One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  Her only worry now was how long it might take. Conceivably, they could be in this room for weeks. Bad enough for them, but what would Aletto do? He'd have to cut his losses, go on without the two of them. But if Birdy chose not to leave without her sister—? Or if Chris decided to make a dust-up to get his aunt and his best friend out of the clink?

  "You're just full of pleasant thoughts, this morning, aren't you?” she asked herself aloud, and bent back over the yellow pad.

  16

  By the time Dahven was on his feet and mumbling to himself over the bowl of washing water, she had eaten the breakfast they supplied, gone through her notes twice, made a few more additions to her outline, and was—she hoped—as ready as she was going to get.

  A tap at the door had come just at sunrise, and it had been opened by two men in unrelieved black who brought a hot, thick pottery jug of tea and two cups, two enormous slices of dark bread. One set the tray on a bench just inside the door, closed it at once. She sniffed it cautiously, poured herself tea and sniffed again. Probably wasn't a drop of caffeine in it, but at least it didn't remind her of the worst excesses of the herb teas Robyn drank. No drinking water, though. And the bread, while filling, was very dry and there was nothing to go on it.

  She measured the contents of the jug by eye as well as she could, poured herself another half-cup and left Dahven the rest, draping her tee-shirt over it to help retain the heat.

  It was still steaming by the time Dahven got to it, and he ate and drank without comment, finally looked up at her from under a thatch of uncombed hair, and grinned. “You look wonderful."

  Jennifer ruffled his head. “You look like hell and you still look wonderful."

  "Oh.” He considered this, brushed crumbs from his lap and grinned again. “I hope that was you talking, and not my advocate—I prefer better logic in my advocates.” The grin slipped. “They said nothing when they brought this—feast?"

  "Didn't even give me a chance to ask if I could get coffee and a Danish instead. I'd kill for coffee right now."

  "I will make a note,” Dahven said solemnly, “when I take you home to Sikkre, to make certain there is always coffee."

  "Mmmm. Did I put that much of a twist on your psyche last night? You're abnormally optimistic."

  "Something to do with a wonderful sleep,” he replied and leaned toward her. “Do you know—?” But whatever he would have asked went unasked; with another of those warning taps, the door swung open, the two black-clad guards came just inside and stood aside for two men in the city guards’ red and gold. Jennifer recognized neither.

  "Lord Dahven? You and the advocate will come, please, with us.” Jennifer gave Dahven's fingers a hard squeeze, caught up her yellow pad and pen, dropped the pad on top of the mess in her handbag and clipped it shut, shoved the pen down in her shirt pocket and slung the bag over her shoulder. Dahven gave her a look he no doubt meant to cheer her, but his eyes were suddenly, bleak.

  * * * *

  They went down three floors, down a narrow corridor like the one on the top floor, around a corner and through double doors.

  A glance to her right through an open door showed what looked like an empty courtroom consisting of a low table that might have served as a bench for two or three judges rather than the one she was used to, a few scattered chairs, a backless sitting bench along one pale wall. A black-clad boy was running a cloth across the table.

  Business as usual? Don't get too cocky, Cray, she reminded herself sharply. This isn't the Home of the Free, after all; they might be hauling you down here for sentencing. Reserve judgment, she told herself as they came around a corner and stopped before another pair of doors blocking off the remainder of the corridor. One of the guards tugged on a rope, spoke through the square opened for him a moment later. He stepped back, the doors parted. Dahven reached to grip Jennifer's fingers; she squeezed back.

  This was a small chamber, perhaps judge's chambers; there were windows on two walls, thick leather-bound books everywhere—in shelves, in stacks on a table against one wall, on a massive desk that could have been of any material: She could see nothing but black, sturdy legs; the rest was buried under loose papers, bundles of string-tied papers, open books. A thick, plain pottery mug was balanced on one corner, rather precariously. Jennifer was so fascinated by the desk—it reminded her very much of her own office desk, except that here there was no buried radio playing Mahler—she scarcely noticed the man sitting behind it until she was seated in the cushion-piled chair one of the city guard showed her to. Dahven stopped just short of the desk and remained standing. Jennifer drew the yellow pad onto her lap, let her handbag fall to the floor, shoved it behind her heels with one foot, uncapped the ball-point and leaned back.

  The man behind the desk, she now saw, was probably somewhere around forty; he was dark, clean-shaven, his hair kept short—probably for practicality, she thought; he had the look of one of her old senior partners, every move planned to take the least amount of time, every possible activity graded and chosen according to need, possible returns later, importance to the firm. His eyes were a deep hazel and very direct. Surely not Shesseran, she thought.

  "You are Dahmec's son,” the man said abruptly as he came to his feet. “We have never met, but I knew Dahmec some years ago; you have something of his look.” He moved his eyes to meet Jennifer's. “I am Afronsan, as you may have already guessed."

  "Lord Afronsan,” Dahven began. The older man shook his head.

  "If we met elsewhere, other than this building. Lord Afronsan. Even my clerks leave the title aside; it wastes time and serves no purpose.” He sat again and moved his cup to one side, bringing up a length of cream-colored, thick paper. “We all serve the cause of justice here,” he added.

  Jennifer swallowed, shifted her weight so she sat slightly forward. “Sir, I would like to see the writs, if any, against my client."

  "Ah. Of course you would.” He gave her a very brief smile. “There are no formal writs, at present. My brother, before you ask, has issued no orders regarding the present unresolved situation in Sikkre. However, he has given me considerable powers these past few years, and allowed me a free hand in setting up the inner workings of smooth government."

  "Civil service,” Jennifer murmured. “Of course. If there are no formal writs, then, may I ask what other charges there are against my client?"

  "There are as yet no charges against anyone. There may yet be, and it is my hope you and the nera-Thukar will cooperate in what is still a very early investigation."

  "Grand jury,” Jennifer mumbled to herself, adding aloud, “Of course, I understand.” She leaned forward to touch Dahven's knee and indicate another of the deep chairs with a nod, flipped over to the last page of her yellow pad and drew a deep breath.

  Afronsan listened well—better than some of the judges she'd seen in the cases where she'd been allowed to assist at trial. He interrupted her remarks twice with questions, otherwise sat still, eyes fixed on her face. When she finished, he shifted that gaze to Dahven, listening with the same intense care as he spoke, this time asking no questions. When Dahven finished speaking, Afronsan sent one of the guards hovering at the back of the room for refreshment—tea for himself and Dahven, coffee and water for Jennifer when she asked if that were possible. The coffee was very thick, bitter, and needed a full packet of sugar from her bag plus half the drinking water to be palatable. She took a deep sip and sighed happily; it was still wonderful. She could almost feel the caffeine percolating her blood.

  Afronsan set his cup aside—balancing it this time on a precarious stack of open volumes—and fished through papers in front of him. He came up with what he wanted, finally—a sheaf of several papers tied together across the top with thick blue string, bound to some kind of stiff backing—and beckoned to Dahven, holding it out for his inspection. Jennifer set her cup aside and got up to see. Dahven edged over so they could both look at it, turned the individual sheets as she looked.

  Unfortunately
, she couldn't read Rhadazi; but the document had a familiar sort of look, and Dahven confirmed this aloud. “Father's will. This is the will my brothers sent to be proved?"

  "You have never seen this will before?"

  Dahven shook his head. “One similar in form, of course. He still believed in having all his documents clerk-copied, instead of set in type; time-consuming for the clerks but he said it was his time in the long run, and his money.” He turned another sheet to the last page, stared at the signatures there for a long time, shook his head again. “The signature might be Father's; it often varied and it was often erratic, the way this is—according to his mood, you know."

  "Have you any way of proving a signature, sir?” Jennifer asked as Dahven handed the document over to her. She glanced up; Afronsan shook his head. “Then—” she prompted carefully.

  "There are other things, however,” Afronsan said. “The testimony of your servant, the man Edrith. I read it just before you were shown in here; it matches your statements in nearly every respect."

  "Yes, well, it should,” Dahven replied mildly. He had blinked when Afronsan labeled Edrith as his servant and Jennifer had to bite the corner of her mouth to keep back a smile.

  "You could of course have planned matters that way, since there was time between Sikkre and Bez—had you come that way—or between Bezjeriad and Podhru."

  Jennifer opened her mouth, closed it, finally nodded when Afronsan glanced her way. “Collusion. It's always possible, of course. In this case, it isn't true."

  "When combined with other testimony, I tend—cautiously yet—to agree with you.” He leaned back in his chair and pulled out several other sheets of paper—several of them folded and refolded and rather grubby. “When rumor began to appear everywhere, I sent men to learn what they could, firsthand. Here, the statement of a Zelharri common soldier, who describes a certain encounter in the desert south of Sikkre."

  Jennifer felt for the edge of the desk, uncertain her knees would hold her. “His name is Garret,” she said finally. “Son of a baker in Sehfi.” She gave him the rest of the story as briefly as she could: the six men, Jadek's sphere and the dead man after, the kidnapping of Chris by Cholani nomads. The previous encounter with men who called themselves the Thukars'. Afronsan was staring at her when she finished, possibly through her.

  He nodded once. “The statement matches his in sufficient particulars. I also have the unsolicited statement of a Sikkreni named Vey. He claims a close relationship with the streets of your market, and describes events of particular interest to me: that you were seen leaving Sikkre on the night certain outlanders went, on the same night the Red Hawk Caravan set out for Dro Pent. Some hours later, several men came through that same gate and went directly to the Thukar's tower. The Sikkreni states that he saw your return to Sikkre with first light, and that he saw the men leave by the east gate a short time later. Two rode, a third drove a wagon, he states, and in that wagon was a bundle of dark cloth that might have been a man. From that hour to the one when he put his mark on this, he claims not to have seen Dahmec's heir in Sikkre."

  He paused for remarks; Dahven was pale and beyond comment. Jennifer cleared her throat. “He made no—um, statement as to who those men might have been?"

  "He could not be certain they were Lasanachi, if you mean that,” Afronsan replied levelly. “Though by his description, they were not much like any Rhadazi, and were very like the Lasanachi in size and coloring.” He produced another sheet. “This was obtained with some difficulty from a man who called himself Dighra.” He looked up; Jennifer shook her head. The name meant nothing until Dahven, who was reading down the page, let his head fall back and he laughed.

  "Little warm sand gods, it's the man who took me in below the Bez docks."

  Jennifer's eyes narrowed. “The boot thief,” she said very quietly. She folded her arms, looked at the paper, and the writing she couldn't read, bit back a curse. “Tell me what he says.” Dahven summarized as he went; Jennifer signed, finally nodded. “Except that he left out the boots, it's the truth as I know it."

  "Boots?"

  "You don't remember that he stole your boots, ran off to sell them, leaving you sick and unwatched in that—that hovel?"

  Dahven considered this very briefly, finally shrugged. “Doubtless he saw enough money in them to keep himself fed for some time to come; don't be hard on him. Besides, now I understand something Edrith said, after we'd left Bez. If that poor little wreck of a man hadn't been trying to sell my boots, Edrith might never have known I was there.” He touched her hand. “Don't. Between you, you and Edrith and my brothers’ men must have paid him for that act with a day and night of absolute terror."

  Afronsan separated out three sheets this time. “The statements of a Bez market woman who lent her wagon, a physician brought to the house of a maker of spells and potions to heal a fevered man—the statement of the mistress of that house, describing the man. And—here, the last of them. The statement of her husband, who was present when the man was first brought from the docks, and who saw first-hand his condition before the woman who brought him utilized Night-Thread to heal his injuries.” Afronsan glanced up at Jennifer curiously. “Unsubstantiated rumor says that the outland advocate who was originally brought into Zelharri is a Wielder of—let us say—unconventional style."

  Jennifer shrugged. “If you're asking me—I do Wield. I doubt that what I do is so unconventional; I'm simply not bound by the narrow vision of one brought up to the talent."

  "I'm not asking about any of that, beyond what you've told me. My only inquiry at this time is into the Sikkre problem, to settle the proving of this will and to determine what is to be done about conferring the title and Duke's Chair.” He took back the sheaf of paper from Dahven, leaned back in his chair and finished what must by now be barely tepid tea. “There is no purpose in holding you—either you, Dahven, your advocate or your servant. There are no writs, no provable crimes which could be laid at your feet, and a good many incidents which would count as wrongs both against you and against the state.

  "And so—” He paused. Dahven stirred, leaned against the desk.

  "And so? Sir—I tell you quite frankly that it is my intention, once certain other obligations are behind me, to go directly to Sikkre and confront my brothers."

  "We would prefer that you not contemplate such an action.” Afronsan was watching him over a steeple of fingers.

  Dahven shook his head, and Jennifer reached back to the chair for her yellow pad, to consult the first page. “Sir, it has been nearly fifty years since any man obtained a Duke's Chair by murder—I agree, sir, that no such case is proven here. However, in that case it was decreed by the Emperor that it was Duchy business.” She looked up from the paper; Afronsan had transferred that mild look to her. She drew a deep breath. “And there is also the matter of the Duke's Chair of Zelharri, which has been left as Duchy business by lack of any action on the part of Podhru,” she added.

  "There has been no claim of any sort regarding Zelharri—either by the Regent Jadek to transfer title to himself, or by the nera-Duke, to claim his rights. Until one or the other event occurs, there is no matter there for the Emperor to investigate. And I,” Afronsan said with a shrug, “am inclined to leave that matter entirely alone at present."

  Something in his eyes, Jennifer thought. He knew damned well Aletto was with her, or had been all the way to the city gates. He had to be letting her know that; letting her know, too, that so long as no one came right out and mentioned Aletto or said where he was, Afronsan wasn't going to do anything about him. She cast Dahven a sidelong glance and changed the subject.

  "Then let us leave it. The matter of Sikkre, however; if you have an alternative to my client walking into the grasp of men who to my certain knowledge have more than once attempted to murder him, then I personally would gladly hear it."

  To her surprise, Afronsan laughed. “Yes. There is plenty of rumor as well as comment in the testimony about the temper of th
e woman advocate! No, don't apologize, I know you weren't intending rudeness. However, the matter is already in hand. Lord Dahven,” he added, “the matter was Duchy business until the paper was signed and coin exchanged and you were put in the hands of the Lasanachi. Your advocate may not be fully versed in Rhadazi law, but surely you know that flies in the face of law. The death of your father and the subsequent production of the will is suspicious, and we are so treating it, particularly in light of attacks upon yourself and upon innocent parties.” Jennifer heard a faint tap and turned as one of the guard went to slide the peephole open. He slid the door open a crack, came across to the desk with another sheet of paper. Afronsan sighed faintly but took it. “I sometimes think they will find me buried under paper, when it finally slides from the desk."

  "I know,” Jennifer said feelingly, and when he glanced her way, “Some things are the same everywhere.” She moved sideways a pace, took hold of Dahven's fingers while the Emperor's brother read what he'd just been handed.

  "A last statement taken this morning, the boy who was driving the wagon yesterday. He confirms threats by armed men between Bez and Podhru, an attack by those same men not long after. He confirms your statements about the events after you were falsely led into the alley next to the north walls and attacked.” Afronsan let the paper fall to his desk and was silent for a long, nerve-wracking moment. Jennifer felt cold fingers squeeze hers, returned the pressure.

  "Having none of these men, we have more than half the story, but not all of it. All the same, there is no reason to hold any of you, though I would strongly suggest you avoid following strange men into traps for the remainder of your stay here.” He smiled briefly, picked up his tea mug, stared into apparently empty depths, shrugged and set it aside.

  "I suggest, again very strongly, that you complete whatever further—obligations, I believe you said?—that you have. In the meantime, there will be a full investigation into these matters. We will find and speak with men who were involved in the attacks, with persons in the Thukar's household, with members of the Red Hawk Clan. The market itself will be gone through carefully, since there is also rumor of dissatisfaction with new taxes and regulations. Your brothers will be asked for detailed statements regarding all of this.” He smiled, very briefly, and Jennifer thought he looked rather smug, like a politician pulling a fast one—or, more to the point, a judge who's finally nailed someone who should have been in jail years before.