"I am done with his lies." Father tried to pin the Order of The Christ above his chest, but his hand shook, and with a soft click, he dropped the medal back into the onyx box.
Gabriel ambled to the bed, his gait unsteady. If Fontes had arrested Pedro, the population would clamor for a swift resolution, and the other ministers would push for a public execution. The republicans had gathered strength in congress, and the king couldn't afford to show weakness. Good-hearted Dom Luis would have no alternative but to concede.
Gabriel knew what he had to do. The truth about Pedro's innocence, about his own participation, swelled in his chest, wanting out. "Father."
"Yes?"
Gabriel opened his mouth, gathering the strength to say it.
Father came closer, halting a mere breath away. "I'm sorry for my curtness.” He placed his hand over Gabriel's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son."
Gabriel stilled, stunned by the unusual praise. The hand was cold and bony, but the warmth touched his chest.
Nodding once, twice, Father strode out of the room.
The menage tower of Saint George’s Castle loomed on Gabriel’s front, the sun igniting the stones. Atop the city’s highest hill, the majestic pile of rocks had housed Roman garrisons, defended the Moors inside its impregnable walls, nursed the cream of Portuguese aristocracy, belched cannon fire to repel Napoleon’s advances, and now imprisoned their criminals.
Gabriel gave a last look at the city, sprawled beneath the fortress moat. Where was Santiago? If the priest appeared with a clue to Ulrich’s location, Gabriel would donate all his billets to the church. But as he followed his father’s resolute steps into the ward’s office, the Roman portal remained empty.
The news of Pedro’s arrest had spread like typhus. If he could convince Father—no, there would be no changing his mind. Fontes was an oak, set in his ways. In comparison, it made mortals look like willows.
The stocky ward greeted them with a clumsybow. “The prisoner requires a word with His Excellency, the defense minister.”
Father grunted. “Very well.”
Gabriel touched his father’s shoulder. “Are you sure this is advisable? I can go in your place.”
“You will wait here.”
Gabriel nodded and lowered his weight onto the ward’s couch. Theaguardentechurned in his empty stomach, nausea sweeping him in waves. He would give anything, anything, to go back to that day. God, he’d been so relieved. To return with the regiment after an entire year, only to plunge himself into a deeper hell than the dusty bloodshed of the Zambezi.
The clock struck the half-hour, and Gabriel stood. What could Pedro have to say that took so long? Cleaning perspiration from his brow, Gabriel descended the stairs to the cellar, feet tactless in the dark, the air brisk as a crypt’s.
Movement downstairs. Officers. He recognized who they were escorting. Cris. Pedro’s brother dragged his feet over the steps, his hands tied. He looked like a beast being herded to the slaughterhouse.
The officer saluted Gabriel.
“Where are you taking him?”
“To the ward’s office. The count wished to speak with the minister alone.”
Cris lifted his eyes, straining against the bindings. “Gabriel, you mustn’t let him do it.
“What?”
Cris groaned and shook his head. “He wants to confess, but he is innocent. It’s my fault. He sacrificed his honor for me in Mozambique. I can’t take his life too.”
“Sacrifice? I’ll... I’ll see what I can do.” Gabriel pressed his spine to the wall so the group could proceed upstairs. Coldness seeped into his lungs as the guards’ crimson coats vanished above, swallowed by the corridor’s light. Would Pedro admit to a crime he hadn’t committed to save his brother? Be forever branded as a murderer and a traitor?
Gabriel laughed bitterly. Of course, he would. How utterly like him, to take command of the situation, set his own terms, and lead. Even cornered, the perfect Pedro Daun had honor to spare.
Gabriel descended to the landing, his legs negotiating the steps slowly. Voices spilled from the open door, not the ramblings of prisoners pleading for their lives, but the serious timbre of statesmen discussing the fate of nations.
Kept outside, not being invited to their conversation, Gabriel was… what? A sulking child? Father should have asked for his presence. He was the head of the king’s guard, and arresting Pedro was his duty. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the door open.
Fontes’s expression made him halt. White brackets surrounded his mouth, and his lips were purple as if he had drunk red wine. Pedro leaned against the wall. He didn’t resemble a prisoner but a Greek hero sculpted from precious ivory.
Fontes wouldn’t meet Gabriel’s eyes. “I’ll wait upstairs.”
