Bank of Westminster

Chapter 4

"Antony Lancelot, Knight-Commander of the Lion Knights, was murdered by you at 3:04 p.m. on the 29th of October, 1987, inside the Stone Giant Pub in Lambeth, London."

"As for the murder weapon..."

The Inquisitor clapped his hands.

A black-clad attendant pushed open the time-worn white-birch doors and stepped into the hall bearing a polished walnut box.

Baron's gaze tracked the box, and his heart lurched—he recognized the cane inside: the original owner's white cane.

"A cane forged from Canaan wood: a tree without color, scent, blossom, or fruit. Yet once tempered in a dwarven furnace and steeped in mistletoe sap, a wound wide enough can even annihilate the soul of a Silver Knight."

The Inquisitor motioned for the attendant to place the cane at the center of the court and struck his gavel. "Such an alchemical weapon can be forged only by the dwarves of Prance. On the Inner Side, Prance is the domain of House Constantine."

"Search the entire Outer Side of Britain and you would find no other like it."

"According to the Holy Cross's investigation, you were in London on the 28th of October, and Antony's cause of death was the obliteration of the soul."

With deliberate calm the Inquisitor concluded, "The facts are irrefutable, Constantine. You have nothing left to dispute."

October 29th. In the original owner's diary there was indeed an entry about going to London, but only to collect a debt from a widowed old woman.

If Baron remembered correctly, the sum was five hundred pounds.

As for murdering someone with a cane...

He silently scoffed. It was just an ordinary telescoping white cane—good for little more than whacking a golf ball. Unless the late Antony had been a golf ball himself.

"My lord Inquisitor," Baron said, schooling his voice to remain calm, refusing to fall into the trap of self-incrimination, "from where I stand, the facts you present are as convincing as blaming a drunk driver for a hit-and-run that just happened to occur beside a tipsy pedestrian."

"I never met nor knew this murdered Knight-Commander; I had no motive to kill him... As you can see, whatever I was before, at present I am merely an ordinary bank collection agent with no trace of the 'power' you speak of, whereas the victim was a knight. Do you truly believe an ordinary bank clerk—armed with nothing more than insurance patter and a silver tongue—could slay a Silver Knight?"

Baron had no idea what a Silver Knight actually was, but judging from what he'd heard so far he guessed it resembled the aura-wielding warriors of fantasy novels.

He tried to argue both lack of motive and the vast gulf in ability.

Even if that failed, buying time was still a win. His mind's optimal solution was delay—every extra minute alive was another minute in which something might change.

Yet events refused to oblige him.

"Because of your jealousy and hatred, Constantine! Don't look at me with that vile, deceitful stare!"

The Inquisitor hammered the gavel again and again, beard bristling, and Baron did not doubt the man would happily bring the gavel down on his skull.

"Six years ago your fiancée, Freya Lancelot, stood in the Tower of London before the entire Old-Blood world of Britain and publicly broke her betrothal to you—Baron Constantine, second son of House Constantine, the notorious 'bloodless scion'!"

"That act stripped House Constantine of all dignity in Old-Blood circles. As the last scion of the family, how could you not burn with resentment and rage?"

Each word crashed like thunder in Baron's ears.

Betrothal? I had a fiancée? Is she pretty?—no, why hadn't the original owner's memories or diary ever mentioned this?

Baron spoke evenly. "I was unaware of any such engagement. And even if I had grounds for revenge, wouldn't your so-called fiancée—who robbed me of my dignity—be the more logical target?"

The Inquisitor's voice was ice. "Because Antony arranged for another to take your and your brother's places in the Knights. By the ancient pact between your ancestors and the Templar Order, those seats belonged to the main line of House Constantine.

"Your guardian uncle traded those two positions to the Lancelots in exchange for ten copies of the Knight Codex for the wizard profession. The deal, guaranteed by Westminster, was iron-clad; those gold-loving misers are unimpeachable when it comes to contracts."

"House Constantine has declined to the point that only you three siblings remain... I know what you bloodless ones are like—cast out by your own family and by the Old-Blood world, hearts brimming with resentment. Like lions expelled from the pride... the moment you are driven out, revenge becomes your only reason to live."

It sounded persuasive, but whether in his past life or this one, the only connection Baron felt to lions was watching Disney's *The Lion King* as a kid.

He'd always been more of a tiger fan.

"Could Miss Freya be summoned to testify? I'd like to speak with her."

Baron now understood the Inquisitor's intent. The old man was clearly prejudiced, repeatedly spitting the term "bloodless scion" with contempt—Baron suspected he could be filed under "racist."

Time to try a different tack.

"Miss Freya has already identified your guilt. As the murderer of her brother she will absolutely not appear."

Baron raised a hand, exasperated. "So you honestly believe a bank clerk who earns a hundred-odd pounds a week could kill a knight with a broken walking stick?"

He glanced around. The few attendants stared back like crackling lightning.

He laughed mockingly. "Yet I can't even see a jury."

"Silence, you vile bloodless wretch!"

With a roar the Inquisitor slammed his gavel, and the guard behind Baron once again drove him face-first onto the table.

Pressed against the wood, Baron recognized the man—the same prison guard from his cell.

"So much for waiting for an opportunity..." Baron sneered, cheek to the tabletop. "Seems the Inquisitor has no intention of letting me defend myself."

The Inquisitor raised the gavel and brought it down with finality.

"There is no further need for discussion. Baron Constantine, your ignorance and contempt for the law have exhausted my patience. The original verdict stands. Commit this date to memory: 3:30 p.m., November 20, 1987."

"That is the moment you will embrace death."

For an instant Baron thought the lion carved on the gavel flashed its serpent eyes at him.

He glanced at the courtroom clock. The countdown to his death had 358,250 seconds remaining.

He still had one hundred hours to escape.

...

[Diary of Baron Constantine (original owner):

4 December 1981 / Prance / Overcast

A woman I've never met just broke up with me—does this count as heartbreak?]