by Roger Taylor
As they reached the end of the Hall, Helsarn and his Guards moved to each side to form a line between the people and a dais on which was mounted a wide judicial bench. It had two levels. Behind the lower, standing motionless, was a group of people whose dark robes identified them to Jeyan as scribes and clerks. Like many officers of the Gevethen's regime, they looked little different from those who had served the Count. Indeed, many of them were those who had once served Ibryen, their new leaders keenly appreciating that there is no better device for the working of human cruelty than the belief that service to another or to an institution in some way absolves individuals from personal responsibility for their actions. But Jeyan noted these clean-handed toilers in the Gevethen's charnel-house only in passing, as her attention was drawn inexorably to the bench itself. Unlike the clerks, this was markedly different from the one that had served the Count. That had been simple, elegant and workmanlike in its design; a symbol of the clarity and honesty that the Count strove for as he dispensed Nesdiryn's law. The bench now facing Jeyan however, was a tangled mass of intricate carving; elaborately woven branches, full of barbed thorns and sinister blooms, formed recesses and shadows from which sharp-featured faces peered and tiny mirrors glittered like predatory night-eyes. The whole was obsessively symmetrical, patterns unfolding within patterns and all seeming to grow from a golden escutcheon at the centre which, like Jeyan's cloak, bore the symbol of a single silver star. Unlike Jeyan's cloak however, the star was surrounded by two sections of a ring, broken in the same manner as those which hung about the Gevethen's necks. The bench was obviously the work of a considerable craftsman—a considerable, but tormented craftsman.
Jeyan hesitated as the Guards parted, but she was allowed no uncertainty about where she was to go as the servants manoeuvred her up on to the dais and thence to a chair behind the bench. Even when she sat down, the servants remained close to her, two of them flanking her, standing slightly behind. The chair was the centre of three and a partner to the bench, its straight, carved spine unwelcoming as she leaned back against it. Someone had placed a deep cushion on the seat. Presumably to allow for the difference in height between herself and Hagen, she decided, but the impromptu character of the adjustment heartened her a little—it was a peculiar flaw in the fearful perfection that surrounded the Gevethen, the perfection that had made the copy of Hagen's uniform for her, that had turned servants almost into automata, that had turned the mirror-bearers into who could say what ... and that reflected itself perhaps above all, in their meticulous, disturbingly symmetrical movements. She squeezed the cushion as if it might give her some kind of reassurance as she stared out at the moonlit rows of watching faces. It did not, though she valued the effort if only because it smacked of secret personal independence. Such small benefits as accrued from this rebellion however, were set at naught by the intensity of the focus she could feel boring through her.
Let me faint, she thought. Let me sink into darkness and wake up somewhere far from this. The thought had a pathetic, childlike quality to it such as she had not experienced in many years, and it brought a snarling scorn in its train. Let them stare. Cravens! Lickspittles! Sustaining this grotesque pair with their fawning cowardice. Her long hatred flared up suddenly, almost snatching her breath away. The Gevethen had murdered her parents and many of her friends and, whatever game they were playing with her, she would play it too, until eventually some further flaw in the seeming perfection of their rule would give her that one opportunity that would bring her revenge. She was not aware of any of this showing on her face, but the atmosphere in the hall changed perceptibly.
Her gaze drifted from the watchers to the bench in front of her. Save for a part of the top which was smooth and level and on which various papers were laid, the rest of the bench was a continuation of the elaborate carving that formed the front. It was as though the entire bench was a world of its own, a solid mass of labyrinthine weavings housing a myriad strange populations, all darkness and hidden movement. It added to her unease.
She had little time to ponder about the desk however, as a fluttering disturbance caught her eye. She did not need to look to know that it was the mirror-bearers presaging the entrance of their masters.
No drums to herald them, no guards to protect them, she thought. Fear announced them and the enigmatic mirror-bearers shielded them. There was a rustling from the assembled people as they slipped from their seats to kneel. The clerks below her bowed also. Presuming that she was expected to do the same, Jeyan made to move from her chair. However, though the servants on either side of her scarcely seemed to move, purposeful hands took her elbow and motioned her to stand. She had already felt the intent in such hands too often to dispute with them though she was half-expecting a further hand to push her head down into a respectful bow. None came however, and in its absence, she kept her gaze on the approaching group.
It was the first time she had looked at the Gevethen clearly from a distance, but it gave her no insight. The mirror-bearers moved about them with a precision and deftness that was chillingly unnatural. And even though she was aware of what she was looking at, it became difficult for her to differentiate the two principals from the images that hovered about them. Now a throng, now ordered rank and file, now a twisting line of pilgrims vanishing into an infinite distance...
The movement and constantly changing perspectives made her feel dizzy. Focus on them, she demanded fiercely of herself. On them. Everything else is transient. Whatever purpose this endless reproducing of themselves served, whatever need it fulfilled, she could not begin to imagine, save that it was diseased, but any killing stroke she had to deliver eventually would have to be to the heart, and that is all she must see. Nothing must distract her.
Then, glowing inside her, came the revelation that she need only destroy the one to unbalance the other beyond recovery.
Only the one!
The Gevethen had reached the end of the aisle and were directly in front of her. A long row of dead, watery eyes stared up at her. No prompting came from the servants and she did not move. Instead, she looked at one of the two figures at the centre of the row.
Imbalance. The word came in the wake of her revelation. What it implied she could not hazard, but it was important, she knew.
Then, alarmingly, the two figures were moving apart, walking towards steps on either side of the dais. Though it was only a few paces, she sensed a tension growing as they moved further away from one another. As if to calm it, the mirror-bearers glided to and fro so that the diverging figures became merely the vanguard of two striding columns emerging from a busy cluster of their own kind at the centre, immediately before their Lord Counsellor.
Despite her new resolve Jeyan found herself still staring at this oddly shifting crowd when it abruptly disappeared, and the two Gevethen were at the chairs on either side of her. Hands took Jeyan's elbows again and eased her down on to her seat. Only when she was sitting did the Gevethen sit, and only then did the audience rise from its knees. Though she did not look, she was aware of mirror-bearers seeping into the edge of her vision, as they began to hover at the ends of the bench. Others she could just hear moving behind her. Then merely by turning her eyes she saw more of them at the ends of the bench. What ghastly display was she part of for the benefit of this audience? she wondered.
Without any hint of an introduction, the Gevethen suddenly began speaking. Their harsh, simultaneous tones rasped across the Hall.
'The Lord Counsellor Hagen has been translated from this place. It was his time. He has been taken so that he might better serve He who is to come. No greater honour can be granted. Yet too, he serves us as faithfully and diligently as ever, for his spirit remains with us still, in the body of his successor, Lord Counsellor Jeyan Dyalith.'
The power that had carried Jeyan from the dungeons now straightened her legs and slowly brought her to her feet. She reached forward and rested her hands on the bench to catch her balance. The force that had lifted her from her
seat took her arms also then held her solid and leaning slightly forward in a posture of silent menace. Although she was a little calmer now than she had been when she first encountered the Gevethen, the complete absence of control over her own limbs was nevertheless terrifying. She could not begin to imagine what ghastly power it was that these creatures possessed, that enabled them to manipulate her thus, but it was overwhelming. The thought of disputing with it did not even occur to her. The part of her mind that was still thinking coherently tried to tell her that it was just something else about the Gevethen she would need to study, quietly and carefully, but it was the merest whisper of rationality in the tumult of panic that was suddenly clamouring inside her and she barely heard it.
It seemed that only her eyes could move, and as they searched through the coldly lit assembly she became aware of a movement rippling through them. It was like a wind blowing across a field of tall, dark grasses. They were standing and bowing. When the wind had passed and there was stillness, Jeyan's head inclined forward a little as if in acknowledgement of this obeisance. Then she was seated again and released, and the dark grasses were swaying as the audience too, resumed their seats.
'The forms must be observed, Lord Counsellor,' came the voices from either side of her, soft and sibilant. 'Remember this well. Without them, all is disorder and chaos, and His way is the bringing of order, of perfection, in all things.'
The question, ‘Who is this person you serve?’ formed, and despite herself was almost spoken, but the voices turned from her and raked out across the Hall.
'Bring forward the first accused.'
There was a brief flurry of activity from the clerks just beneath her, then heavy rhythmic footsteps heralded the arrival of a solitary individual escorted by two Guards. He was barely capable of standing and his swollen face gave testimony to a severe beating. Blood was seeping through his torn shirt even as Jeyan looked at him.
One of the clerks intoned the man's name, to which, after a none too gentle prod from one of the Guards, he nodded. The clerk continued. ‘You are charged with fomenting disorder and with the preaching of rebellion against the will of the people and to the detriment of the peace, in that you did aid and abet the followers of the outlaw Ibryen.'
The man gazed at the clerk blankly.
'Serious charges,' the Gevethen said, their voices even more acid than normal. The sound seemed to bring the man to his senses. 'Who is Pleading Voice for this man?'
'I am, your Excellencies.'
It was another of the clerks. He stood up, turned to face the Gevethen and bowed. Jeyan noted that his robes were of a different style to those worn by the others and of a conspicuously better quality. Further, his voice indicated a superior education. Anger began to curl inside her. A lawyer of some kind, she surmised. Are you one of those on whom my father leaned for support only to be abandoned? she thought viciously, memories flooding back to her.
'Have you anything to say that will prove your innocence...?'
'... your innocence?'
The voices, addressed directly to the prisoner, brought Jeyan sharply back to the present.
Fear filled the man's face. He looked towards the lawyer who had stood up on his behalf but the man was apparently engrossed in some papers.
There being no help from this quarter, the man spoke for himself though with difficulty through his swollen mouth. ‘I've not done anything, Excellencies,’ he pleaded. ‘I've always supported you. I helped in the riots ... the liberation ... when the count ... the outlaw Ibryen ... was exposed and driven from the city.'
'How are you here, then?'
The man shot another glance at his Pleading Voice, again to no avail. ‘I don't know, your Excellencies. I was nowhere near the place where Lord Counsellor Hagen was ...’ he faltered, obviously searching desperately for the word that had been used. ‘... where he was translated. I kept the curfew that followed. I was sitting peacefully in my house when, for no reason, the Guards broke down my door and started smashing everything and beating me and my family.'
The Gevethen leaned forward.
'If this is so, then it may be that you have indeed been brought here unjustly. Order is our way, citizen. We cannot tolerate random and arbitrary behaviour by our servants ...'
'... our servants.'
Jeyan started and glanced quickly from one to the other. Their harsh tones were suddenly avuncular and concerned. The man became pathetically grateful. ‘Thank you, your Excellencies. Your justice is legendary. I knew you'd see that a mistake had been made when it was explained.'
A reassuring wave from the Gevethen silenced him and their voices became harsh again. 'Bring the Commander responsible for this man's arrest before us so that these accusations can be put to him.'
There was a short pause, then Commander Gidlon appeared from somewhere at the side of the Hall. He moved hurriedly to the side of the prisoner and bowed deeply to the Gevethen.
'You have the official account of this man's arrest, Commander?'
'I have, Excellencies.’ He held up a thick file of papers.
'Read it then. In full. Omit nothing. Serious allegations have been made against the men in your command and they must be answered ...'
'... be answered.'
Their voices bore down on Gidlon powerfully and he began to look decidedly uncomfortable. The prisoner however, was brightening at each word, looking from the Gevethen to Gidlon in growing triumph.
Jeyan, orphaned by the Gevethen and moulded by the Ennerhald, watched the man in disbelief. Surely he couldn't be taking this black charade at its face value? She did not know exactly what was happening, but she wanted to scream out to him, ‘Don't listen to them, they're taunting you! There's no justice here, only treachery and death! Spit in their faces!’ But she knew that if she moved, either the hands of the servants or the Gevethen's strange power would pinion her to the chair before she could utter a word. Yet, something else was restraining her. Then, from the darkness within her, where murder had hatched, it came. It was unexpected but not unfamiliar. It was a withering contempt. The man was a fool. He deserved whatever was going to happen to him. He'd been stupid enough to get himself arrested and he'd grovelled before the Gevethen and now he would see the measure of their gratitude. Watching him learn would be amusing.
Gidlon began to read. ‘The prisoner refused to open the door to your Guards, making it necessary for them to force an entry. He then assaulted them, injuring two before being overpowered. On searching this house, extensive evidence of his support for the outlaw Ibryen was found. Subsequent to his arrest, freed from the fear of his dangerous presence, witnesses have testified that on numerous occasions he has actively tried to persuade them to join him in plotting for the overthrowing of your Excellencies and the reinstatement of the outlaw Ibryen.'
His voice was brisk and formal and he stood smartly to attention when he had finished.
As Gidlon spoke, the prisoner's face registered first disbelief and then indignation. Still having difficulty in speaking, he spluttered. ‘Lies! All lies! That wasn't what happened. I never refused to open the door. I didn't even know they were in the street until they smashed the door in. And they set about me ... and my family ... without any provocation.’ He turned to Gidlon. ‘You lying ...’ He stopped himself and after a struggle to regain some composure, looked up in hopeful appeal to the Gevethen. ‘Your Excellencies. The officer is mistaken. Perhaps he's confused my name with someone else's. There was a great deal of confusion following Lord Counsellor Hagen's ... translation.'
'Indeed,' the Gevethen agreed with sympathetic nods. They motioned to one of the clerks. There was a brief exchange between the prisoner, the clerk and Gidlon followed by a comparing of documents, then the announcement, ‘There is no error, Excellencies. All the papers are in order. Commander Gidlon's report refers to this particular accused.'
The prisoner burst out, ‘Your Excellencies, you must believe me. This man is lying to protect himself. His men looted my
house, beat me and my wife and son. And you can ask anyone who's ever known me—my neighbours—my friends—I've never spoken against you, ever. You have no more loyal subject ...'
But the little game was over. Jeyan sensed the mirror-bearers moving behind her. The Gevethen were themselves again, and the man's words were frozen in his throat by whatever it was he was now looking up at.
'Be silent. You add to your offences by continuing to lie thus and by impugning the integrity of our officers.'
'We have already spoken to many of your friends and neighbours.'
'They have denounced you.'
'As a liar.'
'As a follower of the outlaw Ibryen.'
The prisoner's mouth dropped open as his gaze swung between the two Gevethen, then he turned to the lawyer. The Gevethen followed his lead.
'Pleading Voice, is anything to be said to mitigate the guilt of this man ...'
'... this man?'
'I'm guilty of nothing, Excellencies,’ the prisoner protested.
He was immediately the focus of the Gevethen's attention.
'You are perfect?'
'Without flaw?'
The questions were spat out, their vicious tone striking the man like a spear. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came. Not that the Gevethen were waiting for an answer.
'All are flawed, thus all are guilty. All that is to be determined here is the extent of your guilt.'
'That is the law.'
'Pleading Voice, what is to be said for this man?'
The lawyer slowly stood up and turned to the Gevethen. ‘Excellencies, the prisoner begs forgiveness and throws himself upon your mercy,’ he said portentously.
Jeyan suddenly found herself being addressed on either side by the Gevethen.
'Thus it is, Lord Counsellor.'
'Such are the imperfections that we have to deal with.'
'Flawed ...'
'... Flawed.'
Their tone was confiding, encouraging, and hung about with the pains that the responsibilities of office brought. It told her that she was one of them now—or soon could be. One of those who held the power. But there was a question there also.
