Vendanj and the others followed him onto the chamber floor.
On one side, a number of men sat behind a long, burnished hardwood table coated with a deep chestnut lacquer. These gentlemen wore high-collar coats woven in black tightcloth and trimmed with white epaulets. Before them on their table rested dozens of books and mottled scrolls in hasty disarray. Four of them sat in utter silence, their faces gaunt and unsmiling. Beneath the austere visages the look of a trapped animal wrestled their near impeccable control.
On the other side of the round chamber sat a second table identical to the first. This was their table. Behind it, against the short wall that rose to the first row of the theater, Mira and Braethen took seats.
Vendanj joined Grant at the challenger’s table.
All around them rose circular rows, each bounded by a low balustrade. Not a seat was vacant. Even the aisles teemed with gawkers hunkered down or seated on the stairs. Men and women, old and young, pressed cloth and rumpled shirttails, sat beside one another. The smell of expectation and the heat of cramped bodies filled the air.
A moment later, the chamber doors opened again and the regent stepped in.
Dead gods, it’s been a long time, Helaina.
A wave of chatter and noise rippled through the gallery and the entire assembly rose to its feet and bowed. The regent acknowledged the crowd with a wave of her hand, and came forward into the ringed theater.
She crossed between the two tables, and mounted a low set of stairs to a modest platform and an old wooden chair lined with a horsehair fabric. The chair was chipped and marred, but its stout legs didn’t grumble or budge as she eased her weight into it. She took a moment to gather her breath, before settling her gaze on the men wearing the formal counsel gowns across from Grant.
With the inclination of her chin, all came to silence. The guards closed the doors to the Court of Judicature. The boom of it reverberated in the hall.
“This is a matter already written into the ledger,” she began, directing her comments to the first counselor, who wore a white braided rope slung over his shoulders, its ends knotted above a series of thin fringes. “Why are we convened again upon it, First Counsel?”
The man stood and cleared his throat. He came around his table and assumed a posture of oration. “My Law,” he said, addressing Helaina, “indeed this matter was heard and ruled upon. The offender sits this day in chains he has rightly earned. I, for one, have no desire to put the argument to the Court of Judicature again. And you may make an end of it here and now—”
“I know my authority, First Counsel,” the regent said curtly.
“Your pardon, My Law.” He bowed, and again cleared his throat, his thin, aged cheeks puffing as he did so. “Our ruling has found a challenge. An old one to be sure.” He looked back at the dusty scrolls on his table. “But we’ve not found sufficient cause to disregard it. We may circumvent this, if you’ll delay the hearing until we’ve the chance to read—”
“The Dissent?” the regent asked, her impatience rising.
“Preserved Will, My Law.”
A sudden flurry of whispers and gasps rose like the soughing of wind.
The regent raised her eyes to the many circular rows, and brought the crowd to silence. Helaina then looked to the challenger’s table. Her expression slackened with memory and guilt. He could see her surprise that he hadn’t aged in the same way she had. And then her face tightened with anger.
“Can you prove this?” she asked, locking Grant with a strict gaze.
She could have him killed just for being here. But she waited, listening. As he knew she would. She might hate him, but throwing his Dissent out on personal grounds wasn’t her way.
Grant came around his table and took a wide stance at the center of the chamber floor. He looked from his far right to his far left. Finally, he leveled his grim regard on Helaina. “We can, my lady. We will show you today how honest men suffer in the prisons you create for them.”
She looked back with quiet intensity. “You will hoist yourself up on your own rope, Counsel, if you intend to disgrace this chamber.”
“I intend no disgrace to the … chamber,” he said.
The insult was plain, but Helaina let it pass. She would hear what evidence he might have. But she wouldn’t suffer many slights before her patience would run out. Grant took his seat.
“Your books,” she said, returning her attention to the First Counselor, who had maintained his orator’s pose. “What do they say on this? We’ve not had it spoken here in a very long time.”
“That is the issue, My Law,” the man replied, his thin cheeks uninvolved in the formation of his words. He spoke in a dour, pessimistic tone. “The use of it is well beyond the memory of most of those gathered here. Tradition holds that laws so long out of use are not always of particular relevance to our ruling body.” He bowed again.
Grant rose from his seat again. “Tradition also holds that laws granted in the Charter supersede the wiles of crafty counselors or the reformations of government.”
Helaina ignored him, continuing to hold the first counselor’s eyes. “Have you established the rightness of this Dissent, then, Pleades?” The counselor seemed caught off guard by the use of his name. But he nodded. “Indeed, My Law, if you’ve no mind to controvert it, we’ve no reason to deny an audience to examine their argument.” The man sounded defeated as he made his report. “But you may give us leave to review it more closely, and some things … pass away, as time permits.”
Clever, Grant thought. Prisoners would likely be dead before the Court of Judicature reconvened on the topic.
“No.” Helaina turned to Vendanj. “And you support this challenge, Sheason?”
Vendanj nodded.
“You’re aware of the strictures placed upon your Order within the walls of Recityv and throughout all of Vohnce.”
“I am,” Vendanj said.
She refocused her penetrating gaze on Grant. “What can you add to what we already know about this Archer? And don’t trifle with our time or patience. We don’t abide liars or miscreants here.”
“I’ve no time for either, my lady, today any more than in years past.”
The regent nodded primly, and signaled the entry of six men and six women through doors on either side of her chair. The jurors stepped formally down the stairs, men to the left, women to the right. From their shoulders flowed long robes in the colors of Recityv, a white emblem of the tree and roots over each breast.
Pant cuffs hung beneath the robes. Shirt sleeves and collars were visible, too. These people had donned their outer ceremonial garments in haste. They filed to separate rows of chairs similar to the regent’s, set on the first ring from the hall floor, and sat with their hands in their laps.
When they had settled themselves, Helaina lifted a wood staff kept beside her chair and struck the marble with a loud crack, signaling the first counselor to begin. She then sat back into her chair.
Pleades strode the floor with a long gait, and clasped his hands behind his back, pacing before the men seated at his own table. Several moments passed. The first counselor’s face held a scowl, the thick skin of his forehead bunched over his thin white brows. Abruptly he stopped and folded his arms. He squared himself to face Grant.
“The ledger needs your name,” Pleades said, a subtle ridicule in the simple request.
Grant stared back, unblinking. Then he smiled and nodded appreciatively. “A fine gambit, First Counsel, worthy of every book of logic you’ve studied to earn your post. Adding my name hurts the credibility of our Dissent.” He shook a finger at him in a playful mockery of scolding. “What say you put the name of the three-ring, Vendanj, on your ledger? I shall merely be the voice to this challenge.”
Pleades began to protest.
“Ah-ah,” Grant cut him off. “The records don’t require that they be the same, so let’s dispense with clever ploys to discredit me before we begin.”
The first counselor threw up his
hands, exasperated with Grant’s disrespect for the court.
Grant kept a calm focus on the man. “You’ve arrested and imprisoned two young men for thwarting your effort to execute a leagueman accused of conspiring with a Sheason.” He pointed a finger at the first counselor. “You now plan to execute these two boys for interfering with your rite of justice. And the leagueman, as I understand it, sought the help of a Sheason to heal his dying daughter. Have I my facts straight?”
“Facts, yes. Deportment, no,” Pleades said tersely.
From the gallery, a murmured laughter.
Grant stood and stepped into the center of the chamber. “Our challenge is this: that the actions of this Archer are not punishable, because the leagueman is innocent.”
A rustling hum flared in the audience: gasps, sighs, denial, speculation.
“In the rush to convict these young men,” Grant pressed, “you overlooked the most obvious evidence available to you: a witness.” He shook his head and began walking in a slow, tight circle, addressing the gallery of citizens.
“Let’s start simply. You have a law known as the Civilization Order, which holds that any Sheason who renders the Will, or any citizen who seeks a Sheason to render the Will, is guilty of a crime. A crime that is punishable in many ways, including death.”
Assent came with the nodding of heads.
“So,” Grant submitted, “if the leagueman didn’t ask or conspire with this Sheason to render the Will, then he’s not guilty. And if he was spared the punishment of a false charge by this Archer and his friend, then these young men you’ve condemned did what any men of conscience should.”
“Your logic is sound,” the first counselor admitted with a tone of reservation, “but someone should have informed you—and spared us all a lot of time—that the accused leagueman confessed to this crime. He chose to not even speak in his own defense.” The counselor then paced away, deliberately turning his back toward Grant in a show of contempt. “Something you’d have done well to observe yourself in your own trial many years ago.”
Grant clenched his teeth, biting back his anger. He stared at the counselor’s back, then turned to face the juror council in their crimson robes. “Mark me,” he began, his voice filled with threat. “You hold three men accountable for crimes they did not commit. You’ve sentenced them to death. I will answer for my own sins … will you?”
No one spoke for several moments. The first counselor finally retook his seat and attempted to look busy reviewing parchments lying on the table. His hands shook as he did so.
Grant turned and nodded to Mira, who went to the door and promptly returned with a young girl. The child stood adorned in sooty rags, her hair pulled back in a frayed band to keep matted strands from falling in her eyes. At the urging of the Far, the girl hesitantly came forward. Grant gently took the girl’s hand and led her to the center of the circle. He whispered into her ear. She cowered for a moment, until he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Go ahead,” he said softly.
“My name is Leia,” she began. “It wasn’t my father who went to get the Sheason … it was me.”
The gallery erupted in shock and shouts. For a full minute Helaina struggled to restore order. Finally, the pounding of her staff against the marble floor brought silence to the court. “Go on, child,” she said.
“I know Rolen,” Leia continued, “I help him give out food on beggars’ row. I’ve done it for months. Makes me feel better for what my family has. And Rolen always gives me a loaf of bread for helping. When my little sister, Illia, got sick, and we had no money for a healer…”
“Go on,” Grant gently urged.
“I thought of Rolen, because I know Sheason can use the Will to make people better. I knew Mother and Father would never go to him because of the law. Or, at least, I didn’t think so. But I couldn’t just let Illia die. And Rolen is so good to me—”
Before the girl could say more, another of the Recityv counselors stood. This one wore the emblem of the League below his epaulets. He steepled his fingers under his chin and showed the girl a fatherly smile. “Are we to reverse the dignified resolution of this council on the testimony of a family member? It’s notable that she would lie to preserve her father, but hardly admissible.”
Grant stared back at the man, confused. “Why are you so eager to execute a member of your own fraternity when I’m here to tell you he’s innocent? That he did what any father would, accepting the blame to save his child?”
The League counselor thought a moment. “Let me answer with a question: Why are you so eager to substitute this child for her father?”
Again the gallery murmured with the turn of logic.
Grant put his other hand on Leia’s opposite shoulder. He stood as a father might, in full support of what the girl was about to say. “You’ve not heard the end of it,” he announced, and waited patiently on the girl to finish.
Leia trembled. She could look only at the floor, seemingly terrified of what must come next.
Her voice cracked with emotion as she spoke. “Mother asked us if any of our friends had been ill, or if any of the beggars on beggars’ row had looked sick when I went to help Rolen pass out bread. She says you can get sick by being around them. But Illia and I told her no. It wasn’t until after they took Rolen away that I remembered Mother telling us that eating too many sugared fruits could give us stomach pain … that, and the gifts Illia and I had gotten the morning she fell sick.”
Grant watched the League counselor closely. He fidgeted. His eyes darted. And he finally got to his feet again. He addressed the regent. “My Law, the child is emotional and should never have been forced to come here. And, despite her love for her father, this is a waste of the court’s time. We should—”
“You just ran the Lesher Roon in the city, did you not?” Grant asked, with a hint of sarcasm. “Surely the voice of a child isn’t to be discounted in this hall.” He gave Leia a reassuring pat on the shoulder to continue.
“Illia and I were behind our home playing. Some of father’s League friends came into the yard. They come by all the time. But that morning, they brought Illia and me each a gift. They gave me a sheaf of flowers and told me I was growing into a fine woman. And to Illia they gave a box of sugared sweets.…”
Grant caught the eyes of the robed council. “The trial record of the Sheason Rolen states that he testified of a poison in the body of child Illia—”
The League counsel shot to his feet a third time. “Don’t you dare suggest it!”
Grant stared back at the man as he said, “I submit that the conspiracy in this affair is not the imprisoned leagueman’s, nor this child’s solicitation of the Sheason to heal her sister. The conspiracy belongs to the League itself, who poisoned a child to force the family of one its members to make an impossible choice: death of a four-year-old girl or loyalty to its immoral law.”
A torrent of speculation, rumor, shock, and jeering cascaded down from the gallery. Even the jury wore concern on their usually impassive faces.
The League counselor found his composure. “With all due respect, we still have only the word of a family member, one who’s emotionally distraught with the imprisonment of her father. A girl, I might add, who appears to have been prepared for her testimony by our Dissenter. A man, as we know, who has no respect for this court.” He smiled. “It doesn’t take much to understand what is really going on here. And I can assure you any League confection is not only harmless, but actually quite tasty.”
Mellow laughter rippled through the chamber.
Grant whispered again in Leia’s ear. The girl reached into the pocket of her ragged smock and pulled out a small wrapped morsel. “Illia gave me one of her sweets before she ate them all. I was saving it for a special occasion.” She extended it in an open palm like a piece of damning evidence.
Grant held back his smile. He knew the League had swept through the child’s home and gathered in anything that could incriminate them. Th
is League counselor had been confident … until now. Grant took the sweet from Leia’s hand and walked to Pleades’ table. He held it up. “Do you recognize the emblem on this wrapper? Unless things have changed in the last few decades, I’m going to guess that only members of the League can procure this confection.”
The League counselor’s eyes never went to the sweet. “Anyone could have tampered with it in the weeks since the crime,” he argued.
Grant reset his feet. “The seal is unbroken. Let’s make this even simpler. Eat this. Eat it and prove that a simple gift to a child was not the instrument of conspiracy and death.”
Whispers rushed like seeping winds.
The leagueman waved a dismissive hand. “This is an author’s tale. A child’s fancy. Besides, where Sheason are involved, anything with this sweet is possible.” The League counselor looked over at Vendanj.
Vendanj rose for the first time. He looked across the aisle at the leagueman. His countenance shone with a terrible frown. Genuine concern rose in Helaina’s face. The air felt charged with threat.
“You won’t make this suggestion again.” Though spoken softly, Vendanj’s words resonated in the very stone. “And I won’t suffer it. Am I understood?”
The League counselor nodded, though he held a small bit of defiance in his eyes.
“Eat this,” Grant repeated.
The leagueman picked up the sweet and turned it over once cursorily. “Enough,” he said. “This is all speculation. I think we’ve heard all we need of this Dissent for the jury to render a decision.”
“I’ll have that back,” Grant said of the morsel. With some hesitance, the man returned it. Then he turned to Helaina. “What’s your confidence in your League counselor? Would you risk partaking of this confection? Prove that the court’s trust in this man is justified?”
Silence crept over the entire hall.
She stared back at him with heavy disdain. “We are done here,” she announced, and tapped her staff. “Make your final argument or let this matter lie.”
Grant sent the girl back to Mira. He then shot Helaina a sharp look and turned to address the League counselor. Into the thick stillness he said, “The League has benefited from the imprisonment of the Sheason Rolen. The feelings of the people turned to your favor after hearing of his supposed crime and conviction. And with all this distraction, you’ve caused men to forget the threat out of the Bourne that rushes toward us.”
The Unremembered Page 43
