Chapter 5 - The Testimony of the Seven

  Spring had barely touched the Swampy City on the Potomac when the Grand Council convened its most anticipated hearings in a generation. Rubius the Brownie, snug in his alcove overlooking the Churning Sea, propped his Glimmering Slate against a stack of ancient tomes and prepared to witness history unfold—or, as he suspected, to witness a great deal of carefully worded evasion.

  The slate showed the Great Hall of Testimony, its marble columns draped in the republic's banners, its benches filled with scribes and councillors. At the center, a long table awaited the first witness.

  Lord William of the Northern Lakes appeared promptly, his demeanor that of a man who had long ago learned to treat every public appearance as a deposition. He spoke of his meetings with the Master of the Shadowy Brotherhood as unfortunate lapses in judgment, focused on charitable endeavors gone awry. He admitted to flying on the Brotherhood's vessels, to visiting the Isle of Forgotten Sins, to seeking the Master's counsel on matters of global health.

  "I made a huge mistake," he told the council, his voice steady. "I regret it deeply."

  But the scrolls released by the Castle of Records told a more tangled story. Emails surfaced suggesting the Master had known of Lord William's extramarital affairs with women from the northern kingdom of Russia—knowledge that some whispered the Master had attempted to leverage. Lord William's representatives called such claims "completely absurd," but the questions hung in the air like smoke.

  Rubius watched as Lord Leonard of the Golden Coins took his place. The financier acknowledged paying the Master one hundred fifty-eight million golden coins for tax and estate planning services. He admitted the Master had advised him on handling the fallout from a six-year affair—suggesting he hire former law enforcement officers to approach the woman and secure her silence through a nondisclosure agreement.

  "I had no awareness of Epstein's criminal activity," Lord Leonard insisted.

  The ledger entries, however, showed a relationship that went far beyond professional advice. The Master had embedded himself in Lord Leonard's life, attending family gatherings, advising on personal matters, becoming what one leaked email called "a trusted confidant."

  Lady Katherine of the Legal Scrolls proved the most theatrical witness. She had exchanged warm correspondence with the Master, addressing him as "Uncle Jeffrey" and confessing in one message that she "adored" him. She had arranged White House tours for his acquaintances at his request. When asked about these communications, she offered explanations that grew increasingly convoluted.

  "I was a practicing criminal defense attorney," she said. "We shared a client. The affectionate language was... customary in such professional relationships."

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  A ripple of incredulity passed through the chamber. The lead investigator held up a scroll bearing her own handwriting: "You are the best, sweetie. Thank you for everything."

  "That," Lady Katherine said after a long pause, "was taken out of context."

  The remaining witnesses—Lord Douglas of the Western Counsel, Lady Sarah of the Southern Shores, Lady Lesley of the Eastern Archives, Lord Theodore of the Western Wilderness—offered variations on the same theme: I knew nothing. I saw nothing. I did nothing wrong. Their words, however carefully crafted, could not erase the ledgers, the flight logs, the photographs that placed them in the Master's orbit.

  Rubius set down his slate and rubbed his eyes. The testimonies had revealed much about the Master's method: he had collected the powerful not as trophies, but as investments. He had learned their secrets, offered them services, made himself indispensable. And then, when the shadows closed in, they had all scattered, each offering the same defense: I was only a visitor, not a participant.

  When Rubius finally climbed to the Dragon-King's chambers, he found Lord Donaldo practicing his signature—a series of elaborate loops and flourishes that he believed conveyed strength and stability.

  "Your magnificence," Rubius began, "the testimonies of the Seven have concluded."

  Lord Donaldo did not look up. "And?"

  "They all claimed ignorance of the Master's crimes. They all expressed regret. They all insisted their associations were innocent."

  "Of course they did." The Dragon-King's quill scratched across the parchment. "That's what they always say. It's what I would say, if I were in their position. Which I am not. Because I have nothing to regret. Nothing at all."

  "Your magnificence, the Hidden Witness's allegations remain unresolved. The missing scrolls—"

  "Are still missing." Lord Donaldo set down his quill and fixed Rubius with a gaze that brooked no further discussion. "And while the Grand Council chases shadows, who is protecting the republic? Who is standing firm against the Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne? Who is ensuring that our camels are safe? I am. I alone."

  He picked up a fresh sheet of parchment.

  "Now, about the camels. I think the people need to know that the camels have issued a statement of support for my policies. Very supportive camels. Very loyal. Add that to tomorrow's proclamation."

  Rubius bowed and retreated. As he descended the stairs, he could hear his master humming a triumphant tune, entirely untroubled by the day's revelations.

  That evening, the kitchen sprites moved in unusual silence. They had watched the testimonies too, on a small slate propped among the pots and pans. They had seen the powerful squirm, had heard the careful denials, had noted the names that appeared again and again in the Master's ledgers.

  One of them set aside a portion of the evening meal, wrapped carefully, with a note: "For those who cannot testify." It was a small gesture, but genuine.

  Rubius accepted the offering and carried it to his alcove. He ate without tasting, his mind still replaying the day's scenes. The Seven had spoken. The scrolls had been read. The questions had been asked.

  But the answers, he reflected, had changed nothing. The powerful remained powerful. The shadows remained shadows. And somewhere, in the depths of the Castle of Records, forty-seven thousand scrolls still waited to be found—or to be forgotten forever.

  He lay down in his small, comfortable bed and stared at the ceiling.

  "Another storm," he murmured. "They never stop coming."