Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition by Taran Matharu Read Free Book Online

edge, a yawning chasm of despair on one side, an unknown future on the other. He could feel his pulse rushing in his ears as his heart throbbed, so loud that he barely heard the words that came from the judge’s mouth.
    ‘I find the defendant … innocent of all charges.’
    Fletcher collapsed to his knees. He could feel Arcturus pounding him on the back with joy, hear the uproar of the crowd behind him. It was so surreal. He hadn’t realised before, but he had never really believed he would be found innocent. Yet somehow, between Othello’s family and his teachers at the academy, he had been saved from a lifetime of imprisonment, and more besides.
    He looked up at Didric through tear-filled eyes, blinking through the blurry haze. It was strange, but his nemesis didn’t look angry. In fact, he was simply frowning, as if mildly annoyed by the verdict.
    ‘Order, order!’ the judge bellowed, as the spectators continued to yell in the background. Slowly, silence resumed, the noise dying down with each blow from the judge’s gavel.
    But one sound remained. A slow clap, coming from the back of the room. It continued, getting louder as it approached them. The judge made no move to quell the noise, furrowing his eyebrows and watching with interest.
    ‘Very well done: most entertaining,’ came a sardonic voice.
    Inquisitor Rook strode into view, a lopsided sneer on his face. He wore the uniform of the Inquisition, a long black coat not unlike a cassock, with a military flair. Fletcher felt his stomach twist with dislike at the sight of the man. Rook was a racist and a bigot, and bore a deep hatred of Fletcher.
    ‘I must say, you’ve outdone yourself, Arcturus. A masterful performance. For a second there I thought you had lost but, my oh my, did you turn it around at the end.’ Rook continued clapping slowly, smiling and nodding to the crowd.
    ‘Ahem, Inquisitor Rook. I would ask that you be seated so that I can release the boy. You have no jurisdiction over a common-law court. This is not a military tribunal.’ The judge’s voice was firm, but it had an edge of fear to it that Fletcher didn’t like.
    Rook nodded thoughtfully to himself, walking past the podiums and allowing his fingers to trail along them.
    ‘I understand, your honour. Forgive me for intruding, but I would not remove the manacles just yet. I have another charge to bring against Master Wulf here.’ Rook’s eyes flashed menacingly as he spoke, though his face remained a picture of innocence.
    ‘This is preposterous,’ Arcturus growled, striding in front of Rook. ‘What possible charge could you have to bring against the boy?’
    Rook sauntered back as a group of soldiers trooped into the room, carrying a set of heavy chains.
    ‘The worst crime of all,’ he snarled, grasping Fletcher by the back of his neck. ‘High treason.’

 
     
     

     

6
    They took Fletcher to a holding cell, complete with a table, chairs – even a washbasin and soap. They removed his chains, holding their noses, then left the moment he was free. As soon as the door closed, Fletcher began to scrub his face and wash out his long, greasy hair. It was amazing to have more than a small bucket of drinking water to work with.
    After ten minutes of pawing at his scalp, he moved on to the rest of his body, darting quick glances at the door in case anyone came in. As he jumped up and down to dry off, he dipped his jerkin and breeches into the basin for good measure, to wash away a year’s worth of dirt and grime. By the end, the water was a filthy brown colour, but Fletcher felt renewed.
    He summoned Ignatius, and pulled the imp into his arms. His wet skin was all gooseflesh, but the warm Salamander flattened himself against Fletcher’s chest, breathing a toasty gust of heated air across his face.
    ‘We’re not out of this yet, Ignatius. But at least you don’t share my fate. If I die you’ll fade back into the ether, safe and sound.’
    Ignatius mewled miserably and