A hand grabbed it; the yeoman-marshal Rort jumped onto the platform, eluding the hands that tried to stop him. “You must have used magery! He was the best swordsman I ever saw!” He had another knife—his own, she assumed, in his other hand. “I accuse you! I demand a fair trial of arms!”

“No,” Arianya said. “Your Marshal’s death decided his claim; under Code, you are bound to that outcome. You will face the tribunal for your own crimes.”

For an instant, none of the witnesses moved. Then one of the yeoman-marshals from the training college swung a staff and knocked Rort down. A punch with the staff immobilized him, and the yeoman-marshals took him away.

“I apologize,” one of the knights said. “I did not find that knife on him; it is my fault.” He bent over the dead man, stripped back his sleeves, and found the strap from which the knife had come.

“Honesty is more easily deceived than dishonesty,” Arianya said. “And he was a Marshal. You could not expect it; I did not. We must clean this up and hold a ceremony to purify the hall.” And decide what to do about Rort, and convene that council, and consult the judicars about what new phrasing of the Code would exclude evil magery but allow children to grow up without violence if they lit candles with their fingers.

By nightfall much of this had been accomplished … not the solutions but first steps to what might become solutions.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Excuse me, Marshal-General—”

Arianya looked up from a report from Tsaia, where concern about the possible reappearance of magery was also growing.

“It’s the elves, Marshal-General. They just … just appeared in the High Lord’s Hall, and they say they must see you at once.”

“They traveled the mageroad from Kolobia?” Arianya asked.

“I—I don’t know. They won’t leave the High Lord’s Hall … they’re standing in a circle staring at the floor.”

“Gird’s right arm,” she said. “I wonder what it is now. Come with me.” At least this was unlikely to involve another dead or battered child. She picked up the heavy chain of office she wore only when she had to and put it over her head, settling the links automatically as she strode down the hall, down the stairs, and out across the courtyard. Almost normal activity, she noted, except that the yeomen posted by the entrance to the High Lord’s Hall were peering inside instead of keeping watch outside. At the sound of her boots on the stone, one of them whipped his head around and jabbed an elbow into the other’s ribs.

“We have visitors, I understand,” she said to the more alert guard.

“Yes, Marshal-General. Elves. Just standing in there. Looking at their feet.”