Within a Name

by R A Fisher

  Gessa sighed. “You’re not going to, are you?”

  “What would be the point?” he asked, voice quiet. “To live out my last days even more alone than I am now? While here, where I’ve spent my entire life, my name is marked for history by a crime that isn’t mine?”

  “Does it matter? I know you didn’t kill anyone, Ranat.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said, then winced at his own words and took her hand in his when he saw how they’d stabbed her. “I mean,” he amended, “it matters to me, sure, but what happens when you’re gone? A hundred years from now, Ranat Totz will just be a murderer to anyone who bothers looking.”

  “I still don’t understand,” she muttered, not looking at him.

  “You’re young,” he sighed.

  “I’m not that young.”

  “Compared to me, you are. Whatever I do now, Gessa, I’ve only got a few years left. The name I leave behind, whatever baggage is attached to it, that’s all I got.”

  “Damn it!” She coughed out a sob, wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, and looked up at him. “I still don’t see why you care.”

  Ranat could only shrug again. “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’s still early, this bottle’s almost full. I’m not going anywhere yet. Back to my place?”

  Gessa shook her head, pulled away from him a little. “No. Too messy. Let’s go to mine.”

  The man who’d requisitioned the keg wagon’s name was Alonus N’tasal, at least according to the paperwork the bar woman at The Crow’s Marquis had shown him. Whatever position N’tasal held in the Church wasn’t written on the form. Ranat hoped a name would be enough.

  He felt so close. So close to redemption, yet so far. He just needed to connect the seal on the dead Hierophant’s letter with that name, and he could prove it was N’tasal who murdered Trier N’navum, or at least by someone who worked for him.

  The problem was, he’d been in The Library since the doors had opened to the public that morning, and he couldn’t find the name Alonus N’tasal anywhere. He’d started with the upper vaults and worked his way down to the middling levels, but he wasn’t listed in any of the indexes.

  Somewhere outside The Library of Heaven and the fog that smothered it, the sun was sinking into the ocean, and Ranat was running out of time.

  It didn’t matter. He’d made his way to the bottom floor—sixteen vaults he’d checked, so far. Two massive rooms remained. The Heaven of Stone hoarded those who could only pay the bare minimum in Salvation Taxes, and those who’d been able to afford more, but were chronically late in their payments. The one across from it, the second-lowest of the Eighteen Heavens, the Heaven of Wood, held minor officials and the temple children who’d been plucked off the street, and the poor who’d shown exemplary service to the Church, or at least scraped together enough over the years to afford a higher level than Stone. Below lay the Void—the tomb that held the names of petty criminals and those who’d never paid. Where Ranat’s name had been until his conviction, but no church officials would be down there.

  And whoever N’tasal had been, he’d neither been poor nor a minor official, either. Maybe he’d used a pseudonym on the form. Ranat supposed that would’ve been the smart thing to do.

  He needed to stand in line just to see the index of the Heaven of Wood, which itself was seven volumes of tiny printed names. He grimaced. No doubt half of them began with the letter N.

  The half-hour warning chime echoed through the Vault of Wood at the same moment Ranat found the name in the enormous book. The page had not yet been reprinted, and N’tasal’s name had been squeezed into the margin, the ink darker and newer than faded names around it.

  Ranat hurried to the section of the vault where N’tasal had been entered. The windows here were clear glass, but otherwise undercoated, the stark marble walls painted grey by the deepening light outside. The shelves were polished, unadorned wood.

  He found the book on the second shelf up and tugged it off. The name N’tasal was easy to find. All the other names were simply listed, but N’tasal’s was stamped with his crest—a buck standing under a leafless tree, over which hung a crescent moon, and denoted with a footnote. N’tasal had been cast from Flowers to Wood after a “restructuring by a Hierophant due to unbecoming behavior.”

  Ranat wondered what restructuring entailed. He couldn’t fathom a guess, but it didn’t sound good, and it had resulted in N’tasal plunging fourteen levels of Heaven.

  The final bell rang. Ranat closed the book and slid it back on the shelf before shuffling out the high doors of The Library with the other common citizens, cradling the pouch with the wax fragments under his coat.

  His mind raced. N’tasal arranged the meeting with Trier N’navum and requisitioned the wagon that had dumped the Hierophant’s body, which still had the bloodstains to prove it. N’tasal’s afterlife had also plummeted from the third Heaven to the seventeenth through the actions of an unnamed Hierophant, of which there were only five. As far as Ranat knew, only one had been in Fom.

  It seemed so obvious, he wanted to burst into tears, but he didn’t know if it would be enough for a nobody like Ranat to convince someone in the Church.

  Chapter Ten

  He’d heard of an old law as a child, which said if one’s accuser was a member of the Church hierarchy, one could demand to face them. Peasants and foreigners had no such added responsibility, but it was only right that the clergy was held to a higher standard.

  He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. Vineyard talk. Indentured servants discussing all the ways that their lives were better than their masters because at least peasants didn’t need to bear the weight of responsibility. Ranat had always seen it as accepting their lot.

  He also didn’t know whether it was a real law or just a rumor based on a misunderstood, half-overheard one that really existed. Chatter that had spread like fire through the servant’s dorms because some peasant wanted to sound like he knew what he was talking about. He’d always assumed most of what he’d learned as a child from the other indentured servants was the latter.

  Well, he was about to find out.

  He’d thought about going to say goodbye to Gessa one last time, but decided against it. He’d had enough of last times and final goodbyes. Anyway, he had a feeling it would just make it harder on her. Harder on them both.

  He started toward the local constabulary to turn himself in but decided against that, too. It would be too easy for them to shuffle him off and forget about him, and the old oiled satchel of papers and wax fragments he clutched with both hands.

  It drizzled as he hiked up the winding road that led to the top of Cathedral Hill. The Library wasn’t open to the masses today, so foot traffic was light. A few of the Grace’s Guard marched to and from their posts, and a steady, unhurried stream of carriages trundled, windows blocked by curtains, camels dripping rain in rivulets from their matted hair. The guards eyed Ranat when they noticed him, but nothing more.

  Wise Hall clawed itself into the sky with long thin arms of white marble minarets. Beneath those, bronze domes bubbled, held aloft by polished pillars of veined marble and granite.

  Ranat hesitated ten paces in front of the ancient, worn stairs. The doors were molded from iron, thirty-hands tall and gaping open, ready to swallow him. Grace’s Guard stood to either side, watching, fondling the handles of their long, curved, ceramic knives.

  He approached the doors and stopped in front of the two guards.

  They continued to watch, but said nothing.

  Ranat cleared his throat. He’d made a conscious decision to leave his last bottle of rum at home; it had been mostly empty, anyway. Now, though, his throat was dry, and he wished he’d brought it. Now that he was here, it didn’t seem like having a bottle with him would make much of a difference.

  “I am,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “convicted of murdering the Hierophant, Trier N’navum.”

  It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, both
guards’ eyes grew wide. The one on the right reached out and grabbed Ranat by the arm as if the old man might decide to turn and run away. Ranat didn’t resist.

  “He’s due for the Pit,” the one that had grabbed him said.

  “What, you’re just going to leave your post and haul him there yourself?”

  “Well, no. Alright, then.” He turned to his companion. “You wait here with him while I report this.”

  The other frowned. “You wait here.”

  Four more guards approached from the other side of the complex, where they’d been walking when they saw something transpiring in front of the Hall.

  “Sir,” the first guard said to the leader of the newcomers, a dour middle-aged woman who wore an eight-pointed sun emblem in the collar of her white coat. “We caught the Hierophant’s murderer, sir.”

  The officer was thin and tired-looking. Her hood was down, her thin black hair streaked with grey and flattened with rain. Her narrow, blunt nose dripped. “Caught? Looks like he’s turned himself in.” She eyed Ranat, suspicious.

  “Well, regardless, we have him here. Request a replacement so I can deliver him to the Pit personally, sir.”

  “I demand to face my accuser,” Ranat said, quiet but firm.

  “What?” The officer turned back to Ranat.

  The first guard, still clinging to Ranat’s arm, barked a cruel laugh. “Demand? You murdering piece of …” He trailed off under the glower of his officer.

  “I demand to face my accuser,” Ranat said again, louder. “As is my right, if my accuser is a member of the Hierarchy.”

  The guard gripped his arm tighter and shook him. “What? You think you’re a lawyer? You—”

  “No,” the officer interrupted. “It doesn’t matter who he thinks he is. He’s right.”

  “But sir, no one ever actually—”

  “Just because no one ever claims the Right of the Accused doesn’t mean that the right doesn’t exist.”

  “Um. Yes, sir.” The guard seemed to conclude he wasn’t in a winning position.

  Learn to pick your battles, Ranat wanted to tell him, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “Take this man to one of the interview rooms beneath the Hall. Feed him if he’s hungry. I’ll go see if I can find out who lay the charges. If it’s not one of the Hierarchy, you can take him to the Pit.”

  “Yes, sir. Um. Does that mean someone is filling my post?”

  She grunted and gestured to one of the waiting squad. “Ovin, take this man’s position until he returns.”

  A surge of fear gripped Ranat when he’d heard the words “interview room” and “under the palace” in the same sentence, but no torture devices awaited him. Just a smallish, rectangular room with high windows barred with iron, a narrow table and ten chairs with thin cushions around it—four on either side and one on each end. The floor was simple white tile, the walls polished granite, unadorned except for the hooded glow lamps that hung in each corner.

  They brought him food: black bread, oily broth, and a little shapeless lump of pale, flavorless cheese. He asked for something to drink, but they only brought water.

  They left him alone, but he knew the door was locked, and there’d be at least one guard outside. Probably two.

  After what felt like a long time, the door clacked open. Ranat stood, heart pumping, but it was a different woman who walked in, with two armed men in tow. She might have been as old as him, but aged with infinite more grace. Her face was still smooth, her auburn hair salted with silver, hanging in waves just past her shoulders. She wore robes of red and white that whispered as they brushed the floor: a magistrate’s robes.

  He hesitated. “N’tasal?”

  The woman smiled and arched her eyebrows as she took a seat at the end of the table. The guards stood behind her, eyes trained on Ranat, who’d settled into the chair at the opposite end.

  “No.” Her voice was deeper than Ranat had expected. “But I find it interesting that you know the name of the man who first brought the charge of murder against you.”

  He shrugged at her. She looked amused at the impropriety but waited for him to speak.

  “I know my right. I want to see my accuser.”

  She smiled. “And I want to know how a beggar from the Lip, who’s never paid his Salvation Taxes, came to know so much about obscure Church law. But we often don’t get what we want, do we? Regardless,” she continued, interrupting Ranat, who was about to object, “You will be granted your right. In time. It may, however, help your cause if we know the reason for your demand.”

  “Are you the Grace?” Ranat changed the subject suddenly.

  The woman’s laughter was genuine. A feminine rumble filled the room. “No, that I am not. Just a magistrate, here to observe the unfolding of Heaven’s Laws.”

  Ranat nodded. “If my accuser is Alonus N’tasal, then that’s one more piece of evidence that he’s the murderer. Or, at least, the orchestrator of the murder. I doubt he was the one that did the stabbing.”

  “One more piece of evidence? So you say there’s more? Because, I must say, though I hold no love for N’tasal, whom I know, your first piece of evidence is quite circumstantial.”

  Ranat reached into the satchel and pulled out the letter and shards of wax. “I found this on the Hierophant. There’s enough left of the seal that you can tell it’s N’tasal’s. I didn’t kill him. I just …” He trailed off.

  The magistrate arched an eyebrow. “Just looted the body?” She picked up the letter.

  As she read, Ranat continued. “At the club mentioned in that letter—The Crow’s Marquis—N’tasal signed a requisition so his goons could take their keg wagon to dump the body near the Lip. Send someone to check—the bloodstains in the back of the wagon and the paperwork are still there.”

  The woman had moved on from the letter to examine the fragments of wax and peered up. “Is that so?”

  Ranat felt triumph build. “It is. He signed the requisition himself. All the dates line up. Seems like N’tasal wasn’t getting along with his boss.”

  At that moment, the door burst open and another man, grunting under his breath, marched into the room. He was portly and mostly bald. His shaved jowls glistened with rain. Behind him were the two men who’d first arrested Ranat what seemed like ages ago and, behind them, outside the doorway, was the officer who’d directed the guards to bring Ranat to the interview room.

  “What the hell is this?” the new man spat, still hovering in the doorway as if he assumed this wouldn’t take long enough to bother sitting down. “Who the hell is this vagabond?” he gestured toward Ranat with his head.

  A mix of recognition and worry twisted the faces of the two men behind him.

  “This is the man you’ve accused of murdering Hierophant Trier N’navum, Alonus. He’s brought up some interesting points.”

  “Magistrate Vaylis,” N’tasal turned to the woman as if noticing her for the first time. “Why are you even talking to this murderer? He’s already been convicted. Throw him in the Pit so I can get back to work. My ship leaves tomorrow. I don’t have time for this.” He half-turned to go.

  “He has invoked the Right of the Accused.”

  N’tasal scoffed. “But he’s already been convicted!”

  “You know as well as I do, under the Right, that doesn’t matter.”

  “Fine. Here I am.” He took a step into the room and wheeled on Ranat, face and ears turning red. “You want to see your accuser? Here I am.” He thrust a pudgy finger at Ranat and turned back to the magistrate. “There. Guilty.”

  “I would guess,” Ranat said, shocking himself with the calm of his voice, “That those two men there—” he pointed at the two bodyguards standing behind N’tasal—“would be identified by the bar staff at The Crow’s Marquis as the same two who requisitioned the keg wagon the night they murdered the Hierophant.” He paused, looking to the magistrate. “If you were to ask, that is.”

  “What?” N’tasal’s head was as red as R
anat’s nose.

  “What, indeed, Alonus,” the magistrate said, her voice calm. “What do you see here on the table in front of me?”

  “What are you …” N’tasal’s voice trailed away as, for the first time, he took in the objects on the table. His bodyguards shifted behind him.

  The fat Churchman pounded the table, eyes wild. His expression contorted as he looked first to Ranat, then to the magistrate. “This is a joke! This isn’t evidence. None of it! This,” he picked up the letter and waved it over the table. A few more bits of wax flew from it, making tiny sounds as they rained onto the tile floor. “Means nothing! All of it is meaningless. You can’t take this peasant’s word over mine! He’s already been convicted! This—all of it is meaningless.” He trailed off again, wheezing.

  “I think,” she observed, “by the way you’re repeating yourself, you believe anything but.” She gestured toward the hallway, where the officer from the front of the Palace still hovered. “Excuse me, sir. I don’t know your name.”

  “Mallin, Magistrate.” The woman gave a little bow. “Captain Mallin.”

  “Captain, please have your men arrest these three. Hold them in the cells until a trial can be set.”

  “Yes, Magistrate.”

  N’tasal’s two guards had broken to flee with the magistrate’s words, but judging from the scuffling sounds in the hallway, hadn’t made it far. N’tasal himself still stood in the same spot, sputtering indignation.

  Magistrate Vaylis turned to him again and sighed. “Oh, Alonus. It seems the Heaven of Wood was not yet low enough for you.”

  With that, Captain Mallin took him away.

  The magistrate turned back to Ranat, who’d sat watching the spectacle unfold with no small amount of amusement.

  “There is still the matter of your conviction.” Her eyes were sad.

  Ranat nodded. A lump formed in his throat, and his mirth fled.

  “You seem to know enough of Church law to make you a noble man indeed for returning here with the truth.”

  He shrugged and clasped his suddenly shaking hands in front of him.