Justice and Utu (6 page)

A
KARANA
, F
RIDAY MORNING

T
he crowds outside the gaol on the corner of Victoria Street and Queen Street were dozens deep, as soldiers in black uniforms with muskets shoved a path through. The shouting and catcalls of the people blurred into one loud roar as Mat and his father were hustled inside. Red-faced women and whiskery men bellowed threats. Old men with lined faces and gaps in their teeth spat. Handfuls of mud flew out of the packed masses and splattered Mat's jacket and trousers. It was a relief to burst through hastily opened doors and into a chamber full of soldiers. They were all officers, who peered at them with hard, unfriendly faces.

Mat wiped at his clothing crossly. ‘Haven't they got better things to do with their afterlives?' he glowered.

Tama laid a protective hand on his shoulder, and flashed him a warning look. ‘Stay cool, son.'

‘You're to see the guv'nor first,' an officer told them, pointing to a door on the right. ‘Go on in.'

They entered a large room, dominated by a large desk and the smell of damp. There were two men inside. Mat recognized Sir George Grey, Governor of Akarana and the North. His high forehead was accentuated by a receding hairline, which like his thick moustache and sideburns was light brown. He was of lean build, and clad in a black three-piece suit. A top hat sat on the desk behind him. Mat recalled that in his life Grey had taken the trouble to learn Te Reo, but that he also had a reputation for high-handedness and duplicity — though the story changed depending upon who told it. Some blamed him for the Land Wars; others blamed his superiors back in England. The man radiated a stiff formality bordering on distaste as he greeted Tama curtly, then turned to Mat.

‘So this is the young tyro, eh?' He offered no handshake, instead indicating the other man in the room with a faint nod. ‘This is Captain William Hobson, my Lieutenant-Governor of the Far North.'

Hobson looked up with a pained expression. He was a thin man except around the belly, and his flat, moon-shaped face looked shockingly tired. When he moved, it was awkwardly, as though he'd lost full use of his left arm. He sagged into his uniform as if it were three sizes too big. The dark pouches under his eyes and thinning mop of lank hair made him seem old and unwell. His greeting was unintelligible, his demeanour unimpressive. Hobson had been New Zealand's first governor, but here in Aotearoa he seemed subservient to Grey.

‘Not in good health, our William,' Grey went on callously. ‘But it was him or no-one. Hobson's Choice, if you like,' he
added with a cruel laugh. ‘He's travelled down to witness the executions.'

Hobson peered at Mat with bleary interest. ‘The witch has asked to see you, young man. Why?'

Mat shook his head. ‘I don't know, sir,' he replied honestly.

‘Well, I don't like it,' Grey said coldly. ‘You “Adepts” seem to think that because you can break the laws of Nature you have the right to break the laws of men.'

‘I don't believe that, sir.'

‘Then you'd be a rarity, boy. Your sort are like a little club. I've had enough of Aethlyn Jones and his cronies trying to manipulate me.'

‘I'm not interfering, sir. My father said it would be a kindness to visit her.'

Grey glanced at Tama. ‘Your father has spent too much time with that woman. I suspect she has used her wiles upon him, hmmm?'

Tama flushed. ‘Not at all, sir. We have been strictly supervised throughout my briefings with her, as you know. My client merely wishes to thank my son for his testimony, that is all.'

‘Much good it did her,' Grey commented coldly. ‘You know of course that I have sworn her demise, and I will see that through, Mr Douglas. What I want is surety that your son won't cause trouble during his visit.'

‘Of course not,' Tama said, glancing at Mat, who nodded his agreement emphatically.

Grey sighed heavily. ‘Very well. I will allow the visit. Dying wishes can't be denied, it is said. Such things hold weight in this place, you understand?'

Mat nodded mutely. Hobson stared dazedly, slurping some dark caramel-coloured fluid from a tumbler. He looked halfway to drunk and it was still early morning.

Grey peered doubtfully at Mat. ‘This Aotearoa, it is an afterlife, of sorts, as I'm sure you know.' Then he added, ‘Perhaps
the
afterlife, but not for all who die. Those with a great attachment to this land seem to gravitate here. For myself, I died in London, yet my spirit found its way here. What does that tell you, eh?'

Mat thought about that. It did indeed speak volumes for Grey's affinity for New Zealand. Despite himself, he was impressed.

Grey went on. ‘You might think such a place as this would not require governance, but of course it does. In any gathering of mankind, organization is required, and leadership. To the natural leaders fall that role. I came here as governor in the name of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. I did my best by this place then, and I do the same now. Some criticize, but what do they offer in my place? Hmmm? I'll tell you: weakness. Weakness is dangerous at any time, but especially when vermin like Venn, Bryce, Grieve and Kyle are running loose. It is my vigilance that confines these people to the wild places, and lets ordinary folk here live out their existences safely. I come down hard on those who cause trouble. Do you understand, young Adept?'

‘Yes, sir,' Mat muttered.

‘Bit o' time in the navy would do t' boy some good,' slurred Hobson.

‘In the military, most assuredly,' Grey agreed. ‘My father died fighting Napoleon, you know.' He eyed Mat suspiciously,
as if he'd like to open up his head and examine all his thoughts at first hand. At length he sighed. ‘Very well. Mr Douglas, you will remain here; the warden will take the boy through.' He rapped on the door, and a burly, bearded gaoler answered. ‘Take the boy to her, Mitchell.'

Mat was led past the stairs, through two sets of iron-bound doors, stopping at each as the warden unlocked them carefully. Then it was down a long corridor and around a corner, walking between cell after cell full of rough-dressed women with tangled hair and filthy cotton dresses. The stench of slop buckets and sweat hit him in a warm, wet wave, and when they saw him a cacophony of screeching taunts met his ears. ‘Witch-friend!' was the only half-polite thing he heard — the rest was obscene abuse. Hands reached out, snagging his clothing, pulling at his hair. He had to jerk himself from grip to grip, until Mitchell, the warden, flailed an arm and battered them away.

‘Drunken harlots the lot o' them!' Mitchell shouted, his hard face unsympathetic. He led Mat around a right-hand turn and another bank of cells, including one that was completely empty but awash in foul liquids and brown lumps of faeces, as if it were the dumping ground for every slop bucket in the gaol. ‘That's de witch's cell,' Mitchell guffawed. ‘She's waitin' in the far room for ye. Don' worry though, we hosed her down afirst!'

Mat put a hand over his nose and staggered onward.
She's been here for six months! Hanging will be a mercy to her,
he thought, aghast.

Mitchell stopped him at the door, as the uproar reverberated about them, and pulled Mat close to him. He
reeked of whisky. ‘Lad, if you be wantin' ta go in thar alone, it'll be extra coin. Two shillin's; three if yer dab it up wit' 'er.'

‘What?'

‘Y'know!' The gaoler made a rude gesture. ‘So, let's be havin' yer.'

Why am I doing this?
Although he had no desire to be alone with Donna Kyle, he also had no desire for this repulsive man to be standing over them both, so he pulled out three dollar coins and thrust them at the man. ‘These do?'

Mitchell beamed. ‘Aye, sure dey will. You be havin' a good time in dere, y'hear?' He leant towards Mat, the smile on his face vanishing. ‘One last thing. You might've heard that she's been infected with fairy blood. You know what that means? It means she's just one mouthful of blood away from turning into something that kills to live. So don't you go feeding her any blood of your own, will you? One drop is all it'll take. She'll turn into one of those patupai-whatsits. Then we'll have to lop her head off, straight away. Understand?'

Mat nodded mutely, filing the information away.

Mitchell unlocked the last door, shoved Mat through and locked it. The clamour fell to almost nothing, a distant squall. Abruptly it was just Mat, and the woman sitting in the chair in front of him. Donna Kyle.

She was clad in rough overalls. The cloth was stained and soaking, and her hair was wet and awry. She looked like she'd not slept in days, her pale face as brittle as chipped crockery. Her arms were behind her back, and Mat realized that she was handcuffed to the wooden chair. ‘You came,' she said flatly, studying him.

Mat found he had no idea what to say, so he said nothing.

‘What time is it?' she asked.

Mat glanced at his watch. It usually stopped whenever he went from Aotearoa to his world or back, but he knew these days to re-start it immediately, so it was probably right. ‘About four minutes to nine.'

‘You're sure? Your watch is accurate?' She looked down at her wet overalls. ‘The other prisoners throw their slop buckets over me when I sleep. Don't come too close; I still stink of it.'

He tried not to breathe.

‘They think they can get away with it because I'm going to die anyway.' Her expression was at once bitter, contemptuous and malevolent. Mat was reminded of exactly why he feared her, despite the pity that had recently curbed that dread. She looked up at him. ‘I don't suppose you want to unlock these damn cuffs?' she asked.

No way!
‘I don't think I'm allowed to.'

‘You've got to stop doing only what you're allowed to do, Matiu Douglas. The meek don't inherit anything. Especially not in this place.' She looked about her uneasily. ‘That pig Mitchell is watching us through a peephole, by the way. Top right corner.'

Mat glanced up, made out the hole, then looked away. ‘What do you want?'

She looked at him carefully. ‘Come here. I need to whisper something to you.' He cringed inwardly, but did as she said. The stench of human waste clung to her, but, more than that, she radiated an intensity that scared him. It was hard to come so close to her, but he put his ear to her mouth.

‘Thank you,' she whispered. ‘Listen carefully. In a few
minutes there is going to be an explosion. It could happen right now! It will kill us both, unless you protect us. So shield us!'

Mat stiffened. ‘But … how?'

‘Act! I'll tell you how I know if we live.'

Shit!
He quickly threw up a warding about himself, one Jones and Ngatoro had shown him, a protection against fire and earth. The air was instantly crackling with energy. Donna murmured against his neck, intimate as a kiss. ‘Yes, yes, that's it. Jones taught you well.' His skin crawled at the tingle of her breath. ‘Keep shielding us both.'

‘I—'

With a sudden double
KRUUMMMMPFF,
the building shook, and dust and smoke filled the air. Mat felt plaster from the roof batter his shield, while he wrapped his arms about the witch and threw everything into protecting them both. Darkness blossomed across his sight, a hot, dusty blackness that swallowed them. Outside their tiny haven, he heard a cacophony of screams, of agony and terror, and then silence.

He choked, calling air to him, trying to filter it. Long seconds passed in which he gasped, wrapped about Donna, who was herself wracked by violent coughing. A fresh din arose, but this time it was a mixture of cries for help, shrieks of pain, and then, suddenly, the rattle of gunfire.

The back wall of the cell fell in, a slew of shattered bricks falling about their feet like a landslide. Donna's chair tipped backward and broke apart. Mat landed on top of her, trying to gulp in a wave of cleaner air from outside. Smoke swirled through the huge hole, lanced by sunlight, a gust of air clearing his visibility.

A horse whickered close by, and through the torn wall a rider appeared, looking over the muzzle of a pistol. The man took aim at Mat. ‘Where's the witch?'

‘Keep him busy,' Donna whispered from where she lay beneath him in the rubble, below the man's sight. She rolled into a foetal position, straining to pull her cuffed wrists under her buttocks and legs. Mat looked at the rider, utterly confused as to what he should be doing.

The rider nudged his horse closer and saw Donna, even as she pulled her arms under herself so that they were clasped before her.

‘Boy! Get out of the way!' the rider shouted, trying to line up a shot at her. Mat stared down the muzzle and wondered if he was going to be shot down shielding his worst enemy.

Then came a voice that froze his blood. ‘Daughter!'

Asher Grieve.

‘Daughter! Come to me!'

More gunfire erupted, and suddenly the rider outside the gap jerked and crumpled; his horse reared and then bolted away, carrying the stricken man from view.

Mat hurried to the gap, slithering over the mound of bricks. Donna came after him. He couldn't think what to do. Was this a gaolbreak? Should he arrest her, or help her?

They struggled through the scattered bricks and onto a small bare patch of earth. To his right, the wall was half-demolished about a small crater of tossed earth and smoking rubble. Then someone loomed out of the smoke.

‘Daughter!' It was Asher Grieve, barely twenty feet away, a ragged shape in white, supported by a man in a warden's uniform.

‘Is she dead?' shouted someone else from somewhere in the smoke — an American.
Sebastian Venn?

Mat's heart pounded as he raised his hands, kindling fire on the fingernails Mahuika had given him and hurling it at Asher Grieve. Mahuika's nails made the action as natural as breathing. He wasn't fast enough, though. Asher took a step backwards and sideways. Mat's burst of fire followed Grieve, but instead struck the warden Asher had ducked behind. The warden went up like a bonfire. Mat's jet of flames clung like tar, bursting about him and wreathing him in fire. He fell, writhing and shrieking in utter agony.