I can’t help but laugh. It killed me, just as Emeric said it would. Now I reallyamthe Penny Phantom. At least my ghost isn’t carrying the jewel curse.
It stops being funny when I see Emeric’s frozen face, bleak with horror.
Fortune makes her entrance in about the same emotional state as Death. “Have you lost your mind? You could have just called one of us for help!”
“Oh,couldI?” I ask sharply.
We don’t have time to get into it before the rest of the court arrives. I’ve heard that the Court of the Low Gods is supposed to be Time, Justice, and Truth at minimum, usually with the addition of a few local deities who want entertainment.
Yssar and Eiswald are here, but many, many more are packing the plaza, from the Spindle-dam and Waul of the Winds to the Silversmith, Hunger, the Badalisk, even littler gods of distant mountains and farther shores.
It as if they’ve been waiting for a call.
There’s acracklike jaws snapping shut. Justice has come.
She stands nearly as tall as Adalbrecht’s warped form, draped in robes of unfurling scrolls. The text upon them shifts constantly, immeasurable laws written and unwritten to suit the world. Twin lanterns burn where her eyes should be—or where they would be, if her face was more than a blank skull. Above her floats Truth, who has taken the form of a wheel of eyes today. (As one does.)
“The Court of the Low Gods is convened,” Justice declares, rapping her staff against the ground. “Truth. How do we speak of you for this trial?”
Truth spins a moment, then says, “I am ‘they’ for now.”
“Understood. We will begin with the opening remarks. If Truth hears anything egregiously false, they may interrupt. Is that understood, Prefect . . .” Justice looks down, and while a skull can’t frown, she is absolutelynailingthe same feeling. “What is this? Who are you?”
“Vanja, Your Honor,” I say. “I have convened the court.”
“You are no prefect. You do not have the right.”
Oh, this is already going badly. I gesture to the frozen mayhem and destruction of the Göttermarkt. “It’s kind of an emergency?”
“This court was convened in the name of Emeric Conrad,” Justice crackles. “How did you come by his coin? How did you know the words?”
I lick my lips. “Let me preface this by pointing out that the margrave of Bóern is currently half man, halfmahr, and all murderous bastard—”
“She stole the coin,” Truth whispers, and somehow it rolls through every inch of the plaza. “She tricked him into saying the words.”
“I never liked you anyway,” I mutter under my breath.
“That is mostly true,” Truth whispers again.
“You still should not have been able to convene the court without a connection to the gods,” Justice booms.
“She’s our goddaughter,” Death says from my side. “Mine and Fortune’s.”
Justice regards them both a long moment, lantern flames flickering, then deadpans, “Well,thatexplains it.” I don’t think she means just the connection. She bends closer to me. “You have paid with your life to summon the court, but if you fail, do you understand that you will not be restored?”
“I do.” I shrug. “I was about to die anyway.”
“You summoned us in the name of Emeric Conrad. Do you wish to allow him to assist you in making the case?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” I burst out.
Justice taps her staff again. “Very well. Time, let the junior prefect go.”
Emeric crashes forward. I try to catch him—and my hand passes through his shoulder. He looks up at me, then at the assembly of Low Gods. Then he returns to me, shaking his head, and asks, “Why?”
“I had seconds left,” I say quietly. “You have years.” He still looks devastated, so I add, “Besides, do you know how much money that coin’s worth? I’m guessing atleastfive horses.”
“That is incorrect,” Truth sighs.
