He was seated. Cassian stood in front of him, but he didn’t have the posture of most men in front of a magistrate. He was very definitely looking down, with an expression of remote displeasure. He wore his old coat, but the golden card-case he took from his pocket was engraved, and when he placed a card on the bench with a click, the wrought gold ring gleamed on his finger.
The magistrate picked up the card and his face changed. Probably a duke’s cards felt expensive.
‘I am Severn,’ Cassian repeated, and his voice was different, somehow. Remote, and very, very superior. ‘I was travelling with the prisoner when the reckless stupidity of this man, your son, illegally tooling the coach in contravention of numerous by-laws, caused an accident. At least three people were extremely badly hurt, perhaps killed. I note none of them are here, in this room where you propose to try Mr Charnage.’ A touch of anger in his voice now. ‘Mr Charnage saved the life of a child in the wreck, acted heroically afterwards in preventing further accident, and aided wounded passengers to escape the coach. While he did so, your son reeled around drunkenly, making oafish jokes, uncaring of the damage he had done. And now you propose to abuse your position and carry out judicial vengeance on Mr Charnage for his very natural anger, whileyour songoes unpunished for his reckless, drunken destruction. You disgrace your office, Sir Benjamin. This is contemptible.’
The magistrate was the red-purple colour of a raw steak, or an oncoming apoplexy. Cassian went on, voice low and steady, slim form upright, staring down at him as he sat. ‘You are committing an egregious abuse of power and I will not tolerate it. You are unfit for your post, sir, and your son isunfit for the company of gentlemen. I will make both of those things known across England.’
The magistrate opened his mouth. Cassian held up a finger. ‘Weigh your words. I will brook no insolence.’
‘I – but— How do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
His words fell like stones, clear and separate, and the magistrate swallowed. ‘That is, how do I know, Your Grace?’
Cassian gave him a few seconds’ silent scrutiny. ‘You may send to my seat, Staplow, or to London to my solicitors, should you choose to doubt my word. If I am delayed on my travels by this, I will hold you responsible for any consequences. You will in any case release Mr Charnage on my cognizance, now, while we wait for the proof you require. It is regrettable you have not applied such high standards of evidence in your judicial duties.’
‘Your Grace, please.’ Sir Benjamin was sweating visibly. ‘I’m sure we can discuss this. As men of goodwill.’
‘Goodwill?’ Cassian repeated. ‘I think not. You take up my time. Will this prosecution go forward?’
The magistrate swallowed again, and made a surreptitious gesture to his son, who croaked, ‘No.’ His father positively snarled at him, and he amended it to, ‘No, Your Grace.’
‘So Mr Charnage is free to go.’
Sir Benjamin nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Then why is he still in irons?’ Cassian enquired, and the edge to his voice did more than any bellow could have achieved.
‘At once, Your Grace. Get on you fool!’ the magistrate snapped at the turnkey. ‘Your Grace, please believe that this unfortunate misunderstanding – a very natural inclination on a father’s behalf – I beg your tolerance—’
‘You seem not to grasp the issue, Sir Benjamin,’ Cassian said. ‘I was in that coach. Your son could have killed Severn. Therewillbe consequences.’
Sir Benjamin’s mouth opened and shut. Cassian stood in silence, back stiff with hauteur. His coat might have been ermine.
He waited for Daizell to be freed, then turned and swept forward without a word to the magistrate, Daizell and Martin scrambling along in his wake.
Daizell stepped out into his first fresh air and sunlight for two days, blinking. Cassian stopped in front of him, and gave a tiny shudder, like a horse shaking off flies. Daizell shot a glance at Martin, who pulled an appalling face.
When Cassian turned he looked like himself again, without the cold, superior expression and upright bearing. ‘Daizell. Are you all right?’
‘Uh. Yes.’
He couldn’t think of anything to say. Probably ‘thank you’ would be appropriate, except he didn’t want to, unless he did. He was suddenly very aware of his gaol-stink, of the fact he hadn’t slept, washed or shaved in two days, still less changed his linen. His coat was torn, his only coat, and he looked like what he was, a shabby ruffian. Cassian was a duke.
Daizell wanted to demand,What are you doing here? Why did you come?but he wasn’t sure he could bear the answer.
Cassian seemed equally tongue-tied, for all his earlier poise. They stared helplessly at each other. Martin looked between them, and gave a sigh. ‘Daize, he wants to talk to you. If you want to hear him out, he’s taken a parlour in the inn. If you don’t, we can go.’
‘Please,’ Cassian said scratchily. ‘Would you hear me out? Or even just let me apologise?’
Daizell nodded. Martin touched him on the arm. ‘I’ll get your things from the gaol, and be in the public if you need me.’
There was indeed a private parlour in the inn. They walked in, and Cassian shut the door. Daizell wandered over to the other side of the room. He was slightly concerned this might be a dream: that of course the Duke of Severn had not appeared to save him, that he would wake again and still be alone and facing a whipping.
‘Daize,’ Cassian said. He sounded real, for what that was worth. ‘Oh, Daize. I have so many things to say to you, but before I start, I really didn’t mean what I said then. About the crash, and the important part being what might have happened to me. I truly don’t believe that, and please don’t think it. I just wanted to give him the worst time I could.’
Daizell couldn’t argue with that. The magistrate’s face had collapsed in on itself with horror, and young Master Acaster was probably getting pepper at this moment. ‘How were you there? How are you here? Why is Martin here?’
