Turn Coat (The Dresden Files 11)

In all probability, my brother had killed someone.

"I hope he'll recover quickly," I said.

"His caretaker-"

That would be Justine.

"-is concerned about complications arising from his original condition."

I was quiet for a moment. "How bad is it?"

The businesslike meter of her voice changed, filling with raw anxiety. "He's under sedation. There was no choice."

My knuckles creaked as they tightened on the earpiece of the phone.

I left nothing behind. You don't have words for the things I did to him.

"I'd like to visit, if that can be arranged."

She recovered, shifting back into personal assistant mode. "I'll consult Ms. Raith," Justine said. "It may not be practical for several days."

"I see. Could you let me know as soon as possible, please?"

"Of course."

"My number is-"

"We have that information, Mr. Dresden. I'll be in touch soon."

I thanked her and hung up. I bowed my head and found myself shaking with anger. If that thing had done my brother as much harm as it sounded like, I was going to find the naagloshii and rip him to gerbil-sized pieces if I had to blow up every cave in New Mexico to do it.

Molly appeared in the doorway. "Harry? Cab's here."

"Okay," I said. "Let's go spoil someone's day."

I tried not to think too hard about the fact that Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius, pretty near always took a hideous beating at the hands of his foes, and finished the day by plunging off a two-mile-high cliff.

Well, then, Harry, I thought to myself, you'll just have to remember not to repeat Wile E.'s mistake. If he would just keep going after he runs off the cliff, rather than looking down at his feet, everything would be fine.

They held the trial in Edinburgh.

There wasn't much choice in that. Given the recent threats to the Senior Council and the unexpected intensity of the attack at Demonreach, they wanted the most secure environment they could get. The trial was supposed to be held in closed session, according to the traditions of how such things were done, but this one was too big. Better than five hundred wizards, a sizable minority of the whole Council, would be there. Most of them would be allies of LaFortier and their supporters, who were more than eager to See Justice Done, which is a much prettier thing to do than to Take Bloodthirsty Vengeance.

Molly, Mouse, and I took the Way, just as I had before. This time, when I reached the door, there was a double-sized complement of Wardens on duty, led by the big Scandinavian, all of them from the Old Guard. I got a communal hostile glare from them as I approached, with only a desultory effort to disguise it as indifference. I ignored it. I was used to it.

We went into the complex, past the guard stations-they were all fully manned, as well-and walked toward the Speaking Room. Maybe it said something about the mind-set of wizards in general that the place was called "the Speaking Room" and not "the Listening Room" or, in the more common vernacular, "an auditorium." It was an auditorium, though, rows of stone benches rising in a full circle around a fairly small circular stone stage, rather like the old Greek theaters. But before we got to the Speaking Room, I turned off down a side passage.

With difficulty, I got the Wardens on guard to allow me, Mouse, and Molly into the Ostentatiatory while one of them went to Ebenezar's room and asked him if he would see me. Molly had never been into the enormous room before, and stared around it with unabashed curiosity.

"This place is amazing," she said. "Is the food for the bigwigs only, or do you think they'd mind if I ate something?"

"Ancient Mai doesn't weigh much more than a bird," I said. "LaFortier's dead, and they haven't replaced him yet. I figure there's extra."

She frowned. "But is it supposed to be only for them?"

I shrugged. "You're hungry. It's food. What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to make anyone angry at me. Angrier."

The kid has better sense than I do, in some matters.

Ebenezar sent the Warden back to bring me up to his room at once, and he'd already told the man to make sure Molly was fed from the buffet table. I tried not to smile, at that. Ebenezar was of the opinion that apprentices were always hungry. Can't imagine who had ever given him that impression.

I looked around his receiving room, which was lined with bookshelves filled to groaning. Ebenezar was an eclectic reader. King, Heinlein, and Clancy were piled up on the same shelves as Hawking and Nietzsche. Multiple variants of the great religious texts of the world were shamelessly mixed with the writings of Julius Caesar and D. H. Lawrence. Hundreds of books were handmade and handwritten, including illuminated grimoires any museum worth the name would readily steal, given the chance. Books were crammed in both vertically and horizontally, and though the spines were mostly out, it seemed clear to me that it would take the patience of Job to find anything, unless one remembered where it had been most recently placed.

Only one shelf looked neat.

It was a row of plain leather-bound journals, all obviously of the same general design, but made with subtly different leathers, and subtly different dyes that had aged independently of one another into different textures and shades. The books got older and more cracked and weathered rapidly as they moved from right to left. The leftmost pair looked like they might be in danger of falling to dust. The rightmost journal looked new, and was sitting open. A pen held the pages down, maybe thirty pages in.

I glanced at the last visible page, where Ebenezar's writing flowed in a strong, blocky style.

... seems clear that he had no idea of the island's original purpose. I sometimes can't help but think that there is such a thing as fate-or at least a higher power of some sort, attempting to arrange events in our favor despite everything we, in our ignorance, do to thwart it. The Merlin has demanded that we put the boy under surveillance at once. I think he's a damn fool.

Rashid says that warning him about the island would be pointless. He's a good judge of people, but I'm not so sure he's right this time. The boy's got a solid head on his shoulders, generally. And of all the wizards I know, he's among the three or four I'd be willing to see take up that particular mantle. I trust his judgment.

But then again, I trusted Maggie's, too.

Ebenezar's voice interrupted my reading. "Hoss," he said. "How's your head?"

"Full of questions," I replied. I closed the journal, and offered him the pen.

My old mentor's smile only touched his eyes as he took the pen from me: he'd intended me to see what he'd written. "My journal," he said. "Well. The last three are. The ones before that were from my master."