THIRTY-FOUR

The Fast-Track Trial

We had agreed to reconvene at Mrs. Timpson’s Battlement Viewing Tearoom atop the town wall near the south gate, which afforded the many rail and military enthusiasts drawn to Llangurig a clear view of the battles below. But we were there for a more culinary reason: Mrs. Timpson’s was reputedly the best tearoom in Llangurig. I wanted to savor one last excellent scone with jam and clotted cream before we headed north.

“Even if this news about Quizzler shows only that the Eye of Zoltar was here six years ago, I’m for going on,” I concluded, “but if anyone wants out now, I understand.”

“I’ve got something to add before you all get too excited,” said Addie. “I made a few inquiries, and everyone who has ventured toward Cadir Idris to look for Pirate Wolff or the Leviathans’ Graveyard has vanished without a trace.”

“How many?”

“Fifteen expeditions, two hundred sixty people,” said Addie. “A one hundred percent fatality rate, and that’s weird. Even the most hideously dangerous undertaking leaves someone.”

“The Mountain Silurians?” I asked. “They’re pretty unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant but not gratuitously murderous,” replied Addie. “They let people travel across their territory as long as they get paid in goats. No, I think there’s something else. Something we don’t know about—a hidden menace waiting for us at the mountain.”

“Still want to go there?” I asked.

“You can only be talking to me,” said Wilson with a smile, “because Addie, we know, would sooner accept death than dishonor her profession by bailing out, and Perkins is as loyal and as unswerving as any man I have ever known.”

Addie and Perkins nodded in agreement.

“As for me,” continued Wilson, “that brush with the Cloud Leviathan really got my ornithological blood racing. Okay, it’s not a bird, but lighter-than-air flight in the animal kingdom is the scientific discovery of the century. I’ll be on the cover of National Geographic, as long as that woman with the gorillas hasn’t done anything exciting that month. Listen, wild Buzonjis wouldn’t keep me from this expedition.”

I thanked them all, and asked Addie and Wilson how they had done since we last met. The short answer was: Not very well. Addie had found us a battered Jeep that was now waiting for us, fueled and oiled, at the north gate.

“The Jeep is worn out,” said Addie, “but it should get us to Cadir Idris. I’ve also got eight goats in a trailer so we can barter safe passage with the Mountain Silurians.”

“Good. Mr. Wilson?”

Wilson explained that he had tried giving a small test bribe to the clerk of the court but was met with stony defiance. “I then went and told Judge Gripper O’Rourke that Laura was a princess.”

“How did that work out?”

“The judge laughed and told me everyone tries that and to come up with something a little more imaginative.”

“I could try magic to spring her,” said Perkins, “but this is a tricky one. I’ve never used magic against the accepted rule of law, and that might cause some morality blowback.”

“Some what?” asked Wilson.

“Morality blowback. Using magic to go against the natural order of justice can do serious damage. To use magic for wrong, you have to believe the wrong is correct, and I’m kind of thinking that because the princess was trading fraudulently, somewhere in all this is a form of justice—even if execution itself is unjustified.”

“Morality and magic are a minefield,” I said. “That’s why wizards never spell death—just newting or stone transformations and stuff. It’s why an evil sorcerer genius always employs minions to do the dirty work. Even someone like Shandar would risk everything if he tried to kill someone or something directly using magic. Perkins is right. It’s too risky.”

We all fell silent for a while. We heard the gates of the town swing shut, and a second or two later the warring railroad companies commenced their 18:02 Teatime Express Battle special.

We had a good view as the two armies locked in combat once more, this time with tanks and flamethrowers. Two Trans-Wales-Rails armored bulldozers advanced to lay ballast for the tracks. They might have succeeded, had the earth not collapsed beneath them as a result of secret tunneling by Cambrian sappers. As the battle intensified, the Cambrian railroad men brought out a completed sixty-yard section of track under cover of a diversionary pincer movement to the south.

As we watched the proceedings, the assistants of Honest Pete and Rock-Steady Eddie stood nearby on the town wall and communicated by a series of bizarre hand signals to their masters in the street below about how the battle was faring. With every sleeper or length of track that was added or removed, each company’s share value rose or fell accordingly. By the time a short volley of mortars heralded the destruction of any small gains twenty-two minutes later, the shares had settled at about the same price as when the battle started. The railroad tracks had not progressed even an inch.

The rail enthusiasts in the tearoom made notes in their books as the dead and wounded were carried off, the town gates opened again, and everything returned to Llangurig’s version of normal.

“Senseless waste of time, effort, and life,” said Perkins.

“So,” I said, checking my watch, “any ideas on how to spring the princess?”

There weren’t, which was discouraging.

“Okay, then,” I said, “we’ll just have to improvise.”

We paid for the tea and scones and made our way toward All Rise, the combined bakery/courthouse, to take our seats for the trial. It was hot in the courthouse, as the bread ovens had only just completed the afternoon bake, and the public was busy fanning themselves.

“Where’s Perkins?” I said to Wilson; I’d lost sight of him as we went in. Wilson offered to find him, but I said not to worry. I wanted the princess to see at least three of us there.

The princess was escorted in by the two officers who had arrested her earlier. Mr. Lloyd, prosecuting, was sitting at his bench surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. In the Cambrian Empire, lawyers were paid not by number of hours worked, but by a complex algorithm that took into account the weight of the paperwork, the age and height differential between counsel and defendant, recent rainfall, and the brevity of the trial. It was said that the best way to make a profit as a Cambrian lawyer was to be a tall octogenarian who could generate three tons of paperwork, conduct cases in the rain for no more than three minutes, and prosecute only those under twelve.

“All rise!” said the clerk, and we all rose dutifully as the judge walked in and took his seat. He rummaged for his glasses, and had the court sit before he read the charges. While he did so, the public—there were at least thirty people there—tutted and went ooh and aah. The princess watched impassively, but did not look in our direction. She might have been in the body of Laura, but she clearly wanted to show us she could face the music like a princess if necessary.

“How do you plead?” asked the judge.

“Not guilty,” said the princess, and there were more muted whisperings in the courthouse.

“Nonsense,” said the judge. “I’ve seen the evidence, and it’s highly compelling. Guilty as charged, to which the sentence is death. Anything to say before the punishment is carried out?”

“Yes,” said the princess, “actually, I do—”

“Fascinating,” interrupted the judge. “Thank you, Mr. Lloyd, for such a well-tried case. The legal profession may be justly proud of you. What was that? Nineteen seconds?”

Mr. Lloyd bowed deferentially after consulting a stopwatch. “Eighteen and a quarter, my lord, a new regional judicial speed record.”

“Good show,” said the judge, signing a docket the clerk had handed him. The scrap of paper was then passed to a bony old man sitting half asleep in a chair, who awoke with a start when prodded.

“Executioner?” said the judge. “Do your work, but make sure it’s a clean cut—not like the messy job you did last time.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the executioner.

I jumped up.

“Objection!” I shouted, and several people in the courtroom gasped at my audacity. “This trial makes a mockery of the high levels of judicial excellence that we have come to expect from the great nation that is the Cambrian Empire. I counter that everyone has the right to be represented by counsel, to be judged by their peers, and to have all evidence scrutinized before any decision is reached. I move that this farce be declared a mistrial and the prisoner released forthwith!”

There was silence in the court. It wasn’t a great speech. To be honest, it wasn’t even a good speech, but several of the public were moved to tears and shook me by the hand. I even heard a sob from someone in the front row.

“Your impassioned appeal has moved me, miss,” said the judge, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, “and I accede to your wishes. The trial will be declared void, the prisoner will be pardoned and released, and her criminal record expunged, with our apologies.” He gestured to the clerk, who swiftly drafted a pardon for the princess.

“Th-thank you, my lord,” I said, surprised by the results.

The judge signed the pardon with a flourish.

“There,” he said, handing the document to the princess.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, then read it. “Wait a moment, this is postdated. I’m not pardoned for another hour—until after the execution.”

“How . . . ironically tragic,” said the judge. “Executioner? Get on with it.”

“That’s not fair!” I shouted.

“You shouldn’t confuse justice with the law, my dear,” said the judge. “I have done everything that the law and you have asked: I have been both resolute and merciful. Now, stay your hand, or you shall be arrested for contempt.”

I felt myself grow hot. The veins in my temples began to thump as a prickly heat ran down my back. This would end badly if I went into a rage, and I battled to keep my anger down. I squeezed the chair in front of me until the wooden back exploded into fragments in my hands. I felt a howling in my ears, which became a whistling, then a high-pitched squeal that sounded like a train whistle.

Everyone in the courtroom had heard it too—because it had come not from me, but from outside. My temper subsided as the judge, the executioner, Mr. Lloyd, and the public all rushed out to see what was going on. I took a deep breath and beckoned to the princess, who hopped over the barrier between the combined witness box and flour bin.

“All we have to do is keep you hidden for a half hour,” I said, taking her hand and heading for the door.

Wilson and Addie followed as we made our way to the town square. With whoops of joy and resounding cheers, everyone was streaming out of the gates. Hats were thrown in the air, old women were crying, and a brass band had struck up a triumphant tune. Just beyond the gates I could see a shiny locomotive, big and bold and hissing with steam, where less than an hour ago there had been a battlefield.

“Go with Wilson and Addie,” I said to the princess. “I’ll meet you at the Jeep outside the north gate as soon as I can. Something’s . . . not right. You two, use force to protect her if necessary.”

“All other considerations secondary?” said Wilson.

“Exactly.”

I ran beyond the town wall to find that a mile of shiny new track connected the depots of Trans-Wales-Rails and Cambrian Railway. The rails were dead straight, the sleepers perfectly aligned, and the ballast looked as though it had been laid carefully by hand. The jubilant townsfolk and equally jubilant (and now very wealthy) railroad troops were dancing in the dust by the short connecting piece of rail while the railroad militia generals shook hands in an annoyed but relieved fashion. The line would be shared; profits would be equal, and better yet, there would be no more senseless loss of life over an insignificant mile of railroad track somewhere in the forgotten wilds of the Cambrian Empire.

“In less than ten minutes!” said one man, dancing past me.

“It is a miracle!” shouted another.

“It’s nothing of the sort,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “It’s Perkins frittering his life away.”

I looked around, knowing he would still be nearby. Such a feat would have exhausted him, and he would need help getting back through town to the north gate. I eventually found him sitting on a bench.

“That was quite something,” I said, my voice trembling. His face was obscured by his hands, and I dreaded what price his magic had exacted this time around.

“It was a win-win,” he said in a tired voice. “The princess lives, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And the Llangurig Railroad War is over?”

“It is.”

Perkins looked up at me. A mile of track in under ten minutes was a fearfully large spell. By my best estimate he was now in his fifties. His hair was streaked with gray and there were lines around his mouth and eyes. A small mole on his cheek was now more prominent, and he wore reading glasses.

“I thought it would only take six years from me,” he said with a smile, “but it took more than twenty. But then, I’m not as young as I was.”

“It’s not funny,” I said. “Here, take my arm. We’ll go through the town. It’ll be quicker.”

I pulled him to his feet and we stumbled back through the south gate and into the town, which was already emptying out. Now that the railroad had arrived, the reason for the frontier town had vanished. For Sale signs had sprung up, and townsfolk were loading handcarts with their possessions.

We were passing a row of shops when I stopped outside an antique store and stared through the window. I moved closer. This was not what I had expected.

“Will you look at that,” said Perkins as he followed my gaze. “He’ll never live this down.”