20
Bitterblue could not breathe and, for a moment, she saw stars.
Turning her back to the judges, the floor, the gallery, she stumbled in confusion to the table behind the dais where supplies were kept and where the clerks stood, so that as few people as possible would see her confusion. Clinging to the table so that she wouldn’t fall, she reached for a pen, touched it to ink, blotted. She pretended to be jotting something down, something of dire importance that she’d just remembered. She had never held a pen so hard.
When her lungs seemed to be accepting air again, she said, almost whispering, “Who hurt him?”
“If you’ll sit, Lady Queen,” said the voice of Lord Piper, “we’ll put the question to the accused.”
Carefully, Bitterblue turned to face the standing court. “Tell me,” she said, “this instant, who hurt him.”
“Hmm,” Piper said, scrutinizing her in puzzlement. “The accused will answer the queen’s inquiry.”
A moment of silence. She didn’t want to look at Saf again but it was impossible not to. His mouth was a bloody gash and one eye was swollen almost shut. His coat, so familiar to her, was rent at one of the shoulder seams and spattered with dried blood. “The Monsean Guard hurt me,” he said, then stopped, then added, “Lady Queen.” Then, “Lady Queen,” he repeated in bafflement. “Lady Queen.”
“That will do,” Piper said sternly.
“Lady Queen,” Saf said again, suddenly falling into his chair, giggling hysterically, and adding, “How could you?”
“The queen is not the one who hit you,” Piper snapped, “and if she had, it would not be yours to question. Stand up, man. Show respect!”
“No,” Bitterblue said. “Every single person here, sit.”
A suspended moment of silence followed. Then, hastily, hundreds of people sat. She spotted Bren in the audience, golden-haired, tight-faced, sitting four or five rows behind her brother. She caught Bren’s eye. Bren stared back at her with a look like she wanted to spit in Bitterblue’s face. And now Bitterblue was thinking of Teddy, at home in his cot. Teddy would be so disappointed in her when he heard this truth.
Holding tight to her own fingers, Bitterblue moved to her seat and also sat; then jumped up, startled; then sat again, this time not on her own sword. Po. Can you hear me? Will you come? Oh, come quickly!
Keeping a channel open to Po but directing her attention to the large guard presence in the prisoner’s hold with Saf, she said, “Which of you soldiers would care to explain the Monsean Guard’s abuse of this man?”
One of the soldiers stood, squinting at her through two impressively bruised eye sockets. “Lady Queen,” he said, “I am the captain of this unit. The prisoner resisted arrest, to the extent that one of our men is in the infirmary with a broken arm. We wouldn’t have touched him otherwise.”
“You little bitch,” Saf said wonderingly.
“Don’t!” Bitterblue yelled, rising, extending a finger at the guard, who’d drawn a fist back to strike Saf again. “I don’t care what he
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calls you,” she said to the guard, knowing perfectly well whom Saf had meant. “There will be no striking of prisoners, except in self-defense.” Oh, Po, he’s not making this easy. If he starts telling the truth, I don’t know what I’ll do. Pretend he’s insane? Insanity won’t help to free him. And everyone was half standing again, which made her want to scream. Dropping into her seat once more, she said, “What evidence have I missed? Who’s he supposed to have murdered?”
