Chapter XX: Criminality

"It's good to see you back, Arthur," Morgana told him.

The prince sighed. "I can't say that it's good to be back." He glared at the two guards who had been ordered to follow him. They were ostensibly for his own protection against evil sorcerers (especially Merlin) but that claim fooled absolutely no one. Uther didn't want his son—or his daughter, for that matter—causing trouble, so he'd assigned guards to both of them. It was immensely inconvenient for a secret witch trying to undermine the regime from within.

She had to get creative.

"Yes," Morgana continued, outwardly serene. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "The guards are a bit much."

Arthur glanced up at Uther, sitting at the head of the table on his left. "Yes," he grumbled. "Yes, they are indeed."

Uther ignored him, of course. He'd always been good at not listening to things he didn't want to hear.

"What's next, tasters?" Morgana asked, pitching her voice so that the king can't help but hear. His eyes acquired a speculative gleam. Good. One of her goals was to make him look as crazy as possible, and while his paranoia was actually justified, tasters still wouldn't be good for his reputation.

"Gods, I hope not," Arthur muttered, stabbing at his venison. His irritation didn't change Uther's interest; if anything, it increased it. Good. Hopefully, the king would go about getting tasters in the most publicly deranged way possible.

She kept charge of the conversation. Between Arthur's terse sullenness, Uther's monomaniacal focus, and the other diners' reluctance to get involved, the task was relatively easy. Their words meandered for several minutes, but when the servants rolled out dessert, she struck. "King Uther, do the laws about accused sorcerers not receiving trials truly apply to everyone?"

"Of course," he growled.

Arthur went rigid, red-faced. "Don't say anything," Morgana instructed him, sending the words to his mind alone. His jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

"Truly everyone?" A smile, almost sweet and almost demure and definitely not meeting her eyes. "No matter what their rank?"

"They could be anyone, hiding anywhere," the king replied. His eyes darted about the room as though he expected a spellbinder to burst out of the woodwork. "No one can be trusted, not even your dearest friend."

Her smile sharpened. "Then I'd like to make an accusation of sorcery, with the full expectation that justice will be done regardless of his station."

Uther leapt to his feet. "Where? Who is the sorcerer? Who here do the guards need to kill?"

The other diners cringed, recoiled, unable to hide the fear that crossed their faces.

Morgana's smile grew like a blade leaving its sheath. She moved in for the kill. Her arm rose, finger straightening, pointing at her victim.

"You, Your Majesty," she said, loud and clear and serene. Her voice carried through the silence and left a trail of gasps in its wake. "You are the sorcerer."

Uther spluttered. His expression was almost enough to crack her façade, but Morgana forced herself to remain implacable. "Guards," she chirped, "I trust that you will see justice done."

"I am not—how—I most certainly—"

"What are you waiting for?" Morgana continued. "I accused him, so now you kill him. That's the law."

The poor guards looked like they would rather be literally anywhere else. One stuttered something about treason.

Uther recovered his ability to speak in complete sentences. "I am not a sorcerer! This accusation is insane!"

"I imagine that's what they all say. Why should they listen to you when they're deaf to everyone else?"

"I am your king," he snarled.

"'They could be anyone, hiding anywhere,'" Morgana reminded him. "In fact, I think that everyone at this table has magic." She gestured at the pale-faced guests. "Guards, start killing people. It's the law."

"You will be silent," the king snarled.

"You can't silence justice, Your Majesty," she shot back. "No matter how much you would like to."

"Not forever," Arthur agreed. Morgana blinked; she hadn't expected him to say anything. "Perhaps these accusations of sorcery won't be investigated now, but when I'm king…." He took a sip of wine. "I fully expect that a fair few cases will be reviewed." His eyes bored into the increasingly uncomfortable guards.

Uther was on the verge of literally exploding. "Guards," he raged, "the dungeons. Take them to the dungeons. And find someone who can disenchant them!"

Morgana inquired, "But I thought that their first priority was killing everyone accused of sorcery? Shouldn't they wait until—"

Uther lunged. Morgana jerked back instinctively; the king's eyes were wild, and she thought that he might hit her. He didn't, though rage coursed through his body in visible shudders. "Dungeons," he ground out. "Now. Guards!"

Morgana and Arthur rose to their feet. He offered her his arm; she accepted. Together, they strolled out of the room, leaving the horrified nobility in their wake.

Gwen ducked behind a building as more guards ran past, their cloaks like waterfalls of blood in the raging firelight. In the distance, the rioters gave another great cry of rage, a hundred and more voices joined into one. Hopefully that wasn't an indication of someone dying.

But the mob and the guards were not her concern. She pounded on the domicile's door, hoping and praying that they would answer. "Fire!" she cried. "There's a fire!"

The door cracked open just a smidgen. Two frightened faces peered out at her. "Where's the fire?"

Gwen pointed. "Three blocks. See the glow?"

"…No," the woman said. "It must not be very big. I'm sure you can handle it." She tried to shut the door, only for it to collide with Gwen's foot. "Hey!"

"The fire isn't very big yet," Gwen snapped (her patience was running a bit thin), "but fires grow. If the wind picks up, it will leap to more houses and rage out of control. You need to—stop that." She bent her knees, refusing to give ground no matter how they pushed her. "We need all the help we can get." For this part of the city hadn't burnt on the night of Sigan's last attack, and it hadn't rained in days. The air was mercifully still for now, but one good gust could carry the flames over the street, setting alight another block. "They need help at the well." For the nearest well was two blocks from the inferno. That was usually not a bad distance, but there weren't yet enough hands to form a complete bucket chain.

"They'll kill us," the man told her. She didn't know if he meant the rioters or the guards; maybe he himself didn't know.

"The fire will kill you too," Gwen retorted. "Besides, the streets are clear." Probably. They'd been clear when she went through them, pounding on doors and only sometimes receiving answer, but this skittish couple didn't need to know that she wasn't entirely certain.

"We have children!"

"Good. They can help too. Or would you rather wait for the fire to consume you all?" A wind wafted through the air, lifting her hair, moving her skirt, as though to punctuate her statement. "Now get out there, all of you, before it's too late." And with that, she withdrew her foot from the door and scurried over to their neighbor's entry. "Fire! There's a fire!"

Five houses had been burning when she left for help. The people were out safely, thank the gods, and they were all fighting its spread. She hoped that nothing else had caught.

A crash boomed from the direction of the fire. One of the buildings—one of the homes—must have collapsed.

"Fire!"

No response. It could be that no one was home. No candlelight gleamed in the windows, and she hadn't heard anything inside. Then again, the riot had passed very close to this house. They could be hiding behind darkness and silence, afraid that the crowd's violence and fury would turn against them rather than the living symbols of Uther's regime. But she couldn't spend too long on any individual dwelling because if people were absent or just not willing to help, then she couldn't waste time on them. She'd give it a few more seconds, a few more collisions of knuckle and wood, before moving on.

No one answered. Gwen grit her teeth and moved on.

She didn't know how many houses she'd visited, how many people she'd recruited, when the guard caught her. He grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her on her heel to face him. "Orders from the king," he grunted. "There's a curfew now. All civilians—"

"Part of the city is on fire," Gwen interrupted, pointing. The guard followed her gaze, eyes widening as he took in the telltale glow. He cursed. "Is the riot over?" Gwen continued. "Can you rally the other guards against the fire?"

He bit his lip, young and vulnerable in the dim light. "They're trying to get into the manor," he explained. "We're holding them off. Captain Brun sent those of us—I've got a sprained wrist, Chad's arm is broken, and there's a few others—we're supposed to round up stragglers so you can't join in."

"I have no interest in joining the mob," Gwen assured him. "I just don't want the city to burn down! Go tell Captain Brun about the fire, make him—"

The man—barely more than a boy—whitened. "I can't disobey orders," he choked. "Not now. I can't."

"Well—go help with the fire and tell everyone else about the curfew. Then they'll know, you can help, and you'll still be obeying orders."

"Some of the guard is rebelling with the rioters," he told her. "They're going to die."

"The sooner the fire is out, the sooner you can send all those people home," Gwen pointed out. "Now go."

He went.

The fire continued all night long, finally submitting about an hour after dawn. Gwen found that she was almost a bit grateful that Morgana was locked up in the dungeons, as that meant that she could go home and sleep rather than work.

Her father wasn't doing much better. He'd been with the bucket brigade, alternately manning the well and throwing water directly onto the flames. His arms must ache as much as her legs and knuckles.

Still, they had to eat something before collapsing into bed. Gwen pulled out a heel of bread. She stared at the nearest jam jar, debating whether it was worth it to slather some on, when a nervous knock sounded at the door. The maid groaned, not wanting to move, but she was closer.

The young guardsman from last night slid inside, followed by a suspiciously cloaked and limping figure. They half-slammed the door behind them and pulled the nearest window's curtains shut.

Somehow, Gwen managed not to groan again. This was going to be terrible, she just knew it.

At least the young guard had enough grace to look apologetic. Indeed, the first words out of his mouth comprised a heartfelt apology. His father (who had sunk to the floor, rubbing miserably at his wounded leg) had been accused of sorcery just a few minutes ago. He wasn't a sorcerer—neither of them was, he assured her, and they were in fact sworn enemies of all magic—but the scumbag accuser had hated him for a long time. The father, Aglovale, had escaped, and now they were both of them condemned to death.

"…So you came to me?"

"We don't have any family here," Morien the guard told her, "and even if we did, they'd look there first. They're probably already searching our friends and neighbors."

He was shaking, she noted dully.

"You won't be in danger," Morien promised, mistaking her silence for hesitation. "They won't think to search here. That's why I came to you. We'll leave as soon as possible."

Gwen looked at Tom. Tom looked back, his expression pained, but he nodded.

"You'll have to sleep on the floor," Gwen told them, and handed Morien her bread.

There wasn't anything they could do that day. The city was too on-edge from last night's riot, sullen and resentful and likely to explode at the slightest provocation. The guards would probably be exhausted, yes, but so were the escapees and their helpers.

So Morien and his father spent the day and the next night hidden in Tom's home. Gwen was a little grateful, as she had no idea where to send them. They had no family in the country; they had immigrated from the Orkneys after the death of Aglovale's wife. Both men were very adamant about their opposition to sorcery in all its forms, so she couldn't exactly send them to the Isle of the Blessed. Perhaps she could send them to the front? But there wasn't a front anymore, since Arthur had ended the war.

"I suppose we'll have to send them over the border to Essetir," she sighed. It wasn't an ideal solution, as Essetir and the Orkneys were hardly friends and Aglovale still spoke with a noticeable accent, but the citadel was close to Essetir's border. Of course, Cenred was Uther's ally now, but she doubted that travelers in his kingdom were accosted with quite as much suspicion as they were here in Camelot.

She hoped.

"Perhaps they could join some merchants?" Tom suggested.

"There aren't a lot of merchants coming in," Gwen sighed. Not many were willing to risk running afoul of Uther's new Purge. "Besides, merchants would be just as likely to turn them in for a reward and the hope of avoiding suspicion themselves." She thought wistfully of Blaise, whom she hadn't seen in days, and of Merlin, who had smuggled more than one of Uther's victims out of the city. Not that these guards would accept help from a druid or a warlock, but—

Wait.

Gwen began to pace as she turned the idea over in her mind. It might work. They'd undoubtedly overcharge, but she—unless she could trade something else, information for services rendered. Or maybe Morgana and Arthur would be willing to fund it. And if she played her cards right, found the right people for the job, then this could go on indefinitely.

Tom waited until his daughter slowed, nodding to herself. "What did you think of?"

"I wouldn't want to send them out with perfectly legal merchants," Gwen said, "but perhaps we could find some smugglers."

So she and Tom went to ask their guests if they knew where and/or how to find any smugglers. Morien looked appalled at the mere thought, but Aglovale tapped his chin. "I was investigating a rather suspicious couple back before the business with Sigan. Tristan and Isolde, I think. They favored the Merry Dancer Inn, if I recall correctly, but I don't know if they're in the city." He sighed. "Probably not. They were smart."

"Can you think of any other potential smugglers?"

"No," he admitted, "but the Merry Dancer is a good place to find them. It has a reputation." His brows crunched together. "Unless it's been destroyed. The earthquake might have toppled it."

It was a painfully thin thread of hope, but it wouldn't be right to sneak Aglovale and Morien out of the city without at least trying to ensure their escape from the country, too, and Gwen rather liked the idea of professional smugglers sneaking out potential victims.

Not long after, she stood in Lord Leodegrance's dungeons on a visit to Morgana. Thankfully, the witch read her desperation. "What's wrong?" she asked silently.

Once again, Gwen silently thanked Morgause for teaching her how non-spellbinders could use thought-speech. "I'd like to try to recruit smugglers to help people escape, but I'd need funds." She didn't like flat-out asking for capital, but a bit of discomfort was better than the possibility of losing her smugglers.

"Use my jewelry," Morgana suggested, not discomfited in the least, "and hint that Arthur might grant them a pardon."

Gwen smiled her relief. "Thank you so much." Out loud, she queried, "Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected," Morgana sniffed, nodding disdainfully towards her squalid quarters. "And infinitely better than the poor innocents being murdered in the streets." The guard assigned to watch her and Arthur grimaced but said nothing. "I heard there was another riot last night?"

"Yes, and a fire."

Their conversation continued in that vein for several minutes before the guard 'suggested' that Gwen go home. The maid smiled blandly, thanked him for allowing her visit, and departed for the disreputable inn where Tristan and Isolde might be found.

The Merry Dancer was dim and cramped and suspicious-smelling, full of shady characters nursing various alcoholic beverages. It was, in short, exactly the sort of place where one would expect to find smugglers.

"Hello," Gwen said to the barmaid, "I was wondering if Tristan and Isolde were in residence?"

The barmaid stared at her through narrow eyes.

"I have a job that they might be interested in."

The barmaid's eyes narrowed further. (Gwen was starting to wonder if she could even see through that squint.) Her fingers rapped against the table.

"This is the part where you're supposed to bribe her," announced a cheery voice. It belonged to a visibly amused young woman dressed in men's clothing, her brown-gold hair tied back in a practical braid.

"Oh," said Gwen, embarrassed.

The stranger grinned even wider. "You're new to this sort of place, aren't you."

"I am, yes," she had to confess.

"So, what sort of job do you have for them?"

She was absolutely not going to confess her intention to commit treason through smuggling in a crowded public room, even if everyone here was probably a criminal. "I'm afraid that's private," she confessed. "Do you know if they're here?"

"I might."

The barmaid snorted.

Gwen sighed and reached for her coin purse.

"No need for that," the stranger interjected. "I can bring you to Tristan."

"Thank you."

The stranger shook her head as she led Gwen through the crowd to the staircase. "You really haven't done this before."

"I haven't," she confirmed. "I'm Guinevere, by the way, or Gwen, for short. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Isolde," the stranger replied. "Pleased to meet you too."

Gwen nearly missed a step. "Oh," she said, embarrassed. "Well, that is… much more convenient than I'm used to."

"Maybe you were overdue for some good luck." Isolde pushed open a door. "Tristan, this woman has a proposal for us. And yes, I'm positive that she isn't some sort of sting for the guards. Even if they weren't so busy killing random innocents, they'd never use someone who sticks out so much."

"I'm Gwen," the maid repeated, belatedly holding out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Tristan," the man said. He didn't take her hand, nor did he appear particularly enthusiastic for this entire venture. He only added "Likewise, I'm sure," when Isolde elbowed him. "What sort of proposal?"

Gwen took a deep breath to steel herself. "I'd like you to guide two men out of the city. One of them, the father, was accused of sorcery. He and his son managed to escape the guards, but now their lives are forfeit and they're in hiding, and… they won't be the only ones. If you can get them out safely and over the border of Essetir, then I'd like to hire you again."

Tristan and Isolde exchanged long, level gazes, communicating in the silent language of long-time partners.

"I know a secret way out of the city," Gwen told them, "and… I'm Lady Morgana's maid."

Isolde startled. "The one who got arrested for accusing Uther of sorcery?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that she's been arrested, exactly, she's just been locked up in the dungeons. But that's not the point. She is willing to pay you very handsomely, and the two of us know Prince Arthur, as well. He hates what his father is doing more than anyone, and I don't doubt that he'll pardon you for everything as soon as he takes the throne. Not to mention that you would be doing so much good for so many desperate, innocent people who would die otherwise."

The smugglers retreated to the opposite side of the room, where they conversed in voices too low for her to make out. In desperation, Gwen tried reading their lips. When that failed utterly, she focused all her attention on their expressions, hoping and praying that she was interpreting them correctly.

Finally, Tristan and Isolde turned back to face her, their miens resolute. Gwen knew their answer even before Isolde spoke.

"We'll do it."

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Gwen is Wildly Unsuited to Recruiting Criminals, but Thankfully Isolde Finds her Adorable and Agrees to Help Anyways (Tristan Too)"

Honest confession time: when I started writing this, I didn't expect Tristan and Isolde to show up. They just kind of... did, because that made sense in the story. Who better to smuggle people into Essetir away from a mad tyrant?

Next chapter: January 3. Even more criminal activity! You've got to love that criminal activity.

After next week, I'm going to go back to updating every 3 weeks.

Aglovale and Morien are a father-and-son duo of Round Table knights. I like putting in random, lesser-known knights and characters. Book IV gave me an unexpected but delightful way to bring in Blanchefleur!

Happy New Year!