by Remi Michaud
He began to feel faint. Why did they have to keep this room so hot? The answer seemed obvious: to keep those standing at attention in the box as uncomfortable as possible. And why not? Everything else in the stuffy chamber seemed designed with that specific aim in mind, from the accusing eyes of the onlookers that glared holes into his back, to the sad, angry eyes of the paintings and of the panel that faced him judging him at the front, to the fact that he had no place to sit even when he was not called on to speak. Sweat flowed freely down his back and stained the armpits of his tabard. If the proceedings did not start soon, perhaps he would beg the court to let him go change into a less sodden uniform. Suddenly, the thought of wearing armor appealed to him. At least there would have been a steel buffer between his sweat and the uniform he had so carefully cleaned.
There was no more time for thought. In the center of the table, grizzled old General Thason, commander of the garrison at Threimes, commander of all Soldiers of God north of Merris Town, looked up with cold eyes and riveted Gaven to the spot.
“Corporal Gaven Slaynish,” he rasped quietly. None of the other members of the tribunal even bothered to look up.
He threw a precise salute. “Sir!”
“We have heard the charges against you. We have heard the evidence. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” He spoke his words precisely, clipping them just so in the way that the highly educated and the nobility did. He laced his fingers in front of him on the table and kept his gaze firmly fixed on the young soldier.
Gaven hesitated, thought for a moment, drew together everything he wanted to say. Then, with burgeoning horror, he realized he did not remember his speech. Dumbstruck, he worked his lips, tried to get some moisture into his mouth and he stared at the wall behind General Thason as if his speech would appear written on the gray stones.
“Well?” Thason barked. “Speak up, soldier.”
“Sir, I-” He searched frantically for the words, clawed desperately for something, anything, to say. He searched too long.
“Very well. On the charge of-”
It was his last chance. He had to speak. If he remained silent, he would hang before the week was out. His mind flitted like a butterfly.
And then, “Sir! I wish to speak!” he blurted.
Thason, annoyed by the foolish young corporal in front of him, impatiently waved a hand. “Then proceed, soldier. Make it quick.”
“Sir, I...if it please the court, I only wish to say that I'm sorry,” he said. Shamefully, he looked down to his toes. He could not meet the eyes of his superior officer. He could not face the coldness of Thason's face or the sad disappointment of his Grand Prelate. “I did not mean for any of this to happen.”
He was interrupted by a quiet snort from somewhere behind him. He imagined Higgens was having a grand time of it all.
“I-he...that is, Jurel—one of the prisoners seemed trustworthy. He proved that over the weeks we traveled. He didn't seem the base criminal we had thought. I began to think him innocent of the crimes leveled at him and I felt it was unjust to keep him chained.”
“And do you think that you, corporal, were ever in a position to judge a man's innocence or guilt?” Commander Galya, he thought her name was, spoke from her seat at the right end of the table. “Was it your duty to try this man for his crimes?”
“Enough commander,” Thason said. “It is the corporal's turn to speak. We will weigh what he says along with the rest of it after.”
“It was not my place. And because of my presumption, Soldiers died.”
He had to pause to swallow the lump of guilt that rose in his throat. This was the moment of truth. This was the moment that would seal his fate. He thought he might vomit, and that would just be perfect.
“I am guilty,” he whispered and gasps rose behind him, like a gust of autumn wind (as though it was somehow a surprise). “I am guilty of the crimes leveled at me and I have lived in torment since that day for my idiocy.”
He lifted his eyes and met General Thason's squarely.
“I am guilty and nothing you can do to me will be worse than what I feel in my heart already. Therefore, I throw myself on the court's mercy. Do with me what you will.”
And he realized he meant it. Jurel had gotten a lot of good men and women killed. But he, Gaven Slaynish, had facilitated it. At that moment, he did not care if he was sentenced to hang. At that moment, he just did not care.
For a moment, for the briefest of instants, he thought he saw a glimmer of respect in Thason's eyes. But it passed too quickly; his expression settled back to cold disapproval, and Gaven could not be sure that he saw anything after all. But he held those eyes. He would not look away. Not now.
Silence. The entire court was still as a tomb, and electrified with a palpable sense of anticipation. The moment stretched, pulled to the limits until Gaven thought even the merest breath would cause it to shatter like delicate crystal. It was General Thason who provided that breath and sure enough, the room seemed to crack, to splinter in Gaven's eyes as the old general broke the tension.
“Is that all?”
“Yes sir,” Gaven said and nodded, calmly, resolutely.
Returning the nod, Thason continued, “So be it. We have heard your defense. I invite any in this room to speak in Corporal Gaven's defense.”
Another gasp rose. This was not part of standard court proceedings. From the looks the other members of the tribunal shot their general, they were as shocked as Gaven. Either Gaven had managed to impress him with his forthright admission or he was bored and had nothing else to do that afternoon. He fought the urge to laugh.
“Sir,” a colonel whose name Gaven did not know, seated to Thason's right said, “why are we-?”
“Colonel Caf, this is my court. I will do as I see fit. Clear?”
“Yes sir,” the colonel said and turned a glare that was both hot and cold on Gaven. Well, certainly he would not vote in Gaven's favor. Moot point, he supposed, since he had already declared his guilt for all the world to hear.
No one spoke. That tore at Gaven, hurt in a way that he thought he had steeled himself against. He knew he was not the very best of the Soldiers but he thought he had made some friends. Bitterly, he realized he thought wrong.
“Very well. Guard, take the prisoner back to his cell. We will announce judgment by midday tomorrow.” Thason said as he rose from his seat.
As if a spell had been broken, quiet conversation welled up, and chairs and benches scraped as soldiers stood to filter out of the overheated and stuffy courtroom.
The guard waited until the room was empty before he prodded Gaven with the point of his pike. With a brisk command, his guard told him to get moving and he clinked his way back down the bloody carpet, angry that he was forced to endure the added humiliation of shackles, and suddenly glad that he had allowed Jurel the dignity of being without them.
* * *
Unlike the courtroom, his cell was quite cold. He huddled on his cot with a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He had not managed to eat breakfast for his belly was too unsettled. It roiled like boiling grease. Sunlight filtered in through the bars of the small window casting an alternating pattern of light and shadow on the floor that was a reminder of the freedom he could never attain.
His back ached from sleeping in a bad position on the lumpy cot and he worried that when the guard took him back to the box, he would be hunched like that sideshow freak of so many years ago. He desperately had to relieve himself but no one had come to empty his chamber pot. His cell reeked of damp stone and urine. Perhaps he should just piss in a corner? It certainly could not deteriorate the condition of his current living quarters. Tempting.
A door creaked and footsteps, steady and slow, echoed off the stone walls, growing louder as they approached. Here it comes, he thought. They would hang him. They would take him out to the parade grounds, where a priest would read out his crimes for the gathered crowd who would jeer and cheer and pelt him with rotting tomato
es and stones. The priest would pronounce his guilt. Then a black-masked executioner would wrap a loop of hempen rope around his neck and kick open the trap door.
He almost felt the air cut off from his lungs as he imagined it. He almost felt the rough rope bite into his throat, and the sharp pain of muscles and tendons compressed far beyond their normal state, felt the sharper pain of those same sinews snapping like overtaut lute strings. He gasped, and his cell dimmed around him. His heart galloped in his chest and he had to fight to hold back the tears.
A key rasped into the lock of his cell and the door swung open. The bars of shadow and light spilled onto the figure in the door and Gaven thought that somehow they played a trick on his eye. It could not be her.
“On your feet soldier,” Captain Salma said. “Judgment is in.”
“You?” Gaven asked dumbly. “But why you?”
Salma chuckled grimly. “Didn't expect to see me, eh? Well, truth be told, I was actually impressed with you yesterday.” Her tone was calm, almost friendly and a smile threatened at the corners of her lips. Gaven had always thought her quite beautiful. He had always thought it odd that she wasted her beauty on soldiering.
“What do you mean?” Gaven breathed.
“Obvious, isn't it?” Salma looked askance at him as though it was indeed obvious. Gaven did not think so. “You stood up like a man, like a proper Soldier of God should, and you were honest. I've been to a few of these trials in the past. Most times, the accused tries to spin some tale that points the blame away from them. Or they try to beg the court to spare them. You didn't though. You just stated the truth and you showed you were ready to face the consequences. That took some balls of steel, all things considered.”
“But sir,” Gaven protested, “I got men killed.”
“Yes you did and a damned shame too. There are too few Soldiers who show the promise you do. Higgens does—believe it or not—which is why I sponsored him for his commission. I thought certain that by the end of the year, you would make sergeant.”
He could not speak. He turned his gaze down and managed a bitter grunt. If he had only remembered his place. If he had only kept to his duties. If...
“I spoke on your behalf, you know,” she spoke and Gaven caught the sorrow in her voice. “Higgens too, believe it or not. He's not a complete asshole. A few others stepped forward after court was out.”
“Too late, though, isn't it?” It was acidly said but he felt a burgeoning of hope in his chest. He felt a welling of gladness that his captain had tried to stand up for him. And Higgens too? He was not sure he believed that.
“Perhaps. We'll see,” she said and gave Gaven a mysterious smile. “Time to go, corporal. I'll escort you.”
A short time later, he found himself back in the box. His uniform was unkempt from a night of sleeping in it and he knew he stank but he did not really believe that mattered right then. What did matter was that he still had to piss. Captain Salma had not let him stop and he was close to bursting. Belatedly, he thought he should have made the corner of his cell wet. Inanely, he thought to himself that if the court sentences him to death, he might let loose right then and there. That would show them.
The benches in the courtroom were full again though the tribunal table in front of him was vacant. Muted conversation filled the room like bees around a hive and the rustling of uniforms indicated soldiers shifting to make themselves more comfortable in their seats. He, of course, had no seat. He stood in the box as was proper for a prisoner about to be condemned.
The door swung open and the room fell to sudden silence. Numbly, Gaven watched the members of the tribunal make their way to their seats, led by General Thason. High backed wooden chairs scraped softly as the members positioned themselves and without further ado, General Thason's eyes met Gaven's. In the steely depths Gaven thought he saw a hint of pity. His heart sank. He was doomed.
“This court is now in session,” Thason pronounced and somehow the room went even quieter. “We have reached a verdict in the case of Corporal Gaven Slaynish. We find that, on the charge of gross negligence causing death, Corporal Slaynish is guilty.”
A hum of voices rose at that pronouncement—as if there had been any doubt—but Gaven ignored it. He was still. He was stone. He waited for the inevitable sentence. The general's eyes flashed to the crowded benches and a loaded hush immediately descended. The air was heavy, sagging like wet wool as Thason opened his mouth. Gaven closed his eyes.
“Corporal Slaynish, it is the sentence of this court that you be demoted in rank to private. You are to be stationed here in Threimes where you will be given the duty of prison guard. This posting will last until such time that we deem you have learned the necessity of keeping your place in the ranks. Also, a letter of reprimand will be placed in your permanent file. Finally, we demand that the private's five year contract of service be extended to no less than twenty.”
Gaven almost choked, he was so shocked. It was bad, very bad, but his neck would not stretch. He did not realize that he stared slack-jawed at the general, certain that there had been some mistake. The general allowed a grim smile to crease his features.
“Do not feel too fortunate, private,” he warned. “This is not an easy sentence. Everywhere you go, it will be known that you have caused the deaths of several good men. Your fellows will very likely ostracize you and it will be a good long time before you earn anyone's trust again. Colonel Caf, the private is hereby assigned to your ranks.”
General Thason rose to his feet, followed by the other four officers with him. As they strode by, Colonel Caf stared at Private Gaven with a malicious grin that promised hard, hard times ahead. The same Colonel Caf that had been upbraided by the general yesterday for speaking out of turn.
Gaven did not know what to think. He would live but he had been handed a life sentence of hard labor serving under a colonel that already held a grudge against him. Perhaps a good neck-stretching would have been preferable.
Oh god, but did he have to piss.
Chapter 58
Time meant nothing in his hole. He had no idea how long he had been in there. Days? Weeks? Months, maybe. It all blurred together in the seamless, stinking darkness. At first, he had tried to keep track of time by the meals—a slimy, tasteless slop that he probably would not have eaten if he could have seen it—shoved through the little square at the bottom of his door, but it seemed to him that they came at irregular intervals. After what he suspected was about three days (but was in fact closer to five), he had given up.
The gravity of his situation had weighed him down from the first moment he was shoved into this pit of the underworld and as time wore on, for he knew that time still passed, it pressed further and further, worming its way into the cracks, pushing out bits of himself, until sometimes he could not remember his name. It suffocated him along with the stench of decay and offal.
The skitter-pitter-patter of tiny claws clicking and the vulgar squeaks that had so repulsed him for a while when he was first brought here, began to seem almost seductive and it awoke in him a savage, animal hunger. As yet, disgusted with himself, he had managed to ignore that urge. He kicked the furry little blobs that scratched over his feet and his chest.
Sometimes, something caressed his thoughts like a warm breeze, and a familiar voice whispered from the deepest recesses of his mind, but he could not seem to remember who that voice belonged to. It was a friendly voice, a calming voice, but it was alien, apart, and as is often the case with things unknown, it was frightening. He had known that voice at one time, he had known the name attached to that voice but the knowledge eluded him and that frightened him more.
So he drew in on himself and when that voice called, light as a tulip's petal, he shied away, retreating deeper into himself, and ignored it.
When he slept, he dreamed and those dreams were broken things that caused him to toss about fitfully on the pile of wet straw that someone, somewhere, dared call a bed. They were slivers of the life he thought he
must have led before the here and the now and they made him ache, the half-remembered bits and pieces pulsing like a fresh bruise. Bright light—the sun, some part of him supplied—dazzled the green grass, tall structures of wood and brick stretching as far as the eye could see.
The worst was when there appeared images of a face. It was a hawkish face with piercing eyes. When that face smiled in his fractured memory, he felt a small part of him die. The name—Dade? Dasit? What the hell was the name?—was important to him and he wanted nothing more than to remember it. Even more than he wanted to remember his own name. Names were powerful. Names brought memory. He knew the name yesterday, he was sure of it. Or perhaps it was last week? What the blazes was that man's name?
Invariably, he could not remember and he wept bitter tears that burned streaks into his face. When that happened, he jumped up and down, roaring out his frustration, pounding soundlessly at the heavy door, and scratching at the stone walls certain that if he pushed just a little harder, he could break through, could see the sun. He did not remember his first view of the cell. He did not remember seeing the bloody scratch marks left by a previous occupant, or maybe it was the one before, identical to the ones he was surely leaving. His hands were hot as torches at the ends of his arms and when he touched something, he left behind a wetness that would have chilled him to the bone if he could have seen the color of it.
How long had he been trapped in that pit? Who cared? He could not even remember his name.
Pulling his filthy clothes, tattered to rags, and damp with excrescence and mold, around his rapidly diminishing frame, he curled up and prayed into the blackness to a god whose name he could not remember for a sleep that he hoped would be blessedly dreamless.
