“I take it you’re uncomfortable with pushing the boundaries of your traditions that far.” At Eldred’s nod, she tightened her fist again, using the action to keep herself from crowing in delight. “I might have a solution.”
This time the whispers that ran through the room were full of curiosity. Margrit waited on Eldred’s acknowledgment to continue, trying to keep her voice steady in face of rising excitement. “Alban and I discovered I’m susceptible to your telepathy, or whatever it is you call it that allows you to share memories so clearly. I don’t know if all humans are, but I’ve ridden memory with him more than once. I—”
Babble erupted all around, drowning out Margrit’s voice and her arguments. She fell silent, knowing better than to try to outshout a boisterous courtroom. Eldred brought it back under control after a full minute of outrage and exclamation. Margrit bobbed her head in thanks as he gestured for her to continue, and went on, feeling bold and weightless.
“I know it works with other gargoyles. I’ve caught an unguarded thought or two from Biali.” And for that, she sent an apologetic glance his way. Too much surprise creased his features for anger to have taken hold yet, but Margrit had little doubt it would, in time. “And I rode memory with Hajnal’s daughter, Ausra, the night she attacked me,” she said more quietly.
This time the explosion of sound was concussive. Margrit held her ground only through years of training, and even that didn’t quell the urge to step back and make herself smaller amidst the uproar. She lowered her head and bit her lower lip, watching Eldred through her eyelashes. He was her litmus, out of the tribunal members. Biali was too angry in general, and Alban too determined to let old laws have their way, for either of their reactions to tell Margrit how to gauge the gargoyles as a whole. When tumultuous noise began to die down, Margrit lifted her voice, this time taking center stage without Eldred’s leave.
“I’m willing to allow the gargoyles access to my memories of that night, after the trials are complete.” Margrit waited for the third time for order to restore itself, half wishing she was in an actual courtroom. This was trial-of-the-century stuff, law as theatrics on a massively satisfying scale. The fact that the judge, jury and audience was made up almost entirely of inhuman beings, made no difference at alclass="underline" building arguments, taking risks, presenting theories and new ideas, were the lifeblood of her career. Margrit would have dearly loved to see a few of the moments she’d just passed shown on the six-o’clock news as the entertainment it rightfully was.
“In the meantime.” Her voice cut through the falling chatter and quieted the room. “In the meantime, it’s possible that if one of you allowed me access to the memories through your mind, I might be able to participate in the trial the way you’ve always done it.”
“How would we know that it was your wits and not your passageway’s that guided you to wisdom?” One of the female gargoyles spoke, her voice lighter than Margrit expected as she voiced the question Margrit imagined Biali badly wanted asked.
Margrit shook her head. “You’d have to choose somebody you trusted, or…” Dismay wrinkled her face as she considered the other possibility. “Or grant me access through somebody who has no reason to want me to succeed. Someone like Biali.”
CHAPTER 16
“If you think I’m sharing my memories with you, lawyer—” Biali’s offense cut through the rest of the noise with a clarity seconded only by Alban’s splutter of disbelief. Janx chortled with pleasure, while the selkies and djinn snapped at one another, their din focused on whether Margrit’s offer to share her memories of Ausra’s death could be construed as invitation to investigate Malik’s, as well.
Margrit, not expecting anyone to take heed, said, “It’s not my first choice, either,” and sat down at the chess table, body weary enough after the fight to want the respite even though intellect said she should probably remain on her feet. Intellect hadn’t taken the pounding her muscles had, though. It might want rest after this next challenge, and she deemed it wise to give in to her body now so it wouldn’t rebel later.
“Who would you choose?” Eldred’s deep voice slipped through the hubbub, drawing Margrit’s attention for all that he spoke softly. She sighed and gestured around the room.
“Alban, ideally, but I doubt that’s really an option. I don’t know the rest of you at all, so any other choice is more or less meaningless. That said, probably you.”
“Why?”
“Because I know your name? Because you’re the head of the tribunal and because that makes you the final judge in my mind.” Margrit reached out to touch one of the pawns, then dropped her hand again. “Judges are supposed to be impartial, so you seem least likely to sway or be swayed by someone drifting through your mind.”
“If you undertake this task, Margrit Knight, you will need to burrow, not drift. This is not a game to be taken lightly.” Eldred retreated, leaving Margrit alone with the chess pieces and a room full of Old Races.
Debate went on longer than she anticipated, less for the matter of permission than the appalling idea that humans could perceive the gargoyle memories. Margrit heard talk of battle and of treaties, all of it idealistic with the first blush of conception. Neither was a wise choice, not that she could think of a way to stop a cadre of gargoyles from exposing themselves in the human world if that was their desire. Letting their discussion fade into white noise, she pushed a pawn forward so she could see it better, examining the individually carved scales on the serpent’s hide.
A second pawn across the board was pushed forward by a taloned finger. Margrit looked up, startled, to find Biali sitting down across from her. “They’ll be at it all night.”
“Inconvenient,” Margrit said under her breath. “What with you turning to stone at dawn and all. I’d hoped we could do this in one day. Night. Whatever.” Since he was there, she prodded another pawn forward, resisting the impulse to pick it up and study the feathery wings on the clawed woman’s back. “What race is this one?”
“Harpy. They lived in what you call the Amazon, and nine out of ten of ’em were female. Never stopped fighting amongst themselves, and when the humans came, they couldn’t organize to fight outsiders.” Biali pushed one of his hairy men forward. “Still, they did better than the yeti. They at least fought. The yeti only ran. What memories?”
Margrit went still, a hand above the dragon-cum-bishop. She’d cleared a path for him to angle out, but she left him where he was, sorting out Biali’s question. “Hajnal, mostly. Last weekend when we danced at the ball. I saw her through your eyes for a moment. Saw, or remembered, how much you loved her.” She’d even felt a flash of desire, unexpected heat in looking on a feminine body. Sharing memories was disconcerting. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Sorry.”
“You mean that, lawyer?”
“What, that I’m sorry? Yeah, of course I do. It’s not polite to pick up on other people’s memories without them knowing about it. I just don’t know how to brace against it.”
“Keep playing,” Biali said after a silence. “I’ll teach you.”
She wasn’t certain when the chess board had become slippery and malformed, like a thing out of dreams. Peaks and valleys rose, black squares and white distorted and stretched among them. Far too many of the playing pieces slipped away, plummeting to their doom in craggy rents that pulled the board apart. Margrit clutched at them, trying to save what she could, but they slid through her fingers, insubstantial and screaming as they fell. She lunged after them, unaware of her own danger until someone, grumbling, thrust a hand at her and dragged her back from a precipice.