The Sieur and Camarl exchanged a look of mild interest at the revelation that Den Rannion and Tor Priminale had so readily abandoned generations of antagonism.
The next advocate was on his feet almost before Tor Priminale’s man had stopped speaking. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” He straightened the fronts of his gown nervously. “I speak for Den Muret, by reason of the great number of tenants of that House who travelled to the Kellarin colony. Their work and the rights due Den Muret in consequence should be recognised.”
He sat down quickly, taking the next man by surprise. I tried to see Camarl’s face out of the corner of my eye, but Temar was in the way. Everyone was sitting motionless, all attention fixed on the court, the gallery silent as a shrine at midnight. I looked at Den Muret’s man and recalled Mistal saying they wouldn’t bring suit until they knew Tor Priminale was successful. Now Den Domesin had a man on his feet, arguing for rights in Kellarin by virtue of ancient investment. What reason did they have to be confident?
Temar was shifting in his seat again, his indignation plain to see. As I glanced sideways, I saw the Demoiselle Den Murivance watching him with speculative hazel eyes above the fan hiding her mouth as she whispered to her companion.
“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” Down in the court a tall advocate with hair and face as greyly neutral as his robes spoke briskly to the impassive screen. “I argue for Tor Alder that ancestral rights over inherited properties be respected. Those properties were conveyed to that House by bequest from the last Sieur D’Alsennin in the expectation that the last Esquire of the Name might reasonably be expected to return within the lifetime of his remaining parent. Since this did not happen, we contend the care with which those lands have been administered in the intervening generations must outweigh claims made by some pretender to an extinct Name.”
So they weren’t going to argue D’Alsennin was a dead House, they were just going to invite the court to accept it as fact. I looked down to see Temar’s hands tightly interlaced, long fingers bloodless beneath the pressure.
“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” A stout lawyer with an unhealthily high colour was stepping forward, leaning on his lectern with the air of a man settling in for a long stay. “I am here as a friend of the court.” Even Messire couldn’t restrain a start at that and a hiss of surprise ran round the gallery.
“What does that mean?” Temar whispered urgently.
“It means we don’t know who’s behind him,” I answered softly. Camarl leaned forward, face a mask to hide his anger.
“I am here as a friend of the court,” the advocate repeated as the noise subsided into expectant silence. “I am here to argue that the House of D’Olbriot has acted with grievous bad faith ill befitting such an ancient and illustrious Name. When scholars of the House realised the fabled colony of Nemith the Last was reality rather than myth, the Name did not share the opportunities becoming apparent. D’Olbriot has sought to keep all to itself, to its sole advantage and enrichment. Rather than seek help from the other Houses of the Empire in crossing the ocean, D’Olbriot turned to the wizards of Hadrumal. D’Olbriot has further invited them into the counsels of the House, even giving one house room.” The advocate paused to accommodate a hint of amusement from the gallery at his little sally. “Rumour has it that marriage with a wizard is even now being contemplated by someone within D’Olbriot walls, though not, at least, by someone of the D’Olbriot Name.
“But let us not speak of rumour,” he continued smoothly after pausing just long enough for everyone to look at Temar, who was plainly outraged. “This court is only concerned with facts. It is a fact that now that the remnants of Kellarin’s colony have been unearthed D’Olbriot continues to be the only link across the ocean. Whatever information is so vital to making such a voyage remains locked behind D’Olbriot lips. Just as the only living claimant to D’Alsennin rights is hidden behind D’Olbriot doors. D’Olbriot has installed this young man as leader of the colony. But what does this leader do? Does he speak for his people? Does he negotiate trade agreements, does he invite merchants and artisans to bring their skills to make a civilisation in this savage land? No, D’Olbriot’s word is final on all such matters. All such concerns are most definitely a D’Olbriot monopoly, as is all the wealth that will result.”
The advocate turned his back on the dais momentarily to glance up at the rearmost gallery, where the merchants were listening with interest.
“Even if Kellarin has only a fifth the riches of tradition, it is most assuredly a wealthy land. We don’t even know how far it extends, what resources might be found over its distant horizons. Small wonder that the House of D’Olbriot covets it all. But all the wealth of Kellarin pales into insignificance when we consider other advantages that might accrue to D’Olbriot as a result of this exclusive association with D’Alsennin. We’ve all heard the rumours, haven’t we, ancient enchantments safeguarding these lost colonists and arcane magic sustaining them?” He laughed for a moment with delicate scepticism. “Well, much of this may be mere fireside fancy, but no one can deny the presence of young Esquire D’Alsennin here today.” This time he turned to look full at Temar and everyone in the court and the gallery above did the same. About half looked envious while the rest seemed faintly repelled.
“Esquire D’Alsennin,” the advocate repeated, “who was stabbed, beaten and left for dead in the dirt of the road. Not two days later he sits before us, hale and hearty. Does the House of D’Olbriot propose to share the esoteric arts that make this possible? Will we be spared the death of our loved ones in childbed, our sons and daughters saved from pestilence? Such magic supposedly safeguarded the Old Empire and wrought more wonders besides. Can one truly send word back and forth across hundreds of leagues in the blink of an eye? Does D’Olbriot propose to share such knowledge, or keep the advantages for himself while the rest of us are limited to the Imperial Despatch?” The advocate looked apologetic. “I do not mean to disparage those excellent couriers, but it is undeniable fact that a horse can only cover so much ground in one day.”
He turned briskly on his heel, walking up and down before the screened dais. “That a mighty House might succumb to the temptations of selfishness and greed is understandable, if regrettable. But such base emotions cannot go unchallenged, lest they unbalance the compact of mutual respect that knits our Empire together. That’s why we’re all here today. My esteemed companions advance the most basic claims of those other Names with legitimate interest in Kellarin. I argue in defence of common justice and against abuse of noble privilege. As always, it falls to the Emperor to redress the balance.”
Bowing first to the faceless screen, the advocate turned to walk back to the table where his clerks were sitting. I saw a suitably modest smile as he lifted his face to the gallery, guileless warm brown eyes inviting everyone to agree with his entirely disinterested speech.
Messire’s advocate, Master Burquest, was walking to his own lectern, smoothing the grey silk of his robe over his plain blue coat sleeve. He looked up at the centre of the screen. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” He spoke simply, as if he were talking directly to the Emperor. “I’m here to argue for D’Olbriot. I’ll show that the House’s interest in Kellarin was an unforeseen consequence of attempts by men sworn to the Name to uncover the reasons for robbery and attack suffered by a son of that House. Surely no one will deny D’Olbriot the right to protect its own? I’ll argue that it’s hardly reasonable to complain the free flow of commerce is being restricted when trade with Kellarin is still barely a trickle. I can show that with the briefest survey of the Name’s accounts.” He waved a dismissive hand before voice and face turned serious, still focused on the unseen Emperor.
“I will show that magecraft is used to cross the ocean from simple necessity. Surely no one would suggest that the perils of the open ocean be needlessly risked when there are ways to lessen the dangers? That would hardly be reasonable — or should I say rational?” Everyone in the gallery was hangi
ng on Burquest’s words now, a smile here, a nod there approving his dry, unhurried delivery.
“It is just as reasonable for Esquire D’Alsennin,” Burquest raised a finger, “in the absence of a Sieur of that Name for the present, just as reasonable for him to turn for advice and support to the Sieur of the House that risked so much, both materially and in reputation, to help those lost across the ocean. Perhaps, had Den Domesin and Tor Priminale shared in those initial expeditions, rather than dismissing D’Olbriot’s folly, those Houses might have been able to make themselves known to their distant cousins. Esquire Albarn and Demoiselle Guinalle might well have been grateful for their aid and counsel. We’ll never know, because they have been entirely ignored by their erstwhile Names. Tor Arrial, on the other hand, have shown us all a better way, welcoming their long-lost daughter and undertaking to work with D’Olbriot in supporting the colonists in Kellarin in their future endeavours.”
Burquest didn’t look at Avila, which was probably just as well because I could see her neck going pink from where I was sitting. So the Sieur had got Tor Arrial on his side; that was good news. But even a hundredth share of the Kellarin trade would go a long way to restoring the Name to its former status. Diminished as it was at present, Tor Arrial didn’t have a lot to lose.
Burquest leaned his elbows on his lectern. “Of course, any actions or circumstance can look good or bad, depending on your point of view. Which is why we trust this court to listen to all the arguments, to take a wider perspective and give judgement without fear or favour.” He smiled warmly at the fretted screen and turned to walk calmly back to his table.
There was a muted bustle of activity behind the screen and a small bell sounded. At that signal the clerks all burst into activity, some scribbling furiously, others sorting through ledgers and notes. Conversation hummed round the gallery, low-voiced speculation ringing with anticipation.
“Is that it?” Temar looked at me in perplexity. “What now?”
“Each advocate presents his argument in detail, point by point, calling evidence as he goes.” I pointed to the deed boxes and stacks of ledgers piled high down the middle of each table. Burquest sat at his ease, chatting with a smile for his clerks and idly fanning himself with a leaf of parchment. Den Domesin’s advocate on the other hand was frantically concentrating on a closely written sheet of paper and Den Muret’s man looked positively unwell. Each had a much smaller team of clerks, some of whom looked barely old enough to shave.
“When does D’Olbriot’s man get a chance to answer?” demanded Temar.
“Every time the Emperor thinks the point in question has been made and he wants to hear from the other side.” I nodded at the screen. “You’ll hear the bell.”
“What good will any of this do?” Avila hissed with irritation. “You people mouth the words that should secure your justice and yet you all remain free to lie and dissemble.”
The Sieur, myself and Camarl looked at her in confusion.
“Forgive me but I don’t understand,” Camarl apologised for all of us.
Avila turned in her seat, face hard. “The invocation, what does it mean to you?”
Camarl raised uncomprehending brows. “It’s a reminder to all involved to act honestly.”
“Penalties are imposed, for any found forsworn,” Messire assured her.
“Those words once invoked Artifice proof against any forswearing!” Avila took a breath and forced herself to speak more quietly. “Enchantment should make it impossible for anyone to speak a lie within this court.”
“It was ever thus, in our day,” Temar agreed grimly.
“What happens to someone lying?” frowned Camarl. I knew what he was thinking; we’ve all heard the nursery tales of the fox who’d lied to Talagrin about who’d eaten the plover’s eggs. His tongue turned black and shrivelled up, but I couldn’t see any advantage to D’Olbriot if that happened to some opposing advocate. The House’s associations with magic were clearly going to be used against us and any overt display would just condemn the Sieur further.
“Do me the courtesy of listening,” snapped Avila. “No one can lie. If they attempt falsehood, they simply cannot speak. Silence is all the proof needed of ill faith.”
I exchanged a bemused glance with Camarl and the Sieur. “Could you make it so, here and now, if you repeated the rite?” I asked Avila.
She shook her head crossly. “Not without each advocate invoking Artifice in his response, citing his oath to bind him.”
“So their oath was once enchantment as well?” asked Camarl.
“All oaths were,” said Avila coldly. “Artifice bound all who exchanged them.
“So much has changed since the Chaos.” Messire looked at me with a faint smile. “This is very interesting, but we just have to rely on eloquence and argument, don’t we?”
Avila gave him a hard look through narrowed eyes. “Yet another loss your age has suffered, Guliel.”
As she spoke I heard a faint carillon from outside. The Sieur nodded to me and I stood up. “Now you know what Houses are drawn up for battle here, see if they’ve sent any skirmishers down to the sword school,” he ordered.
Temar made to stand as well but Camarl laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. I nodded a farewell to them both. “Your fight’s right here, Temar,” I said lightly. “Look amused if Camarl’s smiling, and you can look hurt if the Sieur turns round to commiserate. Don’t ever look angry, don’t look triumphant or smug. I’ll find out who posted that challenge, if Raeponin wields any justice at all, and we’ll hold a council of war this evening.”
Avila turned, face indignant. “I’ll thank you not to use the god’s name so lightly, Ryshad.”
She would have said more but the Sieur stood up, setting renewed interest busy around the gallery. “Defend the honour of our House.” He held both my hands between his, looking deep into my eyes. “And take every care you can, Ryshad.”
Making my way out of the courtroom, curious faces on all sides, I felt I had some invisible advocate at my shoulder asking silent questions. Surely the Sieur wanted me safe for my own sake, not merely because my defeat would reflect badly on the House? In any case, wasn’t Messire entitled to both concerns? Had he abandoned me to Planir and the wizards of Hadrumal out of callousness, or had he been forced by simple expediency? Were the resentments I’d been struggling with any more justified than the half-thought-out arguments of Tor Priminale and the like?
I ripped open the constricting collar of my livery as I strode out of the courts and headed for the sword school. I’d find time to look for answers to all that later. For now I had to fight whoever turned up to prove my fitness for honour or take a piece out of my worthless hide. If that was all there was to this challenge, I’d meet it head on, but if there was more to it, if I faced swords paid for by some noble dissatisfied with the proxy battles of the law courts, I wanted to know who was behind it all as much as Messire.
The Imperial Court,
Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day,
Late Morning
Temar shifted on the hard wooden bench. Feeling an ominous twinge of cramp in one calf muscle, he tried to point his toes inside his highly polished boots. The bell behind the screen rang briskly and Den Muret’s advocate sprang to his lectern, clutching yet another parchment with writing faded nigh to invisible. Then a man in scarlet opened the door to the screen hiding the Emperor, exchanging a brief word with the Justiciar who’d administered those meaningless oaths. Temar looked eagerly at this first distraction in he couldn’t recall how long. This man’s robe had black trim to sleeves and hem and a loose cord around the neck rather than the advocates’ circles of braid. Wasn’t that cord made into a noose? No, that couldn’t be right. Temar wondered why these two wore red when everyone else was in grey. What was the Emperor wearing?
Den Muret’s advocate cleared his throat nervously and resumed his rapid mumble. Taking a deep breath, Temar restrained an impulse to rub his eyes and stifled a yawn. Even so vas
t a room was growing stuffy as the sun rose towards noon outside, and all the doors and windows stayed closed. He tried schooling his face to a bland mask of interest like Camarl’s. Plenty of people in the close-packed gallery were looking his way, some merely curious, some plainly hostile. The Den Murivance girl kept glancing at him, fanning herself thoughtfully. It was a shame he wasn’t sitting next to a girl, Temar thought, to get the benefit of a fan.
A discreet nudge startled Temar out of this inconsequential reverie. Camarl was smiling with rueful amusement, the Sieur turning to look at them with a mingled regret and enjoyment. Temar did his best to match their expressions, wondering what he’d missed. He was lucky to understand one sentence in three, given the pace and fluidity of the advocates’ language.
What had Den Muret’s man done to gratify Camarl and the Sieur? Faint discomfort was plain on more than one Den Rannion face in the far gallery. Temar glanced at their advocate, but the man’s ascetic face was all unreadable bony angles. He sighed softly to himself. He’d never have imagined he could find himself facing Vahil’s family in a court of law, with all these people squabbling over Kel Ar’Ayen like dogs tearing at a fat carcass.
The little bell sounded three sharp notes and everyone in the floor of the court instantly sprang to life, clerks gathering up sheaves of documents, advocates leaning close in urgent conversation. Temar looked down to see Master Burquest walking towards the door, chatting with someone in scarlet robes.
“What is happening?” Temar got hastily to his feet a breath after everyone else.
“The Emperor has called a recess.” Camarl sounded puzzled. “Come on, we need to clear the stairs so everyone else can leave.”
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