Chapter 10: The Council Palais

Freya had been disappointed to learn that the Daved Cathedral was not within walking distance of Sycamore Avenue, even had the toll-barricades not prevented them from leaving Key Park without extra coin.

At least the park itself was the closest she could come to wandering the woods.

Vivian moaned about the earliness of the hour as they left the house, but happily chattered and gossiped about the appearance of the other women they met on the walk through the park, everyone trying to enjoy a day off, criticizing clothing and hair styling relentlessly. It didn't serve to comfort or encourage Freya; after three weeks she no longer made any attempt to participate, but her cousin didn't seem to notice or care.

When the morning grew too warm for her comfort, Vivian let them in the front door – family was not expected to wait for the maid to admit them – and led Freya straight upstairs, complaining of a headache. She threw herself down on her bed, accepted the cool damp cloth Freya brought for her forehead without thanks, and proclaimed her intention of sleeping until lunchtime.

Freya quietly wet her own cold cloth and rested in her shaded corner of the room for a quarter of an hour, but it didn't help. It's been only three weeks, and busy weeks, she reminded herself. You're still getting used to everything. Give it a chance. You came here for a reason, remember.

To get a new start. To avoid those seeking to regain what Padlow had stolen. The man she'd lived with, without being legally married.

Finally she left Vivian to nap in the dim bedroom and made her way downstairs, intending on a cup of mint tea.

As she went, she thought of Merlin. It had been three weeks since he'd left her so precipitously on her cousins' doorstep. She'd seen him twice since then, fleeting glimpses through the window of him talking to Arthur over the front gate, heard his voice downstairs late at night, reporting to the agent after the family was in bed. She wondered if he was well, meeting old friends, making new ones, if he enjoyed the work to which Arthur put him. She wondered if he'd take the opportunity, one of these days, to disappear into the crowded city, and she'd never see him again.

As she came down the carpeted center of the stone stairs, she glanced to the side and saw a shadow move in the sitting room. The house had been quiet when she and Vivian came home; maybe Randall and Emma had returned, or maybe it was Arthur. Her soft slippers were silent on the stone floor as she crossed the entryway.

A man stood at the front window, his back to her, dressed immaculately in tailored charcoal-gray trousers and close-fitting deep red vest, the shirt beneath white and crisp, full sleeves buttoned at the cuff. He was in the act of reaching sideways as if to touch the strings of the harp on its stand in the corner, fingers hovering, not quite daring.

Nothing gave his identity away, yet everything told her who he was. He wore the clothes unself-consciously, he'd even put on a few pounds of muscle. His black hair had grown closer to its normal length, and the outline of his profile against the sunlit window betrayed a dozen identifying details to someone who knew him well.

Her heart performed another leap and flutter right into her throat, and she couldn't have spoken if she'd tried – unless she also wanted to giggle giddily or burst into tears.

She saw in that instant the potential she'd seen in him before, what sort of man he might have been if not for the tragic loss of his family – his long fingers and strong hands so skillful and inexorable with a knife or in a fistfight might easily have been instead those of a beauty-loving musician. Was all that gone forever? Would his hands never know peaceful pursuits, creativity?

He turned then, saw her, and came toward her, enough so she could see his initial reaction before it faded; his eyes moved over her in the way she was still unused to in strangers, but instead of the greedy gleam she feared, his clear blue eyes held a subtle admiration that warmed her to her toes.

"Look at us," he said. "Far cry from Emmett's Creek, don't you think?"

She smiled involuntarily, thinking of the ragged scarecrow he'd been, the silly look of Gwen's dresses and shoes too big on her, but tears came into her eyes, too. Through that blur she saw him move closer, but when she blinked, the tears tumbled down her cheeks. And then he pulled the neatly-folded kerchief from the breast pocket of the vest, offered it to her.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking it and trying not to notice how it smelled subtly different than the laundry done in her cousin's household. Two more tears followed as if eager to try the tracks made by the first.

"Are they not treating you well?" Merlin demanded. His hands were on his hips, his brows drawn down over thunderous eyes.

"No – I mean, yes, they are," she answered, wiping her eyes and attempting a laugh. "I'm sorry, don't mind me. Did you come to see Arthur? or Randall?"

"I saw Arthur earlier," he said. The frown was still there. Then he added, "I stayed to see you."

She tried to stifle a sudden sob, and couldn't. And then her shoulders were shaking and she couldn't catch a breath to stop crying. She turned her back on him so he couldn't see.

"Freya," he said, sounding so uncharacteristically helpless that her tears fell faster. After a moment, he tried, "Can you – talk about it?"

She shook her head, looking around the cool, faultless, richly-furnished room. A far cry from Emmett's Creek, he'd said. They were dressed to tour the Daved Cathedral or attend an evening performance at a theatre. It seemed so silly now, for her to have made such a horrific mistake.

"I couldn't," she said, with a little despairing laugh, and gestured with her hand. "Not here."

She felt him move to her side, but he stayed silent and didn't touch her. She wouldn't have been surprised, or blamed him at all, if he walked right out of the house without another word. Instead he surprised her by saying, "Do you want to walk for a while?"

And that was how she found herself pacing through Key Park again that morning, past the vegetable gardens that had become fashionable as well as necessary, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, pouring out her homesickness for Shasta and Gaius. Pouring out the dozen embarrassments she'd felt, coming from a tiny country town to a well-off city merchant's household, the humility necessary to accept the large new wardrobe ordered for her, the visits already made from eligible bachelors, the plans for more of the same, every day.

Her diatribe finally ran down and she sniffled into silence and control. Using the limply-damp kerchief one more time, she risked a glance up into his face. He still wore a faint frown, his concentration on the flagstones a few feet in front of their steps. He crossed his arms over his chest, which pulled her hand tighter and closer, defined the muscle in his arm, but she didn't protest or try to pull away. It made her feel–

"It seems to me like there's something else," he said suddenly. "Something getting in the way of you making the adjustment to life here." He glanced at her from beneath his brows. "Something that makes you miss confiding in Shasta and Gaius?"

She took a deep breath, surprised at how calm she felt. "Viv was talking to me, the night we arrived. She said some things, about marriage… Shasta used to try to talk to me about – these things, but I thought she was just trying to persuade me to leave… my husband." At that, Freya forced a laugh, though it sounded bitter to her ears. "She'd tell me to talk to Gaius, but I couldn't – not to a man."

He stopped walking and just looked at her.

"Turns out," she said fatalistically, "I was never married. Not legally. I lived with him for the winters of four years, and I was never actually his wife – no wonder he laughed at me! And when I told you that he married me, I meant that he – that he–"

It was too much; her tears flowed freely once more.

The tears, and the words, all jumbled together, how she wanted a sweet warm baby like Helen's, how if Emma and Vivian knew the truth they wouldn't let her stay, wouldn't ever allow her to marry – not that she wanted to, of course, but to have that cuddly, loving baby. It was hypocritical of her to keep meeting the men they introduced her to, but she thought about this through all their conversations, knowing that if they were interested in proposing marriage to her, she would have to tell them that her first marriage had been a lie. And then there would be gossip, and everyone would look at her the way Emmett's Creek folk had, despising her for a… a…

And she found herself seated on the stone steps in front of Number Five, Merlin next to her with his arms clasped around her shoulders, she spilling tears and words into the shoulder of his vest and the collar of his shirt. She calmed slowly, resting exhausted against him even though she knew she shouldn't, indulging the warmth that his encircling arms sent waving through her.

Any minute now, she thought, he would release her, speak words of cold condemnation, turn his back on her. Any minute now…

But he didn't.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

She looked up at him, and in doing so sat back a little. Merlin removed his arms and leaned back on the step above where he was sitting, keeping his face blank.

"You're not surprised," she said only, and he couldn't read her expression or her tone, for the first time. Was she angry? hurt?

He kept his own tone neutral. "Shasta told me – enough."

"She told you?" Freya turned from him, hiding her face in her hands.

"Before I came to Emmett's Creek," he said, "I was hunting the murderer of my family, intending on killing him. As painful a death as I could manage. My plan from the very beginning included taking his family from him as mine had been taken from me." Her face was still turned aside, but he could tell she was listening intently. "It wasn't long before I discovered that – losing you – would hurt him little."

"If at all," Freya said softly, without bitterness. "He would have been angry, I think, but hurt… no." She looked at him again, then, her dark beautiful eyes luminous with unshed tears.

His heart slammed against his ribcage once, inexplicably, and he looked away. "Gaius guessed my intent," he continued. "Whether he told Shasta or not, she – what she told me, she meant to make sure I wouldn't hurt you in any way, to tell me that you'd been hurt enough. She meant, I think, to make sure I followed through on – facing him, but to do so when you would not be in any danger. She wasn't trying to – betray your confidence."

Freya sighed, let her head drop down. Her hair, he noticed, had been rolled and braided and pinned up on her head in a pretty – and no doubt, stylish – way. It left her neck bare, and she looked vulnerable with her head bowed, in her pretty black dress with tiny white embroidered flowers, lace at the hems and cuffs and neckline.

"So you know the worst of me, then," she said dully. "You must think me stupid-"

"Stop it," he said suddenly, maybe too harshly.

His chest was tight with remembering how slight she had felt in his arms, how totally she had abandoned herself to his embrace, trusting him. It wasn't right for her to be so hard on herself – she was one of the very few who tried to do the right thing no matter the cost to herself.

"Shasta said, your mother taught you – and then you were young and alone. The wrong was his, and only his. Shasta told me, you couldn't question your mother's teaching, that you tried to be a good wife to him in spite of – everything. And that was the truth…" He struggled for words, sensing that she was not completely reassured. "I once heard of a wife, seeking revenge on her husband's mistress – only to find the poor lady had been duped herself, that the unfaithful husband had lied to her also, and staged a false wedding. She had no idea of the other wife, and believed herself married. She had nothing to reproach herself for – just as you do not."

"It doesn't change the fact that she was not truly married," Freya said sadly. "Ignorance doesn't make you any less guilty of – of – impurity."

Merlin shook his head vehemently. "That was between you and him – and he's gone. You tell no one, you understand me? No one else has any right to know. If you find a man you want to spend your life with, then maybe, and if he deserves you, he'll understand. And if he doesn't–"

He was aware he was scowling fiercely, and relaxed his hands from the fists they'd made, standing and moving down to the level of the front area, one step below her.

She stared up at him for a moment, again unreadable. Then she smiled, a slow, sure smile that made her rather plain face breathtakingly radiant. And before he could move to stop her, she stood up straight into his arms, winding her own tightly around his neck.

Shocked, he froze. It seemed only one turbulent second that they stood so – was he trying to loosen her arms, or hold her more closely to him? – before they were interrupted by a scandalized female voice.

"Freya!"

It was Emma and Randall, entering the gate and coming up the walk. Emma's face was red and flustered as she literally pulled Freya away from him.

"Have you no propriety, cousin? Embracing a man right here on the street – in full view of the neighbors?" She hustled a startled Freya up the stairs into the house; Randall stayed for a few words with Merlin.

"A little more discretion, if you please?" the older man said dryly. "Sparking on the front porch might do for the country, but here it can get you married."

Merlin inclined his head with half a smile. "I thank you for the warning, sir," he said. "Ah, sir?" he added as Randall passed him to mount the stairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palm-sized green leather purse. "From the sale of her horses and wagon," he explained. "I didn't get a chance to give it to her yet."

Randall gave him a shrewd look before accepting the pouch with a nod. "If you plan to come calling in a more formal social manner, I feel I must give permission for Freya the same as for my daughter Vivian. If not…"

He inclined his head politely, but left Merlin with the distinct feeling he'd been warned away from Freya as surely as Reeve Whatley had once done.

As Merlin turned to leave, he noticed the nearest neighbor to the north was out on her own front porch, watching. How long had she been there? It mattered nothing to Merlin, but he'd be sorry to make things harder for Freya with her new neighbors. He reached to tip his hat, but realized belatedly he wasn't wearing it. The lady bristled as at an insult, turning an ugly red, and bustled back into her house.

He shrugged and went his way.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Emma continued her pointed, if gentle, reprimand in the entryway as she stripped off her light silk gloves, but Freya was only half-listening.

She felt very little embarrassment, and was surprised at that. Had she no propriety, as Emma had said? But the gesture she had made to Merlin had felt so natural, a token of her thanks – for his time, his attention, the gentle and caring way he'd listened to her, tried to comfort her.

Though she was forced to admit, there had been a fleeting moment, just before Emma's interruption, when she thought she felt Merlin sway toward her slightly, when she thought she felt the subtle beginning of a change in his reaction to her.

"My dear girl," Emma said, breaking into her thoughts with fond exasperation, putting her hands on Freya's shoulders to look directly into her eyes. "Do I have to caution you against giving your heart away so easily and obviously? If you expect to find a good match here in Turad, you must be more circumspect. He is a young, unattached gentleman – an agent, so of course his honor is unquestionable, but they do lead quite a transitory life, highly unsuitable – and others who might see you with him will not know that you have a completely innocent familiarity with him. There will be an instant assumption that your reputation is compromised. When you are safely and well married, you can be more open in your friendship with someone like an unmarried agent, as long as your husband has no concerns over it, do you understand?"

How awkward that would be.

Freya suddenly imagined herself and a faceless husband, properly side by side in a spotless sitting room, as Merlin scrutinized her new husband from across the room, and both of them thought about Padlow in comparison. It would have to be a one-in-a-million gentleman, she thought, who would understand her history and accept her anyway, accept her friends in Emmett's Creek without prejudice, accept her feelings about Merlin without jealousy and with trust. None of the few she'd met so far had come close to that standard.

She sighed, nodding her answer to Emma. How many more would she have to meet before she found a man like that?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The Council Palais was a square block of a building, taller than the prison by at least two floors, with a columned promenade in the front and wide stone steps that had been laid purposefully uneven, Merlin knew, so that one couldn't run lightly up to the doors, but had to slow down and watch the footing with care to avoid tripping. It was an imposing structure, the uniformed guards mainly ceremonial, without any real authority except within the Palais itself. He'd been past it countless times as a revenger, and as an agent he'd visited the clerks in the Outer Chamber a handful of times to compare his notes with theirs.

This was the first time he'd set foot in the Inner Chamber.

It was a large square room with a door at each corner and a massive rectangular table set in the middle, flanked by eight identical red-velvet clad armchairs with head-high backs, solid dark wood all, and two more at the head and foot of the table. The walls were wood-paneled, lined with portraits of solemn men, august to the point of apoplexy, stylish in every era of dress. Former council members, Merlin guessed.

They were early; no one was present in the Inner Chamber as the Senior Clerk showed them in. Merlin remained by the door, back to the wall, hands behind his back, waiting. Arthur took a circuit of the room, examining the gentlemen in the portraits, his boots silent on the thick dark brown carpeting.

"How do you like being an agent?" Arthur said casually, his back to Merlin. When Merlin didn't answer, he added, still without turning, "Give much thought to a permanent writ?"

Why was it anyone's concern what he did? Morgana wanted him to be a junior partner as a revenger, Arthur thought he should be an agent. Emmett's Creek wanted him for reeve. And he found himself thinking more and more about Chadin's little family, and the horse ranch.

"Ah, Agent Arthur," came a voice from across the room.

Before he even looked around, Merlin formed an instant opinion of the speaker, hating him with an intensity that surprised him. He thought, older man, overweight, steeped to bitterness in his own importance, condescension a habit because his belief in his own superiority runs bone-deep.

"Good morning, Reeve," Arthur said, remaining where he was as the other entered through the open door and came sauntering across the carpet.

Reeve Agravaine was clean-shaven and pallid, mid-forties, thick through the middle, dark hair all combed slickly back from his face. His hands pushed the tails of his jacket back to rest in his pockets.

"This is my colleague, Agent Merlin," Arthur added.

Two more well-dressed men entered behind the reeve, one cricket-like in statue and manner, with a pointed white beard, the other with greased light brown hair and three chins pushed upward by a tall stiff collar. Turad's reeve nodded to Merlin without speaking or crossing the room for a more personal salutation. His eyes were stone gray, his bonhomie, Merlin knew instinctively, no more than a mask.

Merlin thought, He has something against me.

And he was suddenly extra-sensitive to three more council members entering the Inner Chamber behind him, the five exchanging greetings and pleasantries across the table, but with faint unidentifiable undercurrents. He was aware of the echoing murmur of business conducted in the enormous Outer Chamber, the missing weight of a long knife at his hip, the subtle reassuring pressure of his boot blade at the back of his ankle. He shrugged out of the form-fitting formal jacket that matched the charcoal-gray trousers, let it drop to the carpeting by the paneled wall. Too bad if any of the gentlemen considered it rude; he smelled trouble and wanted more ease and freer range of movement.

"Good morning, Judge Alined," said one of the five as another two entered behind Merlin.

He shifted to get a look at the judge while keeping the reeve in view.

Alined was an older man, overweight in a grave and important way. He accepted the deference shown by the council as his due, nodding and gesturing like a prince to the populace. Merlin thought he enjoyed his position of power more than was good for him; he didn't take his seat at the head of the table, but stood with his hands clasping the high back of the chair.

"Be seated, gentlemen," he said, in a deep, sonorous voice.

One more councilman scooted in from the doorway next to Merlin, sliding into his seat as the others took their time arranging themselves more comfortably. He looked to be younger than any of the others by more than half a decade, maybe only a few years Arthur's senior. He didn't ask that his tardiness be excused, Merlin noticed – at the same time he was aware that Agravaine did not take the empty seat at the foot of the table, but remained next to Arthur.

And Judge Alined was armed. Three knives that Merlin could tell, maybe more. Did Arthur see that? Surely that was unusual for a council meeting. Judge Alined had been cordial, Arthur told him after his first meeting with him a little over a fortnight ago, but noncommittal, and unwilling to discuss details, even with an agent.

What did the judge expect from this meeting, that he came armed to the teeth in the presence of his reeve?

"Gentleman, we have been called here this morning, as you all know," the judge began in a self-important voice, "to meet as a group with the agents sent by our gov'ment to address what Cam'lot sees as a 'situation.' " He paused, but no one said anything; not all the men were meeting the gaze he sent around the table. "This is the first of sev'ral such meetings, as many as are necess'ry to satisfy our agents, and don't be overly concerned, gentlemen, your private, personal schedules will be taken into account completely during discussion of the length and frequency of these meetings."

Merlin was reminded strongly of one junior officer he'd met in Sage Springs. That lieutenant had wanted to build barracks for the cadets and a house for the officers, stables for their horses, not even recognizing his suggestion as a tacit assumption of early failure. Admitting such a permanence for proceedings meant to swiftly alleviate the tension of the situation here in Turad amounted to building barracks.

"However," Judge Alined continued, "I have been informed that Agent Arthur – whom I assume all of us have become acquainted with since his arrival in our fair city – has come to Reeve Agravaine and myself with certain intelligence important enough to take precedence over all other items on this morning's agenda. Agent Arthur?"

Arthur stepped to the chair at the foot of the table, leaned his folded arms over the high back as he began to earnestly describe – without naming Merlin or Morgana or Jordan specifically – what Merlin had seen and heard at the chalet two days previously. The judge's narrowed eyes on him told Merlin that these names had been entrusted to Alined and Agravaine, whether or not Arthur mentioned them here today.

It made him feel vulnerable, open to attack. Alined's expression was not one of gratitude, but resentment.

He moved without consciously willing his feet to take a single step, swiftly yet unobtrusively circling the room to take a position between Arthur and the reeve, without approaching Agravaine directly. He knew Arthur considered the man several long steps above Whatley, a fairly political figure with enough deputies that he didn't have to involved himself in the more physical side of his duties. Suave and experienced.

Merlin couldn't have explained his reaction to seeing Arthur turn his back on Reeve Agravaine, but the judge's eyes remained on him as he moved. He was careful to keep Alined in view, too.

The judge had been told about the possibility of a death-contract with his name on it, and that was reason enough to go armed. But if a man wanted to deter violence, he wore his weapon obviously. A hidden blade meant a person was ready to defend if attacked, expected attack – even welcomed attack? All of Merlin's senses were heightened in anticipation, even as all of his reason said this was the last place to expect a fight.

"Is this confirmed information?" the youngest member on the end at Arthur's left said suddenly, glancing up at him, then down to the judge. "We know for a fact that this fellow intends to kill all of us, or as many of us as he can?"

"Without revealing sources," Arthur answered delicately, but Merlin could tell he was giving them his most engaging smile, "I would say there is definite danger to each one of you. I would recommend keeping time spent alone – day or night – to a minimum, not opening your door to strangers, and finding a trusted friend who is accustomed to physical defense, to accompany you out-of-doors."

At that, the meeting devolved into an incredulous argument, member against member. Merlin, silent against the wall behind Arthur, listened to them declare disbelief of the danger, expound on the dire straits that brought about death threats to the council, and demand an increase in tolls to support paid bodyguards, more deputies to hunt down assassins.

"The very idea of ten death-contracts – ten!"

"Increase the tolls, I say, then we can appoint–"

"It's preposterous, and I refuse–"

"Can't be done, don't you see, and that's the fault of–"

Arthur straightened and backed away from the table. As soon as he reached a point where he could catch any move Reeve Agravaine made for himself, Merlin moved again also, still circling the room slowly, next to the wall. He felt he had to move, or explode.

"If council members aren't even safe, surely you must agree that we–"

"Funding for more deputies to catch this assassin, though of course there could be-"

"I don't believe for a minute–"

"Surely now you see the consequences of–"

"If you recall, I warned the council months ago of the danger of–"

Merlin increased his pace. Why was it he couldn't just leave the room, walk out and keep walking? He passed one doorway, two.

The judge watched him pass, his eyes unfriendly, calculating, one hand moving slowly inside his jacket. The awareness of his hidden steel was there, in the glance that flickered over Merlin's person as if assessing him for similar secrets. Alined made no attempt to calm or quiet the members of the council, though he was, by Arthur's description, the acting chair of the council.

Merlin passed around the head of the room, the judge watching every step. He slowed again, pacing as though stepping off the room's measurements, balance perfect at every step. Arthur was back at the table, trying to address concerns, three and four at a time.

Reeve Agravaine stood waiting, watching Merlin also. Waiting? For what? Those undercurrents he had sensed were stronger, now.

When he reached a point an arms' length from the reeve he stopped, then stepped purposefully to the table, backwards to keep his eyes on Agravaine the whole way. Arthur moved to the side to allow him room without pausing in two current conversations. Merlin put his hand against the high back of the unoccupied chair and tipped it deliberately, tipped it til gravity took hold and it crashed to the floor.

Silence.

Merlin turned to find all eyes on him, as he'd intended. Safe then to stand with his back to the reeve. He still didn't like it much, it gave him an itch between his shoulder blades, but – make the most of it.

"Seven," he said into the silence. Scowls and uncertainty. "Seven apprentices fell to their deaths from rooftops in the last eight months, trying to make deliveries without passing through toll barricades. The oldest was eleven." He began circling again, skirting Arthur and the fallen chair to stay right behind the council members. "Sixteen… infants dead in their first week due to starvation, and malnutrition in their mothers."

He reached the head of the table and stopped face to face with Judge Alined.

"Twenty-three dead in a radius of five miles from Turad's walls, starved or killed by raiders – farmers' families mostly, raiders and dead both." He rounded the judge and continued down the other side of the table. "Twenty-eight suicides since the beginning of winter, folks trying to spare their families the cost of their food. Most were over the age of sixty-seven, the rest between fourteen and nineteen."

No one spoke. Even Arthur, who knew these numbers also, didn't say a word, only watched him.

"Fifty-six. Deaths by drowning since your precious measure passed last year. Folks trying to catch fish for their food in the river, or carry their own water. Because the extra tolls have drained every spare coin."

Merlin stopped, meeting each man's gaze with a furious glare til they all had dropped their eyes. He turned and retraced his steps back to the judge, but watching the seated councilmen.

"Not enough for you to make the damn necessary changes? Shall I recite the amounts collected from each new toll barricade personally overseen by each councilman here? Maybe you'd be interested to know how much your colleagues are squeezing from the people they were chosen to represent!"

He reached the judge again, stalking now on his toes, fingers trembling at his sides. He was aware that his voice had risen, also.

"Or maybe you'd rather hear how much the judge's office has taken in legal fees and fines over the last year, due to the rise in crime," Merlin added. He wasn't entirely unprepared for Alined to take a swing at him, purple-faced with anger and embarrassment as he was, but it wasn't hard to dodge the blow. "Twice as rich as you were this time last year, Your Honor?" he inquired mockingly. "Can you blame the people for wanting you dead?"

Then turned on his heel to leave the Inner Chamber.

"Now just one minute," came the angry, pompous voice behind him.

Don't touch me, Merlin thought, closing his eyes and bracing himself in the doorway. He couldn't help thinking of those three knives, and the skin of his back shuddered under his fine clothes. Just don't touch me–

When Judge Alined grabbed his shoulder roughly, he reacted instantly, capturing the judge's wrist and twisting around behind him. For a moment they faced the room this way, the judge with his arm caught high behind his back, Merlin behind in the position of control. The council was still in shock, but Arthur was coming up the far side of the table, and the reeve was hustling to his judge's defense on the near side.

Merlin released the judge – who was far more able to defend himself than these men probably realized – and Alined stumbled forward as if from a strong shove.

Undercurrents. What was really going on? Arthur had mentioned no animosity, no overt displeasure or aggressive uncooperativeness. He had taken the judge's age and rank into account, and had reacted almost gently, considering. Why would the judge be playing up the rough treatment?

"How dare you!" gasped Judge Alined, clutching his chest, stooping his shoulders.

"Don't touch me," Merlin said quietly, trying to keep his anger in. He addressed the judge, but included the reeve in the warning with his eyes. Did it seem to Arthur as though they were pushing him, or would the other agent be angry with him for losing his temper unnecessarily? He only knew he was through with the polite inaction that had brought things to this state.

If action was needed, if that was what they asked of him – he turned and started for the door. He'd head out of town again, do what he could in the villages around Turad.

"Don't turn you dare your back on me," the reeve growled behind him, "you motherless sonuva–"

Merlin swerved, took one long step back as Agravaine's arm shot over his left shoulder. He gripped the arm wrist and armpit, bent and heaved, and the surprised reeve tumbled over Merlin's shoulder to the ground.

Exclamations erupted behind him as the reeve, disoriented, tried to scramble to his feet.

"Merlin," Arthur said somewhere behind him, and his voice held warning.

He turned, fully expecting the judge to lunge or throw one of his knives. Instead, the older man was sinking back into one of the chairs, assisted by the nearest councilman.

"Gentlemen, you must forgive my colleague," Arthur said to the other members. Some listened to him, some stared at Merlin, some watched Agravaine regain his feet. "Sometimes these reflexes are so ingrained–"

"Arrest him," the judge demanded, breath puffing, hand still clutching his shirtfront over his heart. "He attacked me. He might have broken my arm, or – or thrown me to the floor like he did to our good reeve. We cannot allow this violence to go unpunished. Reeve Agravaine, arrest this man."

"Don't touch him," Arthur said quickly, past Merlin to the reeve. "Your Honor, please rest for a time, then you can reconsider–"

"I want him arrested!" Alined insisted, in a voice surprisingly strong for one so obviously near to collapse. "Agent, do your duty. Obey me, and arrest him. Tie his hands, take him to the reeve's holding cells." Arthur didn't immediately move, standing at the judge's side and looking down into his lined face.

Agravaine was hovering to Merlin's right, keeping his distance for the moment. The council members were mostly silent; the latecomer at the far end was speaking in a low voice to his neighbor, the cricket-like man with the pointed white beard.

Then Arthur turned and came to Merlin, reaching past him for a length of cord that Agravaine produced, putting gentle pressure on Merlin's shoulder to encourage him to turn his back.

"You're really going to do this?" Merlin demanded incredulously, trying to keep his voice low. His fingertips still tingled for a fight.

Arthur's eyes were on the reeve as he answered, "A judge may order an agent to make an arrest," he said. "A judge may order an agent to be arrested. I cannot disobey him and still demand they honor the authority of my writ."

"I didn't even hit him," Merlin pointed out, trying to remain calm. "Either of them."

"Believe me, no one appreciates that fact more than I do," Arthur said with a tired crooked smile. "Go with him now, we'll sort this out later." He pushed harder, and Merlin allowed his shoulders to turn slightly, enough for Arthur to access his wrists. "That's the most I've ever heard you say at one time," he commented as he tied the cord over the cuffs of Merlin's shirt, careful of the old rope-burn scars.

"I'll say one more thing," Merlin returned, speaking in the same low tone. "I am about through with all of this."

"I'll come by later," Arthur said only. "We have plenty to discuss."