Tyler raised a hand again. Church and I left Kincaid, Chuey, Lady, Cassius, and Lakshmi outside the octagon, walked into the center, and sat in a couple of stiff chairs at the cold mahogany table.
“So then,” said Tyler to Brach, “it isyourcomplaint.” “That it is,” said Brach.
Tyler motioned him into the center. Emaline followed him in, the rest of his entourage remaining on the other side of the octagon.
“Before we begin,” said Chancellor Wake, “I want you to know, Mr. Solomon, that we are all of us saddened by the passing of Mr. Wilkinson. Disagreements aside, he was a caring man.”
Most of the chancellors muttered in agreement.
Chancellor Churchill came around his table, adjusted his sword, and sat on the table’s edge. He knocked the wood hard once and said, “Mr. Solomon, I’m Jack Churchill. You may call me ‘Mad Jack’ to keep things clear.” He laughed. “The bastard who killed Henry’s going to rot. Pray God it’s not you.”
I whispered to Church, “He carried that sword into World War II.” “Mad Jack and Henry were friends,” Church whispered back.
Brach stood and cleared his throat. “With all due respect, commiserations and threats must wait. And I say that as one who was a closer friend to the deceased than anyone else here. Instead, to do the man justice, I urge that we get straight to the matter.” He leveled a withering stare at me. “Mr. Solomon stands accused of killing Henry Wilkinson. I submit that before he compounds this charge further or tries to flee, he be boxed.”
Captain Burton knocked his table, stroked his French-forked beard, and said, “My research shows Mr. Solomon is from the Americas, which is part of the Sotadic Zone. Might the murder of Mr. Wilkinson have been an incident of repressed sexual feelings given violent release?”
Brach turned to face the Victorian gentleman. “Captain Burton, sir, I don’t believe so. Mr. Wilkinson had a long and happy marriage to a Mrs. Martha Wilkinson. And Mr. Solomon, by all accounts, enjoys the company of a good woman. Rather, I would ask if it isn’t the least bit suspicious that the day before Mr. Wilkinson’s death, he revised his will and named Mr. Solomon his sole beneficiary.”
“Including the Iron Horse?” asked Burton. “Indeed,” said Brach.
I knocked on our table.
Tyler rolled his hand. “Something to add, Mr. Solomon?”
“I didn’t know about the will,” I said. “And even if I had, it would be circumstantial, wouldn’t it?”
A round of soft laughter rained down from the galleries.
“Mr. Solomon,” said Tyler, “this isn’t some topside court where the burden of proof rests entirely on the prosecutor. The chancery gets to have a look at context in rendering its judgment. So, you best go easy on your objections, eh?”
Church offered a conciliatory smile and pulled some documents from his satchel. “Mr. Solomon is new to Precedent Law, but I can attest that Mr. Wilkinson had long planned to bequeath?—”
“Which is beside the point,” interrupted Brach. “Mr. Solomon is a failed musician. The day of the murder, he’d been relieved of his only prospect to sustain himself with his trade. And that same evening, when Mr. Wilkinson told Mr. Solomon of the will, Mr. Solomon saw his opportunity and took it.”
“But I’m telling you,” I almost shouted, “I didn’t know about the will until after I’d identified Henry at the morgue?—”
Someone in the gallery booed, and the rest of the rabble laughed and whistled until Tyler shushed them.
“So you say,” said Brach. “But I’ll take it a step further. We all know that a mortal human’s only interest isself-interest. With that in mind, I offered you all the fame and fortune of a successful music career. Yet you turned me down.” Brach looked into the face of each Strata chancellor in turn. “I submit that Mr. Solomon realized the potential of possessing sole access to the Abyssal Steps, and so hastened his proprietorship by killing Mr. Wilkinson.”
Church held up some papers. “I would remind the chancery that the will alone does not transfer proprietorship. The ward must also accept its owner and bond to him.”
“Which,” argued Brach, “isnotsomething Mr. Solomon would likely have known before he murdered Mr. Wilkinson.”
Lady Aethelflaed rapped her knuckles on her table. She took off her helmet and pinned Brach with a hard look. “Has the ward bonded with Mr. Solomon?”
“Lady Aethelflaed,” said Brach, “with all due respect, that is entirely beside the point. Mr. Solomon has flouted Precedent Law. He must stand to account, just as Edward should haveanswered for the assassination of your husband, despite the grace of your subsequent rule.”
Grace O’Malley drummed her table with her fingers. “Mr. Brach, you have not answered Chancellor Aethelflaed’s question.”
Church whispered, “O’Malley survived Queen Elizabeth’s eighteen Articles of Interrogatory. She loathed the Irish and English monarchs. She’s our wild-card vote.”
“The answer, my ladies, is currently yes,” Brach admitted. “But during his short tenure, he’s already once lost that bond, and has compromised his ability to renew it. The truth is that unlike either of you, Mr. Solomon has but a tenuous grasp on what it means to truly lead. And I’ve not yet even mentioned his attacks on other thanatists, such as Sir Bazalgette, nor his pursuit of illegal Orcus thread, which should concern us all. No, my ladies, he is, quite frankly, dangerously ill-equipped to steward the Iron Horse and its Abyssal Steps?—”
I knocked our table and stood up. “You might be right, but that isalsobeside the point.”
“Really,” said Brach, “and to which point do you refer?”
