“Cat’s trial is tomorrow,” I told him.
Greyboar sat up straight. “We’ll go! Stand by her side!”
“Don’t be stupid!” I snapped. “Think they’ll let lowlifes like us—you especially!—anywhere near the Royal Court? Much less get inside! Leuwen’s been telling me the Queen’s ordered the whole Guard out for security at the trial. Not just the Guard, either. The Fifth Hussars are being brought into the city for crowd control. The Black Grenadiers’ve been assigned to patrol the city limits, keep out the peasants.”
“Supposed to be a whole column of peasants marching on the city tomorrow,” commented Leuwen. “Got icons and everything, going to petition the Ecclesiarchs to declare the Cat a saint.”
“But I’ve got to see her!” cried Greyboar. “Got to figure out a way to get her out of this mess.” He glared at his alepot like it was the cause of the problem. Then—surprise, surprise—he turned to me.
“You’re supposed to be the brains of the team, Ignace,” he grumbled. “Think of something.”
Bite the tongue, bite the tongue, bite the tongue. That’s what I had to tell myself, so’s I wouldn’t do something really stupid—really fatal, probably, given the mood of the moment—like make sarcastic remarks about self-professed philosophers.
“What do you want me to do?” I complained. “I can’t even figure out how we could get into the courtroom, much less rescue the Cat.”
“You’ll never be able to spring her right now,” said Leuwen. “You wouldn’t believe the security! The Queen’s in a rare fury, curse her soul. Have to wait till the trial’s over, and the Cat’s been sentenced. Then maybe things’ll ease up a bit.”
“Cat’ll be dead by then!” cried Greyboar. “Executed!”
Leuwen shook his head. “Not a chance, Greyboar. The Cat’s not for an early grave, that’s sure. The Queen ordered Judge Rancor Jeffreys be put on the bench for the trial.”
Greyboar paled a little. Some of that was relief, sure, because with Jeffreys on the bench there wasn’t any chance the Cat was in for a quick execution. But it wasn’t much relief. Jeffreys didn’t believe in quick hangings, except when he ordered judges hanged who didn’t hand down enough death sentences.
No, no, not the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys. Said it once, he’d said it a million times: “Quick hanging’s no deterrent to your lowlife miscreant. Sneer at it, the scum do. Their lives are worthless to begin with, so what do they care about a quick and easy snap of the neck? No, no, lords and ladies of the court! A thousand times no! Death by torture—that’s the trick! Slow, horrible, lingering death—there’s the ticket! Prolonged agony, endless torment—aye, the very thing!” And he prides himself on the ingenuity of his sentences, does the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys.
“What you’ve got to do,” mused Leuwen, “is find someone who can get into the trial. They can report back to you, tell you what happened. Especially, they can let you know what the Cat’s sentence was. Then you might be able to figure out some way of rescuing the lady.”
Greyboar snorted. “And who do I know could get into the Royal Court? All my friends are lowlifes, and look the part.”
“One of your customers, maybe?” asked Leuwen. “Mostly noblemen, them. They could get in.”
“Are you nuts?” demanded Greyboar. “Sure, most of my customers are nobles. So what? I’m their strangler, not their bosom buddy. Wouldn’t give me the time of day, they wouldn’t, if they didn’t need somebody choked.”
“Then what about them two girls show up here now and then? Never actually come into the place, I think they’re too shy. But they’ve peeked in here a few times, looking for Ignace. Raised his prestige no end, I might add.”
“Angela and Jenny?” I asked.
“That’s the ones,” said Leuwen. “Sure, why not have them get in? They could do it, too, I bet, if they wore the right kind of hoity-toity clothes. Guard wouldn’t look at ’em twice, as cute and innocent looking as they are.”
Well, I thought the idea was terrible and I said so more than once, and quite forcefully and in no uncertain terms either. Imagine! Dragging two sweet young girls into something like this!