Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,101

called out a name.

An older man of at least fifty years was roughly pulled out from the pew and pushed toward the altar. He stumbled more than once and would have fallen on his head, except that two cyclopians flanking him caught him and roughly stood him upright.

The accusation was a typical one: stealing a coat from a kiosk. The accusing merchant was called forward.

“This is not good,” Oliver remarked. The halfling nodded toward the merchant. “He is a wealthy one and likely a friend of the duke. The poor wretch is doomed.”

Luthien’s lips seemed to disappear into his frustrated scowl. “Is anyone ever found innocent in this place?” he asked.

Oliver’s reply, though expected, stung him profoundly. “No.”

Predictably, the man was declared guilty. All of his belongings, including his modest house in Montfort’s lower section, were granted to the wealthy merchant, and the merchant was also awarded the right to personally cut off the man’s left hand that it might be displayed prominently at his kiosk to ward off any future thieves.

The older man protested weakly, and the cyclopians dragged him away.

The dwarf came out next, but Luthien was no longer watching. “Where are the Cutters?” he whispered. “Why aren’t they here?”

“Perhaps they are,” Oliver replied, and the young man’s face brightened a bit.

“Only to watch, as are we,” the halfling added, stealing Luthien’s glow. “When thieves are caught, they are alone. It is a code that the people of the streets observe faithfully.”

Luthien looked away from the halfling and back to the altar area, where the dwarf was being pronounced guilty and sentenced to two years of labor in the mines. Luthien could understand the pragmatism of what Oliver had just explained. If Duke Morkney believed that a thieving band would try to come to the rescue of one of its captured associates, then his job in cleaning out Montfort’s thieves would be easy indeed.

Luthien was nodding his agreement with the logic—but if that was truly the case, then why was he perched now, fifty feet above the Ministry’s floor?

It worked out—and Oliver was sure that it was no coincidence—that Siobhan was the last to be called. She moved out of the pew, and though her hands were tied in front of her, she proudly shook off the groping cyclopians as they prodded her toward the lectern.

“Siobhan, a slave girl,” the man called loudly, glancing back to the duke. Morkney still appeared bored with it all.

“She was among those who attacked the mine,” the man declared.

“By whose words?” the half-elf asked sternly. The cyclopian behind shoved her hard with the shaft of its long pole-arm, and Siobhan glanced back wickedly, green eyes narrowed.

“So spirited,” Oliver whispered, his tone a clear lament. He was holding firmly to Luthien’s crimson cape then, half-expecting the trembling young man to leap down from the ledge.

“Prisoners speak only when they are told to speak!” the man at the podium scolded.

“What worth is a voice in this evil place?” Siobhan replied, drawing another rough shove.

Luthien issued a low and guttural growl, and Oliver shook his head resignedly, feeling more than ever that they should not be in this dangerous place.

“She attacked the mine!” the man cried angrily, looking to the duke. “And she is a friend of the Crim—”

Morkney came forward in his chair, hand upraised to immediately silence his impetuous lackey. Oliver didn’t miss the significance of the movement, as though Duke Morkney did not want the name spoken aloud.

Morkney put his wrinkled visage in line with Siobhan; his bloodshot eyes seemed to flare with some magical inner glow. “Where are the dwarves?” he asked evenly.

“What dwarves?” Siobhan replied.

“The two you and your . . . associates took from the mines,” Morkney explained, and his pause again prodded Oliver into the belief that this entire arrest and trial had been put together for his and Luthien’s benefit.

Siobhan chuckled and shook her head. “I am a servant,” she said calmly, “and nothing more.”

“Who is the owner of this slave?” Morkney called out. Siobhan’s master stood from one of the pews near the front and raised his hand.

“You are without guilt,” the duke explained, “and so you shall be compensated for your loss.” The man breathed a sigh of relief, nodded and sat back down.

“Oh, no,” Oliver groaned under his breath. Luthien looked from the merchant to the duke, and from the duke to Siobhan, not really understanding.

“And you,” Morkney growled, coming up out of his chair for the first time in the two hours Oliver