Beecher looked up. “Is it not true you saw evidence of men living in homes with more than one adult woman?”
“I did not enter any such homes, nor did I speak with any of the people, so I do not know what their living circumstances were.”
Bumble pounded a fist on the bench. “Need I remind the witness that he has sworn to tell the truth?”
Ian met Bumble’s angry stare openly. “I have taken an oath before God to do so. I can tell you only what I know to be fact and still abide by that oath.”
Beecher flipped one sheet over, and then back. “Very commendable, Colonel. Did you ever hear the Steward deny that plural marriage was practiced in Happy Valley?”
“No.”
“And did the living arrangements strike you as unusual in Happy Valley?”
Ian hesitated. “There are many things in the west, Mr. Beecher, in all of Mystria, which seem unusual to me.”
“You need to answer my question. Did the living arrangements there, or in Piety, seem unusual to you? A simple yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Very good.” Beecher shifted to another pile. “Did you find the Steward employing Rufus Branch as a trusted aide?”
“Yes.”
“Did the Steward prevent him from being brought to justice for crimes he had committed in the Colonies?”
“Yes.”
Caleb rose from the pew behind the Steward. “I object.”
Bumble’s head came up. “On what grounds?”
“Ephraim Fox’s association with Rufus Branch might have broken a law, but there are no church prohibitions against such an association. The Good Lord lived among thieves and fallen women, and prison chaplains actively work to redeem same. This line of questioning is immaterial.”
Bumble’s nostril’s flared. “Mr. Beecher.”
“Yes, your Grace.” The slender man nodded solemnly. “Did you, Colonel, see Mr. Branch working to translate golden tablets which the defendant said they had taken from a ruin in the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“Did he describe these tablets as having been written by God in His own hand?”
“Yes, he did.” Ian’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Fire. Ian had never mentioned that detail to Beecher or Bumble, and he was certain neither Woods nor Strake would admit it. Fire must have told that to them, but why? Then he looked more closely at the man, the way he hunched down. He’s been beaten. He is protecting ribs. I wonder if the gauntlets hide more wounds?
“Colonel?”
Ian’s head came around. “Please repeat the question.”
“In Piety, did you see Ephraim Fox offer an invocation to his Satanic master, then burn the Church.”
“What? No.”
“He did not burn the Church?”
“Yes, yes, of course he did. The entire congregation was in there. It was the only thing to do.”
Beecher nodded, his finger trailing down lines on a sheet. “So you just did not hear the invocation to diabolic forces?”
“I wasn’t near enough to hear what he said. None of us were.”
Beecher smiled easily, his brown eyes narrowed. “No one but Ephraim Fox and the people who had sacrificed themselves under his influence. Colonel, you were present when he used magick to kill Becca Green’s mother?”
“He tried to save her.”
“Are you sure, Colonel? He used magick on the girl, didn’t he? But did nothing for the woman?”
“He used magick to save me.”
Beecher’s head came up. “To heal you from a head wound, of which you have no memory receiving, and of which there is no mark on your head, isn’t that right?”
Ian frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
“Not that you are not a hero, Colonel. We all know you are.” Beecher smiled toward the defense table. “The Frost Weekly Gazette made that very clear in its last issue. No, sir, it is the contention of this court that Ephraim Fox knew you were incorruptible, therefore he used magicks, proscribed magicks learned from the same Satanic source which produced the tablets, to alter your memory so it could contain no memory that would convict him of heresy. Moreover, we contend that he did this with each of your companions, in turn, as opportunity allowed while they brought him here.”
Caleb stood again. “I object.”
Bishop Harder leaned forward. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that the Colonel is being asked to speculate about events of which he has no memory. On the grounds that Mr. Beecher contends that the Colonel’s lack of memories proves that Ephraim Fox used magick to steal those memories. In short, lack of evidence becomes proof that a crime was committed. By that logic, one could conclude that because the Tribunal is not wreathed in flames and reeking of sulphur that you all have been raised to the bench directly from Hell.”
Beecher slowly clapped his hands. “You would be correct, Caleb, save for one thing.” He raised a thick sheaf of documents bound with twine. “We have a witness to all of this. Ephraim Fox himself has confessed to doing it all, and Colonel Rathfield has just revealed how insidiously thorough he truly was.”
Ian reached his apartment by midday and drew all of the blinds. Though he had desired to stay at Strake House just to be close to Catherine, he could not tolerate knowing that she and Owen shared a bed just down the hall from his rooms. He had to get away, so he’d found furnished rooms in Temperance and hid himself away there.
The rooms were not much, and he could have afforded better, but he settled for two small rooms, shabbily painted and floored with dark wood. Most people would have found the rooms quite spare, despite their being furnished with a table, two chairs, a wardrobe, and a bed. For a man used to living in a tent on campaign, the rooms seemed a bit full.
On his trip from the Cathedral he ventured all the way to the docks and procured a bottle of whiskey from a tavern chosen at whim. He carried it home inside his coat, then set it on the parlor table. He sat across from it in the near dark, aching to drink himself into oblivion and yet not daring to risk the consequences.
He had never imagined the trial to be anything less than a sham. From the very first, when Bumble had charged him with the added duty of finding a pretext through which the Steward could be dragged back and put on trial, he understood the danger Fire presented. The man’s preaching could lead people astray, and as a man who knew well his own sins, Ian recognized the threat to their souls. He had not thought far enough ahead to imagine that Fire might be killed, but he did realize that separating the man from those he might influence was important.
But the trial was not being conducted to convict Ephraim Fox. Bumble had extracted a confession from him, so conviction was a formality. The trial was about Bumble being able to display himself as a leader protecting the people. He’d had Ian there merely to show that even an officer of the Queen’s Army had to answer to him. Had Caleb Frost not offered himself as a focus for Bumble’s ire, Ian’s reticence to openly condemn the Steward would have had terrible repercussions.
Though he had tried to do the honorable thing, Ian felt soiled. His leg throbbed, and it was from more than just having stood to give his testimony. Bumble had turned Ian’s mission to his own advantage, sullying a duty which Ian had performed to the best of his ability. The trial mocked him, and though Bumble had backed away from extorting his cooperation this time, Ian had no doubt that Bumble would use him ruthlessly in the future.
He reached for the bottle, thinking to uncork it and let the amber liquid burn down his throat. It had been nearly two years since he’d drunk any hard liquor-not since the night his wife took her own life. In that time he’d only ever drunk wine, and only if it was diluted with water. But he wanted the whiskey for its ability to steal
