by Jean Johnson
Her sandals slapped on the paving stones lining the paths, following a rhythm in her thoughts. Who guards the guards? Who watches the watchers? Who disciplines the Disciplinarians? Who but each other, working in circle . . . That was the theory, that each branch of the Hierarchy could, should, and would keep an eye on the others, to guard against corruption, laziness, and incompetence. The answer, however, was not so simple.
Tipa’thia, as Elder Mage, couldn’t afford the energy to spare, and the Elder Librarian must remain neutral . . . Goddess knows the Elder Priest should not be playing politics with peoples’ lives. He should be focusing on the spiritual, moral, and ethical well-being of Mendhi. But he’s not. And he’s the Hierarch at the moment. He and Sandu’thio are quills plucked from the same wing. Priesthood and non-mage citizenry working together with the army and agriculture, trying to restore Mendhi’s “glory days” . . . while ignoring the fact that the Goddess Herself has warned us to study the lessons of history so that we are not stuck repeating them.
Hala’thia is a Partisan sympathizer, but a stickler for following the rules of the Exchequery, which means she actually tries to vote logically and legally, rather than rhetorically. A habit which annoys Dagan’thio and his fellow Partisans to no end . . . and. . . . There’s the bellpull. Here we go.
She stopped on the porch of the house, tugged briefly on the bellpull, tugged again on her leather bodice to settle it, and clasped one hand around the bracer on her other wrist, waiting for someone to answer. The youth who came to the door looked to be only fifteen or so, but he wore a gray wool kilt pinned with a brooch down by the knee, brass enameled in the black pei-slii of the Disciplinarian branch of government. A new servant, from the looks of him. Not a penitent, nor a subservient—not at that age—but possibly a student apprentice giving life as a Disciplinarian a trial examination. His dark hair had been plaited in thin braids all over his head, each one terminating in plain wooden beads.
“I’m looking for the Elder Disciplinarian, Dagan’thio,” she stated. “Is he here?”
The youth shook his head and pointed behind and to Pelai’s left, beads clacking softly against each other. Where he pointed was across the gardens, at the crook of the long, L-shaped building that lay between them and the Temple River. That river sat on the western edge of the Temple grounds, a cascade-segmented tributary of the Great River which worked as a boundary for the grounds. It also had a beautiful view of the noble estates that lay on the other side of the broad watercourse bound at each end by rapids and waterfalls. A waste of a view, in her opinion, unless it was meant to torment those sentenced to disciplining, since the cells for those being disciplined faced that view.
Since the youth didn’t say anything, just pointed, Pelai merely dipped her head and gave him a simple “Thank you.”
He shrugged wordlessly and shut the door, making her wonder if he was just taciturn, or if he was undergoing one of the discipline rituals of not being allowed to speak for a set span of time. Not my apprentice, and so not my problem today, she decided. Turning away from the column-lined entrance, Pelai jogged toward the inner corner of the big, long building. A building she knew very well, from her years of service in its halls. It was only just dawn, maybe half an hour past sunrise by now, and already Dagan’thio wanted to use the formal setting of the Hall of Discipline and Law to set the stage.
Who watches the watchers? Who guards the guards? Who disciplines the Disciplinarians? Who but each other, working in circle . . .
Someone opened up one of the doors as she approached, and called out to her. “Doma! Doma Pelai! This way! You are summoned by the Elder.”
Veering to her right, she entered through the door the tattooed, black-kilted male held open for her. She recognized him and dipped her head in courteous thanks. “Thank you, Domo Hestus.”
“They’re in the Second Court,” he told her, giving her the information on where to go. “Dagan’thio is not happy at not being able to find you before now, but they’re still waiting for the Elder Citizen to arrive, so you’re not in too much trouble.”
“Thank you,” she murmured again, frowning a little. She headed up the hallway. Unlike the exterior, the hall had been freshly plastered and whitewashed from the waist up, with the otherwise plain surface decorated all along the edges of each support beam-separated section with colorful repeating patterns that in turn framed gracefully painted poems. She used those poems now to calm herself, soaking in the admonitions to be calm, considered, self-controlled . . . reinforcing in the apprentices all the values of being a Disciplinarian, an enforcer of judgments for punishments and so forth. The lower half had been wainscotted in rich red padauk wood, and the place floored in hexagonal basalt tiles.
She liked the way everything looked, neat and orderly and organized, white to reddish brown to dark gray underfoot. That strange underwater building in Guardian Alonnen’s homeland had been paneled in wood, too, but not so elegantly. Strange dull shades of beige and brown, with ratty carpets underfoot, an eclectic selection of furniture that looked worn and mismatched, and of course an inadequate amount of heating for her tropical-born blood. Today, here at home, the morning air felt comfortably cool, not bone-achingly cold.
Pushing open the purple-hued kingswood doors to the Second Court of truthstoning, she found four Elders already occupying most of the five seats on the dais of judgment, a couple of fellow Disciplinarians standing to either side, and the three Puhon brothers kneeling on the ground in supplication.
That surprised her. Kneeling was not a requirement until the actual sentencing. Yet there they knelt, awaiting judgment. Gayn, who was stocky and too much like his father for Pelai’s taste. She’d always had to struggle to like him. Foren, who looked like their lean, moon-faced mother, like a bronze-brown pin tipped with a black-haired pearl. And Krais . . . who was more muscular than Foren, less stocky than Gayn, and who bore a rather handsome mix of his parents’ and grandparents’ features.
Pelai had always found his appearance quite handsome, his intellect reasonably sharp, his magical skills polished. There were plenty of moments where he had even made her laugh with some dry quip, or when she had admired his prowess as a Painted Warrior at controlling and wielding his magics. But while he had a pleasant baritone voice, the words he chose to say were not always so pleasant. His person wasn’t repulsive. His choices, on the other hand, had usually repelled her.
Be fair, she reminded herself. Don’t let your personal feelings get in the way of an accurate judging. Turning her attention to the other main players in the room, she eyed the Elders of the Hierarchy who had gathered at this early hour.
All five seats had to be filled from the opening statements through to the end of the sentencing for any judgment to be rendered valid. Dagan’thio sat in the central chair, looking stern and dark in the black and gold-embossed leathers covering his sixty-four-year-old muscles. Tattoos peeked out here and there from beneath his dyed and gilded uniform. In the glow of the lightglobes illuminating the Second Court, the streaks of age in his tightly braided hair gleamed like silver chains entwined with soot, subtle contrast to the gold leaf embossing the pei-slii marks on his leathers.
Pelai naturally expected him to be there as the punishment-pushing parent of the three brothers. The others didn’t bode well for their judging.
To his right sat the Elder Exchequer, Hala’thia. She always rose early, Pelai knew, practicing the swordwork in the Disciplinarian training yard that kept her seventy-plus year old body reasonably fit and healthy. Her age-whitened hair had been tied in a rough bun on her head, and she wore her practice leathers, plain brown, as a reminder of her youthful days as a member of the Mendhite Army. Her belt, however, marked her office, golden pei-slii enameled in bright lemon yellow interspersed with exaggerated medallions echoing the distinctive, pierced coins of the Mendhite nation.
To Dagan’s left sat the Elder Commander, the Ashua-Dakim, but
also called Dakim’thio if one did not serve in the military under him; he disliked being called Yulan’thio. Yulan had to be in his late fifties, yet boasted more gray in his short-cropped hair than Dagan. He, too, wore leather; specifically, the brown-dyed leather of the army, but trimmed with gold-outlined pei-slii markings.
In contrast, the fourth member present, aged and wrinkled, wore a soft taga of intricately woven brocaded silks featuring colorful flower blossoms on a rich red background. The brocade came from the Dragon Empire to the southwest, and it draped around her plump figure in comfortable, familiar folds. Both her hands clasped the head of her cane, one draped over the other. The pose allowed the distinct, Draconic Empire-stylized snout of a dragon to be seen, but little else of the head. The carved body stretched down the length of the shaft, elongated far more in the Mendhite style than anything actually Draconic. Inlaid with bits of colorful wood, from vera green to kingswood purple, the rich blood hue of the padouk shaft almost blended in with her knee-length taga skirts.
Of the four Elders present, only Nalai’thia was not a Partisan, politically. Partisan beliefs, she repeatedly reminded the others, were detrimental to trade, and thus to the average Mendhite. Craftsmen relied upon good, peaceful relations with Mendhi’s neighbors, but Partisan thinking wanted to press the borders outward, to expand Mendhi’s territory, claim resources from neighboring territory . . . things that risked costly, needless, dangerous war.
The problem, Partisans argued, was that Mendhi was too explored, too exploited, too settled. They needed fresh new lands, fresh new resources, fresh new wealth. Pelai could just barely tell a yam from a sweetroot—yams were the beige ones, sweetroots the orange ones—but even she could tell the Elder Agriculturalist lied whenever Tarek’thio insisted that their soils were turning poor. Proper composting was no secret; neither were things like crop rotations and good herd management.
The door opened behind her. Glancing back while moving to the side, Pelai gave way in relief to the youngest member of the Hierarchy—well, the youngest, until she was fully the Elder Mage, Guardian of the Temple Fountain. Anya’thia entered at a brisk pace, her sky blue robes covered in a rainbow of pei-slii outlines, in the browns of the army, reds of the craftsmen, orange of the citizens, yellow of the exchequers, greens of the agriculturalists, blues of the librarians, purples of the priests, blacks of the Disciplinarians, and even the white embroidery of the mages.
Her taga fell to mid-calf, longer than most, but she was quite short for a Mendhite, not quite six foot-lengths tall. The garment boasted fuller, belt-pleated skirts, and of course she wore the symbol of her calling, the golden double-bladed axe, hung in a sheath at her hip. Not a completely symbolic axe, either; librarians across Mendhi practiced with the labrys religiously, all based on the legend of Cleric Tia, who had slaughtered would-be invaders trying to get into the first Great Library with the help of a woodcutter’s axe. She had snatched it off the lumber pile on her way to defend the Temple’s precious, ancient tomes, and had laid waste to her enemies with far more vigor and ferocity than most would have assumed.
Pelai had seen Anya’thia practicing her weapons-work on the pells of the practice yard alongside Nalai’thia, and would not care to threaten any of the Elder Librarian’s charges. Axe gleaming at her hip, the forty-eight-year-old hurried to claim the fifth and final seat on the dais. Her presence, arriving before anyone else could claim that chair, ensured that there could only be three Partisans ruling on this case.
The Hierarchy had given their orders to the Puhon brothers, and that meant the Hierarchy had the right to judge the severity of their failure to carry out those orders. At the time, that had been the Elder Priest, the Elder Citizen, the Elder Commander, and the Elder Disciplinarian, with the Elder Exchequer siding firmly with all four Partisans. Bringing back the Living Host, granting them the means to recreate the Convocation of Gods and Man, would have brought a huge influx of revenue to the nation. Delegations from all around the world would have come to Mendhi, bringing exotic goods and gifts and funds to pay for their stay. Pelai could understand why that was such an attractive idea. She could understand why the Hierarchy had put such a heavy emphasis on the brothers’ success.
But on the other hand, multiple prophecies had been involved, all pointing to a different kingdom prevailing. The will of the Gods clashed occasionally with the will of Mankind. Sometimes mortal men and women prevailed. Sometimes the Gods knew what was right.
Dagan’thio, frowning a little in disgruntlement at the Elder Librarian’s presence, cleared his throat. He greeted her politely, since she was his equal on the Hierarchy, but did try to challenge her presence. “Good morning, Anya’thia. I was under the impression Sandu’thio would be taking that seat.”
The Elder Librarian smiled sweetly at him. She knew exactly why she was there. “Good morning, Dagan’thio. I heard the Elder Citizen tripped and twisted his ankle yesterday. He probably needed a palanquin to get here, whereas I’m just across the way. It was a simple enough matter to cross the Temple grounds so that this judgment can get under way.”
“You weren’t one of the Hierarchs who sent these men on their mission,” the Dakim’thio asserted, his voice as deep as his skin was brown, weathered from years spent outdoors overseeing troops in their training and their practice maneuvers. Even in skirmishing with some of Mendhi’s more assertive neighbors. “You were not summoned.”
“No, but she and I are members of the Hierarchy,” Nalai’thia countered dryly, “and can sit in for any of you on a decision made at the highest levels of governance. Or are you trying to form a cabal of just five Hierarchs?”
The Elder Commander frowned at that, and muttered under his breath, “Your interference in a matter you refuse to comprehend and support is—“
“Can we get on with this?” one of the Puhon brothers demanded. “This judgment is already enough of a farce!”
Shifting another foot or so to the side, Pelai identified him as Gayn. His face was more square than round, his jaw cleft a tiny bit at the chin, just like Dagan’thio’s. But instead of the usual superior look on the young man’s face, he cradled his right arm protectively and scowled up at everyone. Including his own father, she realized. A father he normally worshipped, even emulated. How strange.
Dagan’s dark brown eyes widened in affront. “You dare call this hearing a farce?”
“It was an impossible task!” Gayn scorned. “That made it a farce!”
Before his father could do more than draw breath, the middle brother spoke up, his voice low, his tone pointed. “You sent us to face against the Gods Themselves!”
“Hundreds of Them, and all of Their Seers’ prophecies!” Gayn agreed, pointing awkwardly at his middle brother with his right hand.
Pelai tried not to show her surprise at seeing the two younger Puhons challenging their father so openly. Did the sun accidentally rise in the west? . . . No, no, I’m pretty sure it was shining in the east just now, and it’s still morning. . . . And what happened to Gayn’s arm? He’s holding it like it hurts too much to move. How did it get injured?
“You ordered us to succeed in the face of impossible odds,” Foren continued bluntly, scowling. “And now seek to punish us for naturally failing.” Those black irises, darker even than his father’s already deep brown, shifted to the Elder Exchequer. “If a task is rendered impossible by forces beyond our control, then to add harsh punishment to that failure is to add a negative balance to our scroll. It is impossible for three men and twenty ships to deliver a positive balance when going up against three different Seers and all three-hundred-plus Gods. A mere man is never going to be the equal of a God on the ledgers!”
Aha! That’s what he’s doing, Pelai realized, as the others argued back and forth with the two younger sons. Foren is setting up Hala’thia to view the matter analytically, logically, in terms of pure numbers as a means to get her on their side. With only two staunc
h Partisans on the judgment court and the other one who wavers, he’s hoping to lessen their punishment time. That . . . actually is more like the Foren I knew before they set sail nine months ago. This is somewhat normal then, though Gayn’s outburst is still a bit strange.
The Hierarchs could determine if a punishment was necessary. They could even set general parameters for it, such as until the burnt-down building is rebuilt if a mage deliberately incinerated it, or for a full turn of Brother Moon to keep the target under punishment for a month. It was up to the Disciplinarian assigned to their case to come up with the exact punishment, however.
A burnt-down building could be rebuilt by hand, by magic, or by paying expensive construction fees for others to labor. A month of punishments could be harsh indeed, many hours of labor every day, or mild at best, undertaken in an hour or two. It could involve public apologies, public service . . . even a public flogging . . . or it could be a punishment received in private or semi-private. And it was not uncommon for those awaiting sentencing to argue on their own behalf. It was just odd to see the two younger Puhon brothers arguing against their own father.
“Enough!” Dagan’thio finally declared. “The two of you will be silent! And you, Krais. Why have you not said a word?” he demanded of his eldest son. “Were you rendered mute by these foreign Gods, or by these . . . Nightfall people?”
“I am not mute, Elder Disciplinarian,” Krais said in the mildest, most restrained tone Pelai had ever heard the eldest Puhon brother use. “I am simply not protesting my punishment . . . whatever it may or may not be.”
Oh, that is definitely not natural. Puhon Krais, submitting willingly? Of all of them, Foren is the one I have seen in the past muttering against his father about a dozen times over the years . . . but openly arguing? And Gayn actually challenging him, but Krais not challenging anything? The only explanation she could think of was that witnessing firsthand the Convocation of Gods and Man must have been a truly soul-shaking experience for each of the Elder’s sons.
