by Ulff Lehmann
In Haldain, her home, watching the bloodied swords that had cut down her parents, she had learned the worth of true justice. Those who had killed her family had been pardoned, for political reasons, to forge alliances, to further trade. Justiciar Ralchanh, she had later learned, had been forced to rule such compromises. Now here, there certainly was need to bolster the warbands, for come spring Chanastardh would return. Did necessity overrule common sense? She thought not, and although he made a show of passing this judgment, she knew neither did Coimharrin. Yes, he had sanctioned the ruling spoken by Cat’s son, Drangar Ralgon, and it had some merit—without it there surely would have been fewer healers available, and the casualties would have increased—but pardoning every criminal because there was a need for bodies to toss against an enemy seemed insane. Who knew whether this crook would do worse in the future? Aside from a few the gods truly had chosen, who knew their will? Rhea would have liked to claim she was one of them, maybe her sense of justice, the gift of Lliania, was such a mark, or maybe she had it all wrong and Coimharrin was the one who heard the goddess clearly. She didn’t know.
Ahead her fellow priest ended this day’s court by waving his hand in a shooing motion. She caught his eye right before he turned his back to the petitioners. He whispered something to Morwyn who nodded, and then left. Rhea decided to wait, passing judgment was tiring business, and she knew firsthand how important a few moments of peace and quiet were afterwards.
The last culprit, Tannan, passed her, smirking. To her it was obvious that this man had neither learned his lesson nor intended to follow Coimharrin’s ruling. Had her fellow Upholder actually bothered to detect the man’s honesty? If he did and had not followed up on this, he truly was just dancing to Duasonh’s tune. If the pardoned folks were willing to fight, she saw no harm in the verdict; these people would do their best. Yet she felt Tannan did not belong to those who honored a judge’s words.
The decision to interfere came quickly, and before Tannan had passed the door, she stepped up to him, took him by the arm and held him back. “A word with you,” she said, making sure he knew this was not an invitation to polite small talk.
“What do you want?” The looter sounded more annoyed than worried. Why shouldn’t he? After all he had been freed.
“Tell me,” Rhea said, “will you stand fast on the wall when the Chanastardhians return?”
He must have detected her authority, because he stiffened and looked about nervously. Rhea waited, silently reciting the Prayer of Truths, asking Lliania to grant her the power to tell sincerity from lie. Thankfully Tannan remained silent a moment longer, staring at her dumbfounded. Then, as she felt the goddess’s gentle touch, the image of a black and white painted scale manifesting itself in her mind’s eye, Tannan answered. “Sure. The bastards will fall before my sword,” he said with bravado. Had Lliania not touched her, she would have believed him. But the Prayer of Truths unerringly showed the difference between word and thought. It couldn’t tell more than the subjective validity of a statement, but with a blatant lie, such as this one, the outcome was definite. Her mind’s scale moved, the black-enameled bowl swung downward, and Rhea knew this man spoke false. “Left or right?” she asked, looking the man straight in the eye.
“What?” he said, panic in his eyes.
“Choose, left or right!” she repeated.
“I… err… I am innocent!” The bowl stayed down, yet another lie revealed. The bastard knew what he did was wrong and still continued.
“Fine, both then. Live off the scraps people toss you,” she said calmly, determinedly.
Morwyn must have watched the exchange, because she now hurried over, her feet pattering on the stone floor. “The city needs warriors,” she said.
“The city needs people who are willing to fight,” Rhea retorted. “This one here will not keep his word.” Years of combat, either practice or actual battle, had honed her reflexes, her muscles were as corded as those of Briog or Fynbar, and all it took was a jerked hand to bring the now struggling Tannan to the floor. “You are judged and sentenced by me, Upholder Rheanna. With the authority imparted on me by Lady Justice I pronounce you guilty. Since you neither speak the truth about the deed and a possible, unharmed future, nor refuse to choose which hand, you will lose both,” she said, summoning her most official voice. Another tug, her right leg stopping Tannan’s own step back, and the criminal was on the floor. “Put your arms on the bench!” She kicked him in the flank, waited, and when he didn’t comply repeated the process.
Finally, he relented, put his arms on the stone, his hands dangling freely in the air. “Move and you die,” Rhea warned as she drew her sword. Morwyn surprised her when she put her booted foot into Tannan’s lower back, keeping the thief down. She had never seen Coimharrin’s daughter participate in any judging, but should have known better. Of course, Morwyn knew the rules. Rhea nodded her thanks, and then, with practiced ease, swung the blade down, cutting off the man’s hands. Immediately the weapon clattered to the floor and she was down on her knees, tying off the wrists so Tannan of Ondalan would not bleed to death.
Morwyn surprised her again when she said, “I’ll fetch water and a rag; nails are by the door, if you want to display his hands.” Traditionally a criminal’s hand was exhibited on the market square, but since Dunthiochagh had more than one, most hands were nailed on Old Bridge’s central flagpole, a wooden beam whose lower section was usually covered by the booths lining the crossing.
Rhea hardly heard the thief’s wails, the battle’s noise too fresh still in her mind to notice. She tightened the thongs that stemmed the blood flow, and considered. “I’ll do it later, first I need to…”
The door behind them banged open. “What the Scales are you doing?” Coimharrin roared.
“Tannan of Ondalan, you are free to go,” she said.
Morwyn took her boot off the man’s rear and bent to help him up. He struggled to his feet, still crying in pain. “Go to the temple,” she said, leading the whimpering man out.
Only when the criminal had left did Rhea turn to look at the aging Upholder. She waited until the door was firmly shut and Morwyn on her way to fetch water and rags, then said, “I could ask you the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” Coimharrin looked tired, but the state of one’s mind was, in her eyes, no excuse for not paying attention to a culprit’s statements.
“You did not invoke the Prayer of Truth to see if this man would actually fight.” When her colleague remained silent, she went on, “Politics are not our business; justice is! And even if Dunthiochagh’s ranks are depleted, Lliania knows how many people you let go because of Baron Duasonh’s need for warriors. This man wasn’t going to join, and had you asked for insight into his words you would have seen it.” She took a deep breath, waiting for him to reply. Then, when he stayed still, she said, “I don’t think Cumaill would appreciate you letting people go without checking the validity of their word.”
“This is my court,” he said feebly.
“And I have no right to interfere, aye, normally that would hold true. But first and foremost, this is Lliania’s Court, and we her instruments.” She relented, seeing his weariness. “Listen, if you want me to step in for a while so you can get some rest, say the word.”
For a moment it seemed as if Coimharrin would weep, then he pulled himself together and nodded. “That’d be nice; all this shit is getting to me. Little sleep because of settlements that were demanded in the middle of the night. One would think the buggers have no sense at all.”
Maybe they hadn’t, Rhea thought, but didn’t voice her opinion. “Well, then. I’ll start tomorrow.”
“You didn’t come here to chop off people’s hands though, did you?” the old Upholder said when they had settled on a bench in the kitchen.
Rhea shook her head. “No, I need to ask you something.”
“Advice from a geezer like me?” Coimharrin chuckled. “After you’ve shown me what it means to be a judge?”
She couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. He was her senior by a few decades, had also been her mentor ever since she had fled Haldain. Now she was the one putting his head straight. The reversal of roles made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he had lost his touch, not really, she reminded herself. No, it was that she had gained more insight. Maybe, had she been as tired as he, she would have made the same mistakes. Weariness did strange things to people, made them commit adultery, or gamble on when all reason told one to stop. She had felt the same when Gail had been brought into the stinking tanner’s shop. She had wanted her to live, but now, with decent sleep having refreshed her mind, she knew the Caretaker’s decision had been sensible. “Justice takes no sides,” she said, unsure, at the moment, whether she meant Coimharrin or the world in general.
“True enough,” he replied. “Now tell that to the Kings and Lords. But I reckon you didn’t come here to discuss the Lady’s dogma.” So at least he agreed, which, she thought, was good enough. “Come, child, let’s talk.”
To call Coimharrin’s kitchen comfortable was stretching the word. Rhea had rarely seen a place more raw than this. It served its purpose, although, she considered, there may have been something to living under such bare conditions. The room’s only homely area was in front of the hearth and its adjoining cupboards, Morwyn’s domain. Yet the Upholder’s daughter appeared to be remiss in her duties, for the clutter of pots and bowls spread across table was so high she could barely see the aged wood.
“So, what brings you here?”
While Coimharrin unceremoniously pushed away some of the leftovers, dumping a few wooden bowls and mugs off the other side, Rhea spoke. “Have you ever seen a spirit?”
The Upholder stopped in mid-push and regarded her. “Sober you mean, eh?” She nodded. He shook his head. “No, never, and I’m grateful for that. Spirits are nasty business. Buggers always want you to avenge them or protect something.” He discovered an apple amidst the clutter and broke it in two, offering her one part. “So, you weren’t drunk and truly saw a spirit, hmm?”
“Aye, two nights ago, in the fog.” She nibbled the apple, found it was still good, and ate in earnest.
Coimharrin seemed more interested in the fruit’s uneven structure, for he studied it intensely. Finally, he said, “Why come to me with this? Isn’t that something Deathmasks could more easily explain?”
“Already spoke to one. Didn’t yield any new insight, and for more answers I would have had to summon a soul and ask questions. Too high a price attached to that,” she said. “I like my memories just fine.”
A sagely bob of the head, and then a bite from the apple. He was ever the showman, even around her. “Too true, besides they are creepy, at times. Although, I had a nice little chat with one a week ago or so,” he mumbled, chewing. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. He was a good Chiath player.” He swallowed. “So, what did this spirit want?”
“You’re not gonna ask who it was?”
“Gods, your face! Priceless,” he chuckled, biting into the apple again. “All right, who was it?”
“Cat Ralchanh.”
Coimharrin stopped chewing, all mirth gone from his face. “You sure?”
“Aye, I barely remember her, but her father’s features were etched into its face.”
“Much like this Drangar fellow?”
She nodded.
“So, what did Cat want from you?”
“She wanted me to protect him.”
“Ralgon?”
“Yes, but she didn’t say from whom or what.”
“The buggers never do, least that’s what I’ve been told. Cryptic messages and all that nonsense. Maybe I should ask my Deathmask acquaintance about that.” Scratching his beard, Coimharrin regarded her. Not many liked the old man’s scrutiny and Rhea was no exception. But there was something in his look that indicated he was thinking, rather than reading her.
At times like this, she knew, it was best to leave him to his musings, and instead of wasting time staring at the pile of dirty pots and bowls, Rhea got up and began clearing the table in earnest. Most of her life she had done just that, busying herself, the indulgent past long forgotten. Just how many bowls and pots did he own, she wondered when she discovered the sink filled with even older pots. With a groan she set about clearing this mess first, and for the first time in many years did she hear her prissy aunt’s scolding voice echo through her mind. A princess was not supposed to do such menial tasks. That may have been true in her father’s palace. Here, in a world where no one gave a damn about her noble blood, things like this were normal. And necessary, she thought glumly, withdrawing a pot so moldy it almost seemed alive.
“All of this,” Coimharrin said a while later, “is somehow related to this Drangar chap having been used as someone else’s puppet. He killed his wife-to-be, you know.”
“So, what shall I do?” she asked, scraping the last of the pans clean.
“Unless you want Cat’s restless spirit haunting you for the rest of your life, I see no other option than to do what she asks of you.”
“Why me?”
“Dunno. Maybe because I am too old to be of use to anyone when it comes to fighting.”
“Think there will be fighting?”
Coimharrin cackled. “Silly girl, you heard what happened at the Cahill’s, didn’t you?”
She had, and nodded to the wall she was still facing.
“Then trust me, there will be violence involved. Also, he swore to get to the bottom of his lover’s death, and with his reputation, when he does it will not be nice and clean.” Somewhere underneath all the dirty kitchenware had been a bowl with apples untouched by mold. Another crack sounded from behind her. “Apple?”
“No thank you,” Rhea said mechanically. The old man apparently enjoyed teasing her with the overripe fruit. And she would get no answer from him about why Cat Ralchanh wanted her to help her son. Maybe his long silence had been to goad her into cleaning. She didn’t mind, part of her still thinking she had to make up for the years of bossing servants about when she was just a child.
The kitchen door opened and Morwyn announced herself with a shout of surprise. “You didn’t have to do all that,” she exclaimed, embarrassment plain in her voice.
“I needed to pass the time,” Rhea said.
“Father keeps me busy with errands. I’m sorry.”
Finally, the pan was clean. Her turn around was accompanied with a sigh of relief, and the stretching of cramped muscles. She needed a massage. “Don’t apologize,” Rhea said, looking sternly at Coimharrin. The Upholder seemed utterly unconcerned with the situation.
A little while later, he looked up, his face devoid of any hint of shame. “What?”
“Nothing, father,” Morwyn intervened, throwing her a look that quelled any sarcastic remark. And Rhea really felt like setting the old man straight. “Lord Cahill’s returned,” Morwyn added. The time as Coimharrin’s daughter must have taught her well how to avert conflict due to her father’s eccentricity.
It worked, Rhea noted, because this news meant she was able to speak to someone who was closer to Drangar Ralgon. Kildanor had spent far more time with Cat’s son than anyone else, and maybe he would be able to shed some light on the spirit’s request. Nerran, had he not been so drunk, would have laughed at her, saying that hope was usually misplaced if not downright silly. Coming from a man who had dedicated his life to restoring Lesganagh’s faith in the aftermath of the Dawnslaughter, such a comment could safely be ignored.
CHAPTER 27
Cherkont Street hadn’t changed. Even under the cover of snow Drangar recognized the houses. He remembered who had occupied the buildings lining the street; whether his neighbors still lived he didn’t know. Hiljarr surprised him. The stallion flicked his ears, whinnying softly. Obviously, the horse recalled as well.
Gwen gave a reassuring nod when he glanced her way. She was right. He had to take this last step if he wanted to make peace with the past, put He
smera’s death behind. The closer they got, the more nervous he grew. What if someone other than Jasseira lived there now? How could he explain to a stranger they occupied his property? It was his house; that much the city records had proven. What the files did not show was who was paying the taxes. Rob had provided the information weeks ago, but until now Drangar had stalled his return here.
Again, he looked at Gwen. In gloom of the night, with few guttering torches placed haphazardly along the street, she looked serene, an anchor of calm. How was it she was so blessed with insight at such a young age? He was reluctant to pry, afraid she might shun him, scorn him for meddling in things that were not his business. Not that he regretted telling her about Hesmera, or what troubled him. She had listened, passed no judgment. And she had encouraged him to return to where his torment had begun. She had fanned the spark that had lain dormant for so long.
Suddenly Hiljarr stopped. Drangar looked about and saw they had arrived. He would have passed the house if not for the horse, and he scolded himself for being so absorbed in his thoughts that it had taken the charger to remind him where he had lived. “Smart horse,” Gwen commented with a smile. He hoped she didn’t mind his silence. “Want me to come along?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. Did he want her to join him? No, not want. He needed her with him. The thought felt both strange and right, and he wondered if it was really his heart that needed her, or if he was just this insecure. Someone had taken good care of the place, he noted. The roof sported new thatch, and even the shutters wore a fresh coat of paint. Her hand was on his arm, squeezing gently. He looked at her, and worried once more he might harm her as well. Ondalan had revealed what happened when he lost control. Even now he felt the Fiend lurking, laughing in the back of his mind. “I won’t let harm come to you,” he muttered, realizing too late that he had spoken out loud.
