't the sort. He was a 'go through what my men have to go through' sort. It didn't impress anyone. They'd mock him to their mates back at the camp tomorrow. They just had to get through tonight – tomorrow was back to the billets, hot food and dry sleeping. Thank Ila.

The rain hit harder than expected. The canopy couldn't cope, and streams of water began to leak through onto their capes, finding ways of sneaking through even those, wetting their clothes and skin. They began to swear: at the rain, themselves, and one another.

At least there was no chance of ambush tonight.

It would take a madman to be out in this.

Twenty feet from their position that madman took a small step forward. He would argue against the description but would probably accept 'obsessively determined'.

Taiven.

That name would have had all twenty-four soldiers tearing out of their hiding places, rushing around in the thickness of the storm, swinging swords and screaming, desperate to capture or kill him. If they’d known he was there.

Taiven was a legend. He’d done things no one else had and survived, ensuring enhanced stories about him were retold throughout the inns of the land, even in Harvest where mention of his name was banned.

At one time he had been Mool's Chief General and most trusted aide; he was now enemy number one of Harvest: a rogue; a renegade fighter who’d defected to the Red Cloaks.

Early forties. Close-shaven hair, military style. Strong jawline. Firm and fit: muscled and toned. He could fight with the best, but his true excellence was not in combat. It was in an ability to predict the outcomes of developing battle situations: an uncanny aptitude for second-guessing enemy actions – often before enemy commanders came up with their own answers.

He was the only Belonger in the elite Red Cloaks, membership of which had previously been exclusive to Arrivers. Within six months he’d been appointed Cloak Commander-in-Chief: unthinkable a year earlier, but the world had changed. Changed for the worse. Taiven’s job was to make it better again.

A downward sweep of his right hand wiped a layer of rain from his face, thumb and forefinger lingering over eyelids, rubbing away excess. It was a pattern; continuous, repeated every few seconds, necessary to be able to see. The deluge soaked through his clothing, finding small gaps through which to seep, icy tentacles slithering down his neck, across his chest.

The rain blanketed vision, the planned route impossible to follow. But that pleased him. If even he couldn’t follow a map in this, they certainly wouldn’t be able to track him.

Boots sucked from the ground with every step drained energy. Slow work. He glanced over his shoulder, struggling to see anything through the downpour. The storm had started an hour earlier, continuing unabated; he’d never witnessed such a torrent in forty years.

Lightning flashed directly above, making him pause and glance up. Thunder crashed. Stark light followed by blackness and debilitating noise. It disorientated him.

A hand grabbing his shoulder making him jump.

Boomer, his Second-in-Command, moved his face within inches of Taiven’s to be heard. Ten yards directly ahead. Troop of seven or eight. Not moving. Sheltering. He had to shout. The rain hissed louder than footsteps, cracking branches, or shouted instructions. Nobody could see or hear anything beyond the storm.

Boomer was a character, instantly recognisable, with an enormous build and the look of a seaport thug. His body bulged with toned muscles, arms as thick as Taiven’s thighs. Standing beside one another, Taiven’s head reached only to Boomer’s chest. Tough as metal in battle; soft and delicate in contact with women, children and animals. Fearful to behold by enemies; passionately dedicated to friends and those he liked. He couldn’t consider Taiven a friend - few could - but he would do anything for him.

Taiven crouched. His group, a small force of Red Cloaks, held distinct advantages over their enemy. With the exception of Taiven himself, Red Cloaks were Arrivers and hadn’t been born on Mundo; they had come mysteriously to the world through Arriver’s Point, blessed with a gift of Magic.

Their enemy was Mool’s Army: Belongers, born and raised on Mundo and possessed no Magic. They couldn’t project thoughts or read minds - differences which made them second-class to Cloaks on the battlefield, where Cloaks always tried to fight a guerrilla war, outmanoeuvring the enemy. The only time the Nefer and Mool’s other forces had an advantage was in face-to-face combat, when they outnumbered their opposition.

Cloaks had more than Magic, though. They possessed a belief in themselves that bordered on superhuman. They didn’t accept failure. ‘Arrogance’ would be an unfair description because Cloaks worked harder at their fighting skills than other forces and deserved their elite status. They knew, as did everyone, that they were the best.

The storm was the Cloaks’ friend. They could move without being heard or seen but could themselves ‘hear’ the enemy. And the storm had made the Nefer careless. The full patrol would have been safe if they'd remained together. Four Red Cloaks wouldn't attack a force of twenty-four, but the patrol had underestimated the Cloaks’ resolve, not believing they'd send out a unit on a night like this. Broken into fragments, sheltering separately, they became targets.

Three minutes was all it took to prepare for attack. The Cloaks listened in - they called it ‘Chatter’ – hearing the conversations of the enemy in their minds, registering size, position and composition of the group, then formulated a plan by ‘Chattering’ amongst themselves – all done in silence to anyone without Magic. Eight unsuspecting soldiers and, although the conscripts sounded competent, the officer appeared untested: a junior officer and seven soldiers, shouting about inconsequential issues over the noise of the storm. The officer was placating them, estimating a further thirty minutes of rain before it would abate, making predictions he couldn't do anything to fulfil. We’ll be safe from attack for another two hours after that, he told them. Nothing and nobody’s out in this weather. Once it’s stopped, I’ll give you a chance to build a fire, powder some roots and have a hot soup before resuming full duties. All bluster and unprofessional and not allowed in the Mool code of conduct for patrols. Especially the building of a fire. He was trying to be relaxed in his discharge of orders – to be accepted by the men he commanded. Make the most of your quiet period!

Ready to go! Boomer shouted into Taiven's ear, the only talking to come from the Red Cloaks. A compromise because Taiven was a Belonger and, like the Nefer, deaf to the Cloaks’ decision-making. Everything else would be decided and acted upon in silence within the Cloaks’ minds.

Taiven nodded and waved them forward. His only regret was not being involved in the action. Effectively blinded and deafened by the rain, like Mool’s forces, any Belongers would be at a disadvantage. He could have insisted on being involved but he would be a burden to the others, not knowing how their tactics might change in action. The Cloaks would continue Chattering, warning, changing direction, choosing targets, depending on how the attack was progressing. Taiven would hear none of that. He was better off leaving it to them, staying out of their way.

He'd needed to be here, though, on the spot. The Cloaks respected his presence and willingness to be a part of the danger, which was fine, but he needed more: to understand how Belongers could fit into an exclusively Arriver Red Cloak company. His plan was to ease friction between Arrivers and Belongers. It involved bringing Belongers into what had been the exclusive realm of Arrivers – making Belongers into Cloaks. A difficult issue. It would be opposed by many Cloaks, but the value would be in reducing tension between the two groups. The problems would come in trying to integrate them: getting both groups to accept one another. The communication problem was the issue foremost in his mind. Without being able to Chatter, Belongers would always be at a disadvantage.

The Cloaks glided past him: a man and two women, following the huge, rambling shape of Boomer, disappearing into the shroud of rain. Cloaks didn’t differentiate between males and females: the criterion for entry based entirely on talent and attitude.

Taiven listened for the sound of fighting. Four against seven or eight – it shouldn’t be an issue for the Cloaks, who regularly took on double their own numbers. All Taiven could hear, though, was the persistent hiss of the downpour. He waited, expecting a yell, or some sound to let him know the action had started. Nothing penetrated the rain.

They should have been there by now. Perhaps hesitating before attacking? Maybe something forcing a halt, splitting the attack – one of Mool's men leaving the shelter for a piss? Anything! It frustrated him not knowing. He wondered briefly about going to look, deciding against it. It would demean their position; make it look like he didn’t trust them. Give them time; but it passed slowly. He heard nothing. He began to be sure something had gone wrong. It happened. Even to Red Cloaks. Clutching his sword, raising it before him, he imagined Nefer moving towards his position. He was an ex-Mool's soldier. He couldn't afford to be captured. They would strip the skin from his living body to wreak revenge.

He began to rise, fearing the worst. He would die fighting in the mud. Not captured to die slowly and painfully through torture.

Bushes nearby moved. Unnatural movement – against the direction of the wind. He stood upright, braced, poised to strike. More movement – the other side of him – surrounding him. They'd overwhelmed the Cloaks and knew about him. He prepared to strike.

A figure stepped in front of him, sword raised in defence, holding back, having heard the Chatter of his thoughts. Taiven lowered his sword, relieved to recognise the imposing bulk of Boomer through the gloom. He took a deep breath.

Boomer lowered his weapon, smiling wryly.

He spoke aloud for Taiven’s benefit. Task complete. No problems. But we've located two other groups nearby. What would you like us to do?

Taiven had no hesitation. Mool had over ten thousand warriors against Taiven's two thousand. Any chances to even the odds needed to be taken. See to both groups. Then we go home.

Boomer nodded and disappeared. When they returned none seemed injured, a remarkable testament to their talents. Taiven indicated with his thumb over his shoulder that they should return to Rant. Boomer, water streaming down his shoulders, grinned and nodded assent.

The journey back would be subdued after a long and difficult night. They fought the tiredness, knowing a lack of concentration could kill.

Jessica left her small house on the slopes above the main centre of Rant. She pulled her coat closer, staring down the hill. It wasn’t particularly cold, but she was feeling the effects of a growing anger at the mistreatment of a friend she had come to know since arriving in Rant. She shivered. Her baby daughter, Little Nesta, had been left with a friend - someone she and Nesta liked and trusted. The title ‘Little’, in Little Nesta, was used to avoid confusion with a different Nesta who’d died a year earlier defending the City of Rant, after whom she’d been named.

Jessica was seventeen years old, with long, blonde hair which she tucked under the collar of her coat to stop it gusting into her face. Her eyes were brown and usually held a smile for those she met. It was her personality that often surprised those who didn’t know her well. She possessed an outward appearance of being outgoing and athletic, holding an enhanced position in the Government of Rant. But new acquaintances often commented on a surprising shyness and introverted attitude. Those who’d known her longer, however, knew better, holding fond memories of her fighting for what she believed to be the right cause. Her shyness disappeared in the face of adversity.

It was the desire to support a good friend, a small person fighting a business in an unfair spat that had her hurrying towards the Court Room, a section of the Administrative Building in the main part of Rant.

She spotted Peyla walking ahead in the same direction and shouted her name into the wind.

Peyla turned and waited for her, beaming, eyebrows raised in question, asking, Where’s Little Nesta?

Being looked after. I want to go to the Court.

Peyla became worried. The Court? What for? What's happened?

Nothing to me. A neighbour has a case being heard, and I want to support her.

You won’t be coming to the Council Meeting?

No, sorry, I need to see the court case. She smiled quietly. You don't need me there. I never speak anyway.

Peyla smiled back. Maybe not aloud, but you provide good ideas afterwards. She became serious; the Court was her responsibility. Tell me what’s happening.

I'll tell you after. It may be nothing. But a friend of mine doesn't think she’ll be listened to fairly. I want to see what’s going on, that’s all.

Who’s the friend?

Krella. An oldish lady, in her seventies, lives three doors away from me. Do you know her? Lovely person.

Peyla shook her head. Let me know if something’s wrong. The Justice System’s on my list for checking. I’ve heard a few rumours but haven’t had a chance to look yet. I’d like to know if it’s doing its job right.

Jessica nodded and turned to go. I doubt it's anything, but I promised Krella. See you later.

Both Council and Court met within the Administrative Block, but it was such a large building that the two girls had to go through separate entrances to get to their respective destinations.

Jessica walked softly through the corridor, aware of her footsteps echoing on the marbled floor. She was in the oldest, most splendid part of the building. The corridors had been built to impress rather than for functionality: much wider and higher than they needed to be. Every noise echoed, subduing visitors with overarching grandeur.

There was evidence of damage in places: floor tiles missing; dense cracks splitting the plaster on the walls. Jessica assumed the deterioration originated from the invasion. Although much of the outer security of Rant had been restored, the interior damage would take longer. It was superficial, and didn't compromise the integrity of the building, so would come later. Discoloured gaps on the walls showed where statues and paintings had once hung and been destroyed or stolen: shadows of lost beauty. The overall impression was of decay, leaving Jessica feeling uncomfortable.

Placed in the leftmost wing of the building, the Court was isolated from other administration areas. Jessica turned a corner to find the first people she'd seen in her visit. A group of five stood, milling around, whispering outside a large double door which stood firmly closed against them. She didn't recognise any, other than a vague recollection of seeing one or two in town. She moved in their direction but didn't join them, standing separately. They glanced longer at her, two of them turning to look. She was aware of the scrutiny, assuming it was because of her position in the Government.

They waited patiently for almost twenty minutes before the doors slowly began to open.

No weapons, announced the man who had opened the doors to them. He patted the men's clothing as they passed, ignoring the women.

Like the corridor, so too was the Courtroom impressive. Equally high, and spacious; at the far end the judges’ bench dominated the room, though even that had lost its lustre in the defilement. Many wooden panels had been ripped away; probably used for firewood or building ramshackle huts. No expensive artefacts remained, but further dark shadows showing where they had once stood. However, the damage couldn't take away the majesty of the room. The judges' table was set high above the floor, giving the judges an imperious look downwards at their defendants and plaintiffs. Facing the judges were two separate areas where the accused and the accusers would sit discussing their cases, then behind those stood rows of chairs where any interested person could come to watch the proceedings. On the right of the room, facing inwards were three finely furbished chairs, separated from the rest of the room. Jessica had no idea what or who those were for.

Although she and the group she’d followed were the only ones to enter from the corridor, there was already a significant number inside the Courtroom, making Jessica wonder who they were and how they’d got in early.

Jessica’s presence caused a minor stir, several of the gathered crowd turning and staring. The man who’d opened the doors accompanied her to a seat and asked if there was anything he could fetch her. Jessica declined his offer and sat quietly.

The doorman was called to the front of the Court shortly after to talk with two or three people there. Glances were thrown in her direction. One left through the door behind the judges’ dais.

As they waited, a steady flow of people moved in and out. Most seemed quite comfortable in the surroundings, unlike Jessica. She was intimidated by both the surroundings and the people around her.

A bang on a table at the front of the room caught everyone's attention. His excellence, Judge Wilif. Please remain silent.

Jessica recognised the name Wilif. Leader of Rivers Crossing, in the south of Mundo. When Mool began his invasion, Wilif had ridden with a group of eighty of his soldiers straight to Rant to offer help to the Cloaks. Some had criticised the insignificant number of soldiers offered, but Jessica thought credit should be given. He hadn’t had to come, and he also had to think about home defences: he couldn’t leave Rivers Crossing undefended. The man had a gruff face, probably in his late sixties, with a full, untrimmed beard, turning grey, but he possessed a disarming smile, making him instantly likable the moment he used it. If there was a problem in the courtroom Peyla felt sure it wouldn't be with him. She studied others strutting importantly at the front but didn’t recognise anyone.

What cases are we hearing? asked Wilif.

Just the one, your excellency. A small trader making a claim against a partner.

Very well. Let's get started. Bring both plaintiff and accused in.

The courtroom bailiff moved to a door at the back of the room, opened it and spoke to whoever stood outside. Two people stepped into the room. One was Jessica’s neighbour, Krella: a kindly old lady who often helped Jessica out when she had problems, especially in looking after Nesta. Jessica smiled in her direction, but Krella seemed too preoccupied to notice anything or anyone. She kept her eyes downcast. Nicely dressed, but looking aged, this case had affected her badly. Jessica noted the stooped gait and hunch to the shoulders. They hadn’t been there a short while ago. Krella’s lower jaw was constantly moving, as if she were talking to herself, though nothing audible came out. Her eyes looked baggy and red-rimmed. Jessica was distressed: Krella had been crying.

The other was a portly, well-to-do man, dressed in fine clothes, probably to impress the court. Jessica felt an immediate dislike but pushed her prejudices aside. She was here to be impartial. He wasn’t the sort that Jessica would associate with: his appearance was designed to impress, but she was prepared to listen and give him the benefit of the doubt. Her main concerns were that the case was over quickly and that Krella was treated fairly. She didn’t look capable of coping with anything too drawn out.

When Krella had asked her to come along, Jessica had informed Krella she knew little of law or courtroom behaviour and should not expect too much.

But you know about fairness, Krella had replied.

I try,

Well isn’t that what courts are about? Fairness?

Jessica nodded in agreement, smiling, but feeling out of her depth. Comfortable questioning people’s motives and attitudes in everyday situations, she felt concerned about questioning a judge about procedures of official law. Still, she would support Krella, if that’s what her neighbour wanted. It was the least she could do. She could only offer opinions, after all. No harm in that.

Would the plaintiff give her name? The voice brought Jessica’s thoughts back to the Courtroom.

Wilif repeated his request twice before Krella realised he was talking to her.

Krella. I make clothes and garments, and other items for all sorts of people. I have a speciality of…

That's fine, interrupted Wilif. I just need your name for the records, that’s all, thank you. He smiled at her. She nodded in response, pleased to see a friendly face.

And the accused?

The portly gentleman rose from his chair. Nabod, your honour.

Thank you. Let’s get started. I’d like this case decided before lunch, if possible. He turned to look at Krella. What case are you bringing against the defendant?

Krella took her cue from Nabod and stood to address the Judge. Please, Your Goodness, Wilif smiled briefly at the title, he's not paid me for six months. I've been doing lots of this and that for him. Got the orders all written down. He’s been promising me payment every week, but I’ve received nothing. I can't go on any longer. I’m broke, Your Honesty. I can’t afford to buy materials any more. I can’t afford to go this long without being paid. It's not fair. I’m not one to use the courts normally but I don’t know what else to do. I've got family to keep and food to buy...

Thank you, Krella. I understand your concern. You can sit down for now. We'll see if we can sort this out satisfactorily.

Jessica felt happier about Krella's position than when she'd arrived. For a week Krella had been moaning about losing her money and not having enough to live on. Jessica had helped her out a little but was concerned about Krella’s long-term position. She became angry that businessmen would dismiss hard-working people so easily. Especially one at Krella’s advanced age. The Judge looked sympathetic.

Nabod. Please rise and explain your situation.

Gladly, Your Honour. Nabod stood and leaned on the desk in front of him, completely at ease. I have worked with Krella, on or off, for the past two years, since I moved to Rant.

Krella nodded agreement.

She’s always produced work to a good standard, and I’ve been happy for her to produce garments for me at my specification, which I take to markets around the area to sell as part of my business. Nabod looked around the room. There was no reaction. He continued. Recently, however, Krella has been making mistakes.

A sound of astonishment issued from Krella. I have not. My work is good!

Wilif raised a hand in her direction. Quiet, please. You must allow the defendant to explain himself.

But he’s lying.

Wilif held his hand up patiently. Whatever your feelings, you must allow him to make his statement. You’ll get a chance to make a reply later. He waited until Krella looked to be in control: then turned to Nabod. Are you saying she didn't make the items for you, or they weren’t of sufficient quality?

Neither, Your Honour. I've used Krella many times over the past years. She does good work. We've always had a good relationship. I provide designs with items I need making, which I give to her as a record for her to follow. I keep a copy and check she's done everything.

Go on.

These past few months she's been going through some hard times. She was demanding double payment for items on which we'd already agreed a price. I paid her for goods I’d received, and then she started claiming non-payment when I had already paid her in full. I have receipts. I can't work like that, your Honour. I told her we'd agreed a price and that would be it. I don’t renegotiate. I'm a businessman.

Jessica’s earlier optimism waned. Nabod was accomplished, used to dealing with people. His story sounded credible. Krella was going through a tough time financially, yet Jessica remained convinced it was because she was telling the truth about not being paid.

Wilif made a few notes, then turned to Krella. Do you have a reply to these claims?

Krella was crying with indignation. Her voice was a whisper, making everyone lean forward to hear. I didn't overcharge. I asked only for what he owed me. I never asked for more money, only what he owed for work done. He’s not paid anything in months.

And how much are we talking about?

Krella consulted a list and read out a sum. A gasp issued from the crowd: a small fortune.

Krella produced the documents. Here they are. All his orders. He kept coming back for more, needing another supply.

That's an extraordinary sum! How did you have the money to buy materials for that amount?

Jessica frowned, unsure why the question was relevant.

This is my selling price, not the buying price: that’s lower. I had to pay out half of this cost – the difference is my wage for doing the work.

Nevertheless, you had to make a substantial outlay. I’m still surprised at the amount. You could afford that?

Again, Jessica felt the question was bringing Krella’s honesty into question. She began to revise her opinion of Wilif.

No, I couldn't. I ran out of funds a month ago. My friends helped me out. They know me. They knew I'd pay them back once I was paid. Tears rolled down her cheeks. If he doesn't pay me, I won't be able to look them in the face. I don't know what I'll do.

Why did you continue making goods for several weeks even though you hadn’t been paid for earlier orders?

Because he’s always paid up before. And I had to anyway. If I stopped I would get nothing and I had nothing left. I needed the payments to be made. I was banking on this as my final load before maybe stopping work. I’m not getting any younger.

Let me see the orders.

The Bailiff walked over to Krella’s table and took her papers, then walked round and up to the Judge’s position.

These orders look legitimate, Nabod. Why aren't you paying this lady?

Nabod glared across at her with disgust. I have paid in full. I pay each month. All accounts are up to date.

He’s paid nothing for months. I've nothing left.

I paid, and she signed for the amount each time.

Show me your bills!

The Bailiff approached Nabod and took the bills proffered.

Wilif studied them closely, then frowned Did you sign these? he asked Krella.

If they’re the orders then I put a mark to say I’ve seen them,

These are not just orders. These also indicate you’ve received payment from previous months.

I haven't. I haven’t signed for any money. Only for new orders. He said he needed some things urgently. Offered good money if I could get them done. Said I had to sign one to agree. She started to cry again. I don't read so well. I’m not good at letters, only figures. He told me the numbers were what I’d get once the job was complete.

If you don't read, how do you know what orders to make?

We talk about the material. He draws the designs on the paper and puts the sizes down in numbers, so I can work with it. For everything else my friends and neighbours help me out. I’ve never had a problem before.

You didn't show your friends the bills you signed?

I didn't have them. He gave me copies of the sizes of garments to make. The ones I signed he took away for his records. Said he'd look after them. I trusted him, because he's been fair before.

Wilif leaned forward. This leaves me with a dilemma. Each of you claims the other is lying. And at the centre of this claim is a considerable sum of money. What I should ascertain is who is the victim here? I need time to consider the statements. We’ll take a break for one hour. Be back then and I’ll announce my decision. He stood and swept from the room.

Nabod rose and left through the common entrance, leaving the audience discussing their impressions. A few stood and walked outside.

Jessica moved down to Krella’s table. Well, he did listen, she offered.

Do you think he believed me?

He seemed sympathetic.

But he listened to Nabod and his claims he paid me. He didn't! He's given me nothing.

Jessica sympathised. The biggest problems are the signatures.

Only one. He asked me to sign once. Said it was for a bonus when everything was complete.

You only signed one sheet?

Yes.

He's claiming you signed a sheet every month for money received.

I never did. I might be getting on but my memory’s good. Not like he’s suggesting.

Jessica’s anger began to grow again. The injustice of a rich man taking advantage of a poor old woman made her blood boil. Wait here. I want to see some of those signatures. If he's forged anything, it’ll make a big impact on your case. She walked out of the room, looking for Nabod, or the Bailiff, to ask to see the documents. She had no idea if she would be allowed to see them, or spot a forgery if she were given access, but she had no doubt Krella was telling the truth.

The corridor was empty, apart from a couple who had decided to stretch their legs. To the left, a corridor stretched away towards the Judge’s Chambers; going right would return her to the exit: the way she’d come in. She headed for outside. Despite her anger and growing concern for Krella being unfairly treated, she felt a reluctance to approach the Judge in his Chambers. It was silly to feel so intimidated, especially considering her position within the community. She should be able to go anywhere and talk to anyone, but she’d been brought up to be wary of and subservient to authority: not an attitude easy to shake off.

She looked out to the dull light of a growing storm. Rant was grey and gloomy. Nobody in sight, the streets dreary and empty. No one had left the Court to go home. She closed the door and turned, perplexed, heading back towards the court. Nabod hadn't gone outside, and hadn’t been in the corridor. He had to have taken the only other corridor: the one leading to the Judge’s private area. She didn’t know the protocol, but it seemed strange if Nabod was associating with the Judge during the time Wilif was considering a verdict. She made up her mind. If Nabod could do it, so could she.

A few yards beyond the door leading into the courtroom, a large sign barred unauthorised persons from proceeding further. It made her pause for a second. She had to get past her fear of rules and officialdom. If Nabod had come this way she wanted to know why and to what purpose.

She couldn’t help thinking Nabod looked the sort to try to influence official processes if he could. He wouldn't be deterred by warnings on walls.

And the further removed she was from the courtroom discussion where Nabod literally accused Krella of stealing, or at least of conspiring to steal, the more convinced she grew that Krella was totally innocent. The old lady wouldn’t think about corrupt practices. She wasn't the sort. All she knew was that the work she did was good, and how much she should charge for her time and effort. Cheating people wouldn’t have entered her head. The pressure of the courtroom, with accusations flying, and Nabod, practised in talking his way into and out of situations, had made her mistrust her own judgement.

Jessica was convinced of his guilt. Not because of anything she could prove, nor because he looked capable of lying without compunction. It was based solely on her certainty that Krella was innocent. One of them was lying, and it wasn't Krella! She needed proof.

As far as she could tell, the dilemma for the Judge was plain. He didn’t have the burden of friendship influencing his thoughts. But then he didn’t have the advantage of knowing Krella’s good character. He had to find a way to choose fairly between two conflicting views. If she’d felt doubt about Krella during the case, so must the Judge. The same applied to Nabod – surely Wilif doubted him as well, despite his assured presence.

If the Judge was doubtful about guilt, the most likely outcome would be for him to dismiss the case, so neither benefited.

She realised with a jolt that such a judgement would, in fact, reward Nabod. He had received supplies free of charge from Krella and received payment for his sales from his customers. Krella had nothing, and still owed her neighbours for the money she'd borrowed. Dismissal wasn’t a fair hearing for Krella.

She walked past the courtroom, ignoring the sign that forbade passage. If questioned, she'd say she hadn't seen it and was searching for the toilet.

She rethought that: if stopped and questioned she would state every right to inspect the Court system. She was a member of the Council (perhaps not full - she wasn’t Wicca - but that shouldn’t matter) and wanted to see how things worked.

A single passageway curved round the outside of the courtroom. She passed a couple of small doors on the right, which might lead to cupboard spaces, and a small, dark alcove on the left containing brooms, buckets and other general cleaning materials. She recognised her relative position outside the Courtroom from the shape of the wall.

The opposite, outer wall of the corridor held doors to several rooms, one labelled ‘Defendants’ and another ‘Plaintiffs’. Places to wait for your case to be called. There was no noise behind either door. Jessica didn’t bother checking them as Krella was still in the Courtroom and she didn’t particularly want to meet Nabod, doubting he’d be in there anyway. Two other, more substantial, doors followed. There were no windows, just a large lock on each, and no signs to indicate their purpose. She assumed these to be cells for holding prisoners. Opposite these, on the left, was a further door. This was where the defendants and plaintiffs entered the Courtroom. Ahead, the corridor became a T-Junction. Jessica approached carefully, stopping at the intersection, peering quickly in both directions. Her fears returned. Both passages led to closed doors. On the left a sign indicated 'Judge's Chamber'; and on the right, "Clerks to the Judge'.

Jessica sighed. Her options plummeted to zero, despite her earlier strong intentions. She hated being dependent, but now needed Peyla or Taiven’s drive to push her on. She could hardly go and knock on either door and ask if Nabod were inside trying to corrupt an official.

She turned, starting back towards the court, wondering if there was anything else she could do, other than comfort Krella, and see what could be done to help her over the coming difficult months. The decision was going to work against her. Harsh, but fairly reached. How could the Judge choose otherwise? A clear case of one person's word against another. If Jessica were Judge, she would probably make the same decision.

A door clicked; voices.

Jessica turned; undecided, waiting to see who was coming, then bolted with unsubstantiated fear, running on tiptoe, trying not to make a noise. The corridor felt too long for safety; she feared being spotted. She reached the alcove used to store cleaning material, and on impulse side-stepped inside, shifting items around her to hide behind. She felt well-concealed behind the stacks of cleaning fluids. They would only find her if they followed her in. She discovered a small eye-hole in the stacks which she could peek through and get a limited view of the corridor. She should see them passing and hopefully identify them.

The voices grew louder. She guessed at three or four. She now regretted the impulse to hide. If she were discovered it would cause huge embarrassment – how would a potential Wicca, Council Leader, Mother of the next Trot, explain hiding in a broom cupboard? Too late. The footsteps grew closer, then stopped. Jessica pressed her eye against the tiny gap, hoping to see faces. but they had stopped just short of her hiding place.

What have we stopped for? Nabod’s voice.

Waiting for Wilif. Cultured voice; well educated. There had been one person in the Court who fitted that voice: a tall, white-haired, manicured man who’d looked as if he’d had military training – officer material.

What will he want?

A suitable verdict.

Jessica could hear the smile in Nabod’s voice in his response.

In my favour, I assume?

I doubt it.

What! Ila’s tooth, I’ve given all of you good money to make sure I was well supported in these sorts of things.

And you made a sackful of money yourself at the same time. You wouldn’t want that to dry up, would you?

What do you mean, dry up? Are you threatening me?

Of course not. None of us wants to lose income. Sometimes these decisions have a delicate balance.

Then why am I not going to win this case?

Think about it, Nabod. Win, and you’ll get nothing more. The woman doesn’t have anything to give.

What about my good character?

You’d lose any you have.

By winning?

Certainly. There are fiftyish spectators in the gallery. They’re all supporting the old lady. Win and they’ll leave this Court very unhappy people.

So?

The educated voice seemed tired by the questioning. They’ll speak to others and soon you won’t have any customers in this town.

The voice became petulant. I’ll still have Mool: my biggest customer.

And how long will you be able to keep that going without raising suspicion? This city hates Mool. They find out you’re supplying his troops with uniforms and they’ll hang you from the nearest tree. Their sons and fathers and mothers died here because of Mool’s orders.

A silence followed as this was digested. Jessica’s blood began to boil. Corrupt on several levels.

So, what will Wilif decide?

Ask him yourself.

Jessica became aware of fresh footsteps approaching.

Beme, are you sure we’re not being overheard?

Jessica held her breath.

Beme turned out to be the one with the cultivated voice. Absolutely sure. Only a handful of people could listen in without me knowing, and they’re busy elsewhere. We’re clear.

What about the Trot’s mother? I don’t like the fact she was in the Court.

She’s not Wicca. Just an Arriver with ordinary powers. She couldn’t listen in without me knowing.

Jessica thanked Ila that she was close enough to hear them through ordinary speech rather than try using ‘Chatter-speech’.

Fine, then let’s make the decision. What would you have liked, Nabod?

Obviously to win, but I understand that’s difficult.

It is, and not just for you. A win for you would put us all in a precarious situation. Questions would be asked. I’d have to explain myself to the Wicca. Everything you’ve built up here could be lost through that lapse.

But I won’t lose?

No. That would be almost as bad. The spectators would celebrate, but your business would be finished. You’d have to pay back what was owed.

Ila!

Quite.

So, a non-decision? suggested Beme. No winners, no losers?

There came a moment’s pause before Wilif spoke. There is one final option.

A long anticipatory hush followed those words.

Beme finally broke the silence. I’ll see to it. His footsteps disappeared back down the corridor.

What’s happening? asked Nabod.

A little extra surprise, replied Wilif. Probably best if you don’t know in advance. Your surprise will make it more realistic. Now, get back in the Courtroom. I want you there and seated before I arrive.

Footsteps disappeared in both directions as they split up.

Jessica stayed where she was for several minutes longer before easing herself out of her cramped space. She’d been worried about being overwhelmed by the complexity of law, but this was a clear case of the Judiciary using it for their own benefit.

She peeked into the corridor, checking it was empty, then walked back to the main entrance to the Court. She wanted to see what other deviousness they might use to discredit Krella. Then she’d let Peyla know what she’d discovered.

She wanted to be with Krella as the Judge announced his verdict. If what she'd heard was half right, Krella had no chance. She’d lose her money, her good name. Jessica considered interrupting the case, stating irregularities, but that would involve giving away what she’d discovered. It seemed better to let them show their own deviousness in full, then discuss the best way forward with Peyla and Taiven. It would be hard on Krella for the moment, but she could explain it to her later that evening.

She entered the Courtroom, noting that the Judge wasn’t in yet. Krella had been looking for her, her eyes lighting up when Jessica appeared. Krella’s grandson, Petta, had joined her, sitting beside her at the front of the room. Courts might not be the best place for young children to see their family, but he would be a comfort to his grandmother when the verdict Jessica expected came. Petta was good for Krella: nine years old, bright, but regularly in minor trouble. Krella thought the world of him. She was particularly proud of his Power: He could Chatter thoughts triple the distance of others his age. Jessica wondered if he might grow up to become Wicca.

Despite having family with her, Krella’s tone was despondent. I'm going to lose, aren't I?

Jessica tried to think of a way to be gentle, but nothing came. I think so. I'm so sorry. She took the old lady's hands. Look, if this goes how I think it might, then I'll do everything to help you get through the next few months.

That's alright. I'll be fine.

But you owe money. And you’ve got to live – buy food and clothes.

They're my friends. They'll understand. I don't want to leave them penniless as well. I’ll find a way. I’ll survive.

I'll make sure you get help.

Thank you. It's nice to have good friends. Better than money, really. More important. She smiled briefly. She was a strong woman. She’d bounce back. She would have to work on for years more to recover a part of what she was about to lose.

Beme and the Bailiff entered through the door at the rear of the Judge’s desk. Jessica noticed each of them glance briefly in her direction, concerned by her presence.