by K. C. May
Jora had to think for a moment. She remembered some of them seemed backwards to her, but she wasn’t sure if that was one. “Property?”
Bastin shook her head. “Reread chapter eight in Laws of Serocia part one.”
For the next half hour, she continued to grill Jora on the legal system, testing her memory of specific laws, penalties, and exceptions. When the second dinner bell rang, they took their meeting to the dining hall. Bastin talked passionately about the laws of corpora, touching on examples that were close enough to the issues brought up at Jora’s trial that Jora thought she was fishing for some tidbit of information, perhaps hoping Jora would volunteer to share something.
She hadn’t seen Bastin in the courtroom that day. At the time, she thought her former Disciple didn’t care enough to attend. Later, she discovered that Bastin had wanted to but was denied because of her mentorship.
By the time the third bell rang, the dining hall was empty but for the two of them. A stricken look came over Bastin’s face. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“What’s the rush?” Jora asked as she clambered over the bench seat, then set her dirty bowl and spoon with the others.
A wave of enforcers flooded into the room. Most of them failed to notice the two women, but a few watched them with a dark hunger in their eyes.
Bastin grabbed the books in one arm and took Jora by the hand, dragging her through the sea of uniformed men. “Hurry,” she said, her voice pitched in panic.
They wormed their way through the doorway, squeezing past the men, and scurried down the hall toward the building exit.
“What’s wrong?” Jora asked as she hurried to catch up. She looked over her shoulder at the enforcers filing into the dining room, wondering if Korlan had been set free yet. She watched the faces for a moment, hoping to glimpse him.
“They’re… not like us,” Bastin said. “Don’t ever get trapped in the dining hall at the third bell.”
Jora laughed. When she’d first joined the Order of Justice Officials, her new friends Gilon and Adriel cautioned her not to linger after her meal and get caught with the enforcers at the third bell, but like entering after the first bell, she’d thought it more a rule than a warning. “Come on, Bastin,” she said in a teasing lilt. “They’re justice officials like we are. Why are you so scared of them?”
A haunted look in her eye took Jora aback. “The things they have to do—it changes them. They’ve lost their humanity.”
Jora shuddered. Was Korlan in some kind of danger? Had she plucked him from the noose, only to drop him into a sea to drown?
They paused at the stairs. Away from the crowd of enforcers—perhaps two dozen or so still waited to get into the dining room—Bastin relaxed. “Go back over chapters thirteen and fourteen, and then read fifteen through eighteen by tomorrow. We’ll meet again at ten. Don’t be late next time.”
Jora took her text books with her to the justice building and jogged up the stairs to Elder Devarla’s office for their scheduled meeting. The door was open, and the elder was seated at her desk, writing. Jora knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” Elder Devarla said, glancing up. A scowl furrowed her brow. “What do you think you’re doing, wearing that?”
“It’s the robe you gave me.”
“You were given the novice’s robe. Take that off.”
“This is the purple robe, Elder,” Jora said. “It turns red when I put it on. Didn’t Elder Tornal mention it?”
Elder Devarla sniffed. “I haven’t spoken to Elder Tornal today.”
“Well, he saw it and said he would speak to you about it. I assumed you’d come to the same conclusion I did and accept that there was nothing to be done about it.”
“I’d rather you wear your street clothes, then,” Elder Devarla said. She gestured to a chair in front of her desk.
Jora closed the door and sat obediently. “If I wear my street clothes, then I would be violating article one five one, section b: failing to attire myself in a manner befitting a member of the Order. Unless I’m not considered a member of the Order, in which case I’ll gladly let my hair grow out again.”
Elder Devarla pinched her lips together and shook her head. “You’re a novice of the Order. Perhaps we can find you some purple street clothes to wear as a compromise.”
“I’m the Gatekeeper,” Jora said gently. “Like it or not. Either I dress like a Justice Official, or I dress like a common citizen. The choice is yours. You don’t get to make up rules as you go simply because you don’t like who I am.”
“I don’t dislike who you are, Jora. These are uncharted waters for us all. Any sensitivity you show during this period of adjustment would go far to quell the discomfort of your fellows.” The elder sighed. “All right. Let’s talk about your being the Gatekeeper. Was it something you learned from Sundancer?”
Jora leaned back in her chair and told Elder Devarla about receiving the flute as a gift, learning to play it, and drawing Sundancer’s attention. The elder listened keenly, asking questions now and then, but focusing most of her attention on the book Jora had borrowed from Kaild’s small library.
“And what was the title of this book?” she asked.
Jora licked her lips. Until she’d come along, nobody had shown much interest in that book. Once the Truth Sayers knew its value, not only would people die over it, there was a good chance someone—or several someones—would also become Gatekeeper. Was that possible? Had there ever been more than one Gatekeeper in the world at a time? “The book was destroyed when the assassins burned Kaild down,” she said, hoping to avoid the question.
“There may still be a copy of it elsewhere,” Elder Devarla said. She dipped her quill into the inkpot and tapped off the excess, then poised pen over paper. “The title?”
“Um, I think it was The Whispering Sea,” she said. That had been the book her former mentor had recommended she read, but it had burned in a fire years earlier. The book she’d actually read was The Book of Azarian. If the elder found The Whispering Sea and determined it wasn’t the right book, Jora could pretend to remember the actual title. It would buy her some time, anyway.
“Elder,” she said, “I’m leery of anyone reading that book.”
“You want the power of the Gatekeeper for yourself?” the elder asked, a teasing smile lifting one corner of her mouth.
“It’s not that…” Yes it is. I’m the only one here whose intentions are pure. “I meant that with someone still… you know…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. ...“Smuggling godfruit, I find it difficult to trust anyone else with this knowledge.”
“You don’t trust me?” the elder asked.
Jora considered how to phrase her response. “You haven’t exactly been my champion.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”
“Then why did you promise to take my books from me and hand them over to that greedy, self-serving–”
“Novice!” Elder Devarla snapped. “Do not disrespect the dominee.” She lowered her voice to a fierce whisper. “I have to answer to her, whether I agree with her ruling or not.”
“You’re a justice official,” Jora argued. “She’s not. She’s a religious leader. Why does she get to dictate the law? Should that not be the king’s decision?”
“We are not taking this matter before the king. And she’s not dictating the law.”
“I beg to differ. Theft is defined as a crime in which one person intentionally takes the property of another without consent. Seeing as I do not consent to giving her my books, she is attempting to skirt the law and seize them fraudulently.”
The elder sighed and wiped the ink off her quill with a stained rag. “I’ll have Adept Fer research the matter more thoroughly. Give the books to me now. If Adept Fer’s research agrees with your assessment, I’ll return them, otherwise, I’ll deliver them to the dominee as promised.”
“I… I don’t have them,”
Jora said as she stood. Since she didn’t have them in her hands, it wasn’t a lie in the absolute sense.
“What do you mean you don’t have them?”
“I’ve hidden them. It’ll take some time to retrieve them.” A few seconds was some time.
The elder scowled. “Get them before the first supper bell, or you’ll have another punishment coming.”
On my side? Jora thought with a sardonic lift of her lips. Hardly.
That evening in her room, Jora was shaving her head when Elder Devarla came knocking.
“I was under the impression the king had denied your friend Korlan a pardon for his desertion,” she said. “How is it he appeared in my courtroom wearing an enforcer’s uniform?”
Jora smiled, pleased he’d been sworn into the Order so quickly. “Princess Rivva convinced the Legion to dismiss the charges against him.”
“Yes, I know that now, but I’m asking why she would do such a thing. She didn’t know him. What did you promise her in exchange?”
“Our agreement is between the two of us. She needed a favor and so did I.”
“I hope you’re not considering violating the terms of your pardon.”
Jora’s ears warmed. “Do you honestly think the princess would ask me to oppose the king’s explicit command?”
The two shared a long, silent look. “Very well,” Elder Devarla said. “Now, on the matter of your books, I spoke at length with Adepts Fer, Uster, and Lazar.”
Jora’s gut twisted. Something told her this wasn’t good.
“While there’s no precedent for this particular situation, they agreed that the assumption in any dispute over property ownership between a member of the Order and the institution of the Justice Bureau would default to the institution as the predominant body, especially where Elder Kassyl’s book is concerned, since he wrote it entirely during his tenure at the bureau. Because the temple predominates the Justice Bureau, we had to conclude that the books are property of the Ministry of Truth–”
“No,” Jora said, crossing her arms.
“–However… Let me finish. However, we also concluded that when there is no immediate need for the property to be in the dominee’s possession, it would remain with you.”
“The dominee won’t relinquish the books to me. She thinks that by learning the language and issuing the commands, she can become a Gatekeeper. When I was at the temple this morning, Retar told me there was something else, something beyond learning the Calling, that made me the Gatekeeper.”
Elder Devarla cocked her head. “What was it?”
“I don’t know. She yanked me out of the communion chamber before I could get clarification.”
The elder’s coppery eyebrows shot up. “The dominee—Dominee Ibsa—interrupted your communion?”
“Yes. I thought they weren’t supposed to do that.”
Elder Devarla pursed her lips. Her lack of a response was just as much a confirmation as a verbal one would have been. “Well, that has no bearing on the issue of property ownership. Give me the books, Novice. I’ll give them to her and pass along this information.”
“But if she manages to learn the Calling, she’ll recruit allies to fight me.”
“You needn’t worry about that. The dominee might govern the members of the Order, but she cannot use the Mindstream, and so the possibility that she could summon these allies of yours is slim.”
That relieved Jora somewhat, but the fact remained that she didn’t want to give over her books. “I’m sorry, Elder. I won’t give her my books.”
Elder Devarla sighed. “Then I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have to do it, but you leave me no choice. I must discipline you for another act of insubordination.”
Jora nodded, accepting whatever punishment she was due. After all, she was facing a sentence for insubordination already. How much worse could it get? As long as the dominee didn’t get her books.
“This isn’t how I wanted to begin our relationship, Jora,” the elder said, her voice soft. “Please spare me having to do this.”
“We all do what we must, no matter how distasteful. You already know the lengths I’ll go to do the right thing.”
“The right thing,” Elder Devarla mused aloud. “Are you speaking of legalities or morals?”
“Our laws are based on the morals of the greater populace,” Jora said. It was one of the things she’d learned in the text books Bastin had her reading. “Where the laws are unclear or absent, then morals must dictate our actions.”
“Let me ask you this, Novice. What makes you think your morals are better than anyone else’s?”
“I don’t,” Jora replied quickly, “but taking someone else’s hard work for yourself is wrong.”
“Yes, but here we adhere to and uphold the law. If you can show me a statute in the books that says objects created by a member of the Order are not the property of the Order, then bring it to me. Otherwise, you’re in contempt, and you’ll be punished. Report to Justice Captain Milad tomorrow morning, and wear street clothes so you don’t soil your robe.”
Chapter 9
Escorting prisoners to the justice building and watching over them during their trial and sentencing hearings were easy tasks. It wasn’t until Korlan was given his first punishment assignment that he realized he was going to hate the next eight and a half years of his life.
It was a woman of about sixty, barely able to see through hazy, gray eyes. She’d lost about half of her teeth, and her hair was patchy on top. Her timid voice and self-disparaging humor reminded him of his grandmother. They even had similar given names. But the convicted woman had been caught stealing food for her two orphaned grandchildren. The death of their father in the war and their mother after a long bout of pneumonia were indisputable. They lived in what amounted to a lean-to in a Jolver back alley and had holes in their shoes so big, their toes poked through them.
Stealing was against the law under any circumstances, and despite the merchant’s subsequent forgiveness of the debt, Elder Tornal, an old, white-haired man with a perpetual scowl, sentenced her to behanding.
After the hearing was adjourned, Korlan took her by the elbow and escorted her to the stairs that led to the facilities, the rooms where the convicts’ sentences were carried out, with the exception of beheadings and hangings. Those were performed outside in the public square for all to witness.
Downstairs, there were six rooms that looked like torture chambers. Hanging on hooks along the walls were shears for snipping off fingers, metal instruments of all kinds, leather straps, wooden paddles, some with nails hammered through the wide end, hatchets, knives and swords, buckets for catching spilled blood, gags, cloth bandages, and belts with twisted loops to use for tourniquets. Above all was the stench from years of shed blood, sweat, and excrement.
“Sit her down over there,” Justice Captain Milad said.
A chair was positioned at the foot of a long, wooden table. The table’s surface was marred with dozens of cuts and scratches, every one caked with dried blood.
The old woman sobbed. “Please don’t do this. I’ll bleed to death, and my grandchildren will have no one.”
Korlan pressed down on her shoulders to sit her in the chair, then followed Milad’s instructions to tie her into it, though he tried to be gentle as he pulled and buckled the straps across her thighs and chest. The chair was outfitted with a longer, swiveling arm on each side, each with its own set of straps. “You’re right handed, aren’t you?”
The woman was crying so hard, she couldn’t speak, but she nodded, and he strapped her left arm down so that her forearm and wrist lay atop the table.
“Can I at least give her some poppy first?” Korlan asked.
Milad sneered at him. “That would negate the effectiveness of the punishment.”
“Isn’t losing a hand effective enough? Come on, boss. She’s an old woman.”
“And she should know better. She’ll think twice about stealing again, won’t she?”
K
orlan gave her a sympathetic look and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Her sad, drooping eyes pleaded with him to do something. His own position was precarious enough, and he couldn’t risk his life or his family’s to oppose the entire judicial system, when Milad would probably just do it himself anyway.
Milad went to the far wall and pulled an axe from where it hung on a hook. “Use this one. It looks pretty sharp, and it’s heavy enough to get the job done.”
Korlan took the axe, felt its weight in his hand, got a sense of its balance. He ran his thumb across the blade. “This could use a few passes with the whetstone, I think.”
Milad tested the blade the same way. “It’s fine. Now come over to this side. Aim for the joint, right here.” He drew his finger across the woman’s bony and age-spotted wrist. The skin was thin, the veins clearly visible beneath. “Too low on the arm and you’ll just bury the blade in her bone and have to wrench it out and try again. Too high on the hand, and you’ll have to cut through all the small bones.”
Korlan’s mouth started to water. He wasn’t sure he could do this. He lightly touched the blade to her skin, measuring the right place. His arm trembled, and the handle felt slick in his sweaty palm.
“A little lower. Right there. Now do it. Give it a good blow.”
Korlan raised the axe. He blinked his eyes to clear away the gray spots forming, but they multiplied, obscuring everything in his peripheral vision.
The next thing he knew, a thick wetness had his face stuck to the floor. He sat up. The floor around him was covered in tacky blood. The woman was gone. Milad was gone. The axe was on the table above his head.
He climbed unsteadily to his feet, gripping the table edge for strength. His fingers left sticky red marks on the wood. Had he done it? He didn’t remember cutting off her hand. He only remembered starting to faint. Challenge the god! If he’d fainted, leaving Milad to do his job, he would catch hell not just from his boss but from all the other enforcers.
Footsteps approached. It was Trond, a crooked smile on his face as he sauntered down the corridor.
