Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  Surely no one was buying this mulch?

  She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I shall move on to the details of the crime.” She sniffed.

  And they all bought it, hook, line and sinker.

  “Citizen Yorkov was found locked out on the roof garden,” she continued. “Only yards above where we now sit, whilst my husband was found on the concourse with his head split and the fanatic’s Pledge in his hand. One can only assume my late husband grabbed at it in an attempt to save himself.” She dabbed her eyes again.

  The chamber fell quiet, accusatory eyes burning from every corner. Guyen wanted to shout—Lies! It’s all lies, she did it—but Ariana was already on her feet, a stern look sealing his lips tight.

  “I object,” she protested. “The use of the word fanatic is leading and baseless. I insist the prosecution withdraw this slur.” The way she carried herself, this might have been her hundredth trial, not her first. She was impressive in every way.

  “I apologise,” Jal said. “Of course, I meant to say alleged fanatic.” She glanced up, eyes hot. “That is all, clerk.”

  The clerk offered a bemused look. “You do not wish to examine the accused?”

  “No.”

  The onlookers murmured.

  “And you have no witnesses to present?” the clerk asked, not a little disturbed at the lack of procedure.

  “I do not, clerk. The evidence heard in pre-trial and witness reports on pages six through twelve in the bundle represent the facts fully.”

  This would be the quickest murder trial in Devotions history. So much for due process.

  “Very well,” the clerk said. He turned to Ariana. “I throw the case to the defence. Mistress Thurl?”

  Ariana sprang to her feet. “Thank you, clerk.” She scanned the chamber. “My lords, mistresses, the case before you today is a fabrication, a child’s story. The evidence is entirely circumstantial and the witness reports are unreliable.” She glanced at her notes. “I shall firstly address Maker Yorkov’s motive. The prosecution claim it is predicated on his brother’s disappearance. This is clearly a nonsense.”

  Jal tapped her desk. The clerk waved for her to stand. Ariana sat.

  “The accused blamed Lord Devere for his brother’s disappearance,” Jal said. “Witnesses heard an earlier argument between them, as recorded in written statements thirteen and fourteen in your trial documents.” She retook her seat. The other Primes leafed through their papers. What witnesses were those? Did Ariana know about them?

  General Berese raised a hand. “Do we know of this brother’s whereabouts?”

  Rialto looked up. “We do not, General.” He still wouldn’t make eye contact. What was he afraid of? Confronting the truth?

  Ariana stood again. “My lords, mistresses, the brother’s disappearance does not establish motive. Killing Lord Devere would not have assisted the accused in locating him.”

  Jal waved a dismissive hand. “The accused’s background and tendency to violence is on the record. As is his involvement in the Keg Market attack. Besides, he is a native of Krell. We know of their tempers.”

  “I object,” Ariana said. “There is no evidence of my client’s involvement in the Keg Market tragedy, and to claim his nationality imparts a personality trait is contrary to Stilzenbach 1634.”

  “Yes, yes.” The clerk hovered nervously at his desk. “Please refrain from caricature, High Mistress.”

  Jal shot Ariana an evil look.

  “So, no motive,” Ariana declared, “but furthermore, is it not odd that after committing this alleged crime the accused did not escape the scene?”

  “He was drunk,” Jal returned.

  “But sober enough to lock the door?”

  “This is irrelevant.” Her cheek twitched. She was riled.

  The blonde counsel smiled like a cat with a mouse between her paws. “My lords, mistresses, I put it to you that the accused was drugged and framed for this crime.” The audience gasped. Jal’s hand shook, only noticeable if you were staring, but Guyen was. This was the money play. “Clerk,” Ariana trilled. “I would call a witness to events in the roof garden.”

  The chamber quietened again. Jal’s veneer of patience slipped. “There were no witnesses, Mistress Thurl. The accused locked the door.”

  Ariana looked to the gallery. This was her stage, and she was the leading lady. “I beg to differ, my lords, mistresses, in fact there most certainly was a witness to events that night. And I should like his evidence admitted. I would call Artisan Sarken von Deliau to the stand.”

  Jal’s face contorted, for a moment making her the ugliest woman in the room. Whispers hissed around the chamber—Sark’s unique position in the Prime’s household was well known. So Ariana had found him—what had he seen? Obviously something, if she thought it worth calling him. But would anyone believe the word of a halfbound?

  “Please have your men admit him, clerk.” Ariana motioned towards the antechamber.

  Scholar Kynsley rose. “Clerk, I wish to raise a point of law before we hear this witness.”

  “You have the floor,” the clerk said.

  Kynsley smiled graciously. “I believe, my lords, mistresses, that under section eighty of the Statute of Binding, halfbounds have no legal status, and as such cannot be called upon to testify.”

  Jal nodded approvingly.

  Ha! And there we go, the system fights back. Ariana was good, but they’d been fools to think they could subvert Sendali justice—its whole purpose was to keep lowborn scum in their place, and it was well equipped to do so.

  “Prime Kynsley, is it not?” Ariana purred.

  “It is, Mistress.”

  “My lord, I hear your knowledge of the statutes is beyond reproach.” The High Justice twitched, eyes locked on his daughter, half-embarrassed, half-afraid.

  Kynsley considered her suspiciously. “I pride myself on a wide knowledge of the Truths, Mistress Thurl.”

  “In that case, my lord, you will have no choice but to admit Deliau’s evidence.”

  Jal jumped up. “Are you prepared to bet your future on it, Mistress Thurl?”

  “High Mistress,” the clerk bawled, “you must not speak while I have ceded the floor to the Scholars. It is quite improper.”

  “Improper? I define proper, you ignorant man.”

  A smattering of laughter circled the chamber. The bastards were enjoying this. Maybe you should free Toulesh and cast Mass on the lot of them, Guyen thought. Turn Rialto’s disgusting rings into manacles, turn the clerk’s oval rims into anchors, turn Jal’s Pledge into an iron noose and strangle her.

  Ariana cleared her throat. “Clerk, I would submit a document to Council.”

  Berese watched Jal carefully. “Document, Mistress Thurl?”

  “Yes, General. A certificate of Binding, issued to Von Deliau yesterday.”

  “Impossible,” Jal snapped. “There must be a mistake.”

  Ariana addressed the clerk. “The certification was granted most properly, clerk, by a Mistress Uther of the Assignments Office, a most respected Assessor.”

  Uther—the Assessor back in Tal Maran. Now, that was a name to conjure with.

  Ariana took a scroll from her document case and passed it to the clerk. He scanned it, then looked up and pronounced. “The most recent decree of the office of Grande Prime, the Savant directive, allows for retesting and thus gives force of law to this document. Admit the witness.”

  If Jal could have stared death into Ariana, no doubt she would have. Some moments in time just have a certain poetry to them.

  Two guards marched Sark into the chamber and the clerk ushered him to the stand at the base of the dock. The balding man glanced up, his sickly yellow eyes sad, but burning with determination.

  “State your name,” the clerk said.

  Sark straightened. “Sarken von Deliau, House of Garndal.”

  The clerk risked a sideways glance at Jal. Her face was stone. “Do you swear fealty to the Truths and to the Primea
rchy, Deliau?”

  “I swear by the Signs.”

  The clerk bowed his head to Ariana. “You may proceed, Mistress.”

  She approached. “Thank you for coming today, Artisan Von Deliau. Please tell Council what happened on the night of the Reverie, if you would be so kind.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” He stared straight ahead. “Prime Wield Devere was murdered. But not by this Maker.”

  Tuts spattered the benches.

  “Council would have the Truths from you, Artisan,” Ariana said. “If Citizen Yorkov did not kill Lord Devere, who did?”

  “I did, Mistress.”

  Gasps sounded all around. Jal opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The hum of gossip filled the gallery. What was Sark saying? This wasn’t the truth.

  Ariana looked up. ‘Trust me,’ she mouthed.

  Merchant Ferranti boomed over the uproar. “Deliau, do you realise what you’re saying? You will be hung for this.”

  The clerk banged his gavel. “Order! Order!” The chamber quietened.

  Jal rose. “This, my lords, Mistress, is an obvious lie. What possible motive could the halfbound have?”

  “I object,” Ariana said. “The witness is a citizen and should be addressed as such.”

  Jal shot her a bile-filled look. “What was your motive, Deliau?”

  “Revenge, Mistress. Your husband ruined my life. Destroyed my family. I did it for my daughter.”

  “And you think these lies of yours will be good for her?” She hissed the words like a snake, with as much poison behind them.

  Sark turned away.

  Rialto stood. “Clerk, I shall examine the witness.”

  The clerk banged his gavel. “The floor is yours, Prime Wield.”

  Rialto advanced towards the dock. Now he was taking an interest? Maybe he’d been biding his time too, unless this was about something else…

  He waved his cane accusingly. “So, Deliau, how do you explain the evidence of Yorkov’s involvement in Devere’s death and his isolation on the roof?”

  “It is simple, my lord.” Sark coughed, rotten lungs expunging red spatter on his palm. “I sent a message by one of the stewards that my master had news of the Maker’s brother, and would meet with him in the gardens. When the Maker arrived, I offered him a drink, which I drugged. He passed out, and I removed his Pledge. When my master arrived a short while later, I hit him over the head with a brick, knocking him out, and planted the Maker’s stone on him. Then I pushed him over the precipice. He was drunk, it was a simple matter.”

  The chamber descended into more uproar. The clerk banged his gavel. “Order!”

  Rialto raised his voice. “But what of the door—locked from the outside?”

  “I hid in the gardens, my lord.”

  Berese threw up his hands in disbelief. “Are we to understand,” he boomed, “that no one thought to sweep the roof for other suspects?”

  “No searches were undertaken,” Ariana declared.

  More hubbub. “Quiet! Order!” The clerk’s gavel hammered with minimal effect.

  “I have one last question,” Rialto said. “Why implicate my protégé in your crime? You could have framed anyone.”

  “Because I knew you’d all believe it of him,” Sark replied.

  “Why not be a man and confess to the crime yourself?”

  “I had to protect my daughter, my lord.”

  “Lies!” someone shouted.

  “Hang him,” someone else called.

  “Order!” the clerk bawled.

  What the hell was going on here? Sark was lying through his teeth.

  Jal locked him with a cold stare. “Do you not see, Deliau? The statutes will give me your daughter’s life as payment for my husband’s.”

  “You cannot punish me twice, Mistress,” Sark said. “My daughter died yesterday from her injuries at the Keg Market.”

  Stifled gasps filled the chamber, and another thread frayed in life’s rich tapestry. Sabetha, dead? Once again reality shits in your mouth, Maker. But one thing made sense now—these lies might bring justice for Sark. Nothing as complete as convicting Jal of the crime, but payback of a kind. Sark had nothing to live for now. Of course he’d rather hang than spend another moment enslaved to the High Mistress. A quick death would even be a mercy compared to wasting away from whatever disease ailed him.

  Jal slammed her folder on the desk. “I demand the original charge is voted on,” she raged. “And I claim Juris Personae over the Maker.” She glared up. Guyen scowled back. Juris Personae? Wasn’t that the statute Devere had used to make Sark his slave? Had that been her game all along? To force you into servitude as her plaything? Hanging was the better option.

  “I object,” Ariana trilled. “On both counts.”

  The clerk waved her away, consulting with his secretary. A moment later, he addressed the chamber. “Objection overruled. The vote may proceed, and Juris Personae is permitted in this case.”

  Ariana flared, incandescent, repugnant. She looked worried now. What was the damn clerk talking about? A vote to convict him? Hadn’t they just proved his innocence?

  “Order!” the clerk howled. “Quiet in the chamber!” The cacophony dampened to a moderate squall. “Members of the Council will raise their hands. The vote will be on the guilt of the Maker.”

  Guyen’s frustration exploded. “You heard him,” he shouted, pulling at his binds. “It wasn’t me!”

  “You will not speak,” the clerk screeched. “Who votes to convict?”

  Jal and Kynsley raised their hands. Jal stared at Rialto. He looked away. Only two votes? Are you about to make a noteworthy escape, Maker?

  Corpus Prime Volka raised her hand. And hope evaporated. Three votes for, three against, Jal with the casting ballot. The joke of Sendali justice was served. Toulesh fought to escape. This was it. He would lose control now, unleash his power.

  The clerk stifled a nervous cough. “As the Grande Prime may only cast one ballot, and a majority decision is required, I declare the vote defeated. The case is dismissed on the basis of prima facie confession. The Maker is acquitted.”

  Confused faces stared down from the gallery, and across from the benches.

  Acquitted?

  Jal glanced up, expression fraught. She turned to the clerk. “My good man, perhaps you should check the rules again. I have two votes. Two, I tell you.”

  The clerk shrank back. “I apologise, High Mistress, but you are acting Grande Prime.” He blinked. “Until your position is ratified, you may only cast one vote in the trial of a Devotee.”

  Her voice cracked. “Where does it say that?”

  “If I may,” Ariana interrupted coolly, “section seven of the Act of Accession.”

  The clerk nodded, edging further out of reach. Sendalis, it seemed, were slaves to their own statutes, which served well today. The clerk signalled the Captain of the Guard. “Arrest Von Deliau. The Maker is free to go.”

  Ariana clenched her fist in as close to a celebratory punch as was decorous for a Lady.

  Jal’s eyes flashed, a look to freeze oceans. She spun on her heels, sweeping from the chamber.

  Devotoria guards forced Sark to his feet and led him away. Guyen loosed Toulesh as a beam of light broke in through the tall windows, reflecting off the brass work, spraying streams of colourful nether light around the room. Clamour sang like a distant choir. Suddenly, life was bright again, the future no longer set. Rialto glanced up, quickly looking away. He would have seen him convicted and done nothing. Well might he feel ashamed.

  A guard approached to untie the ropes and Guyen smiled up at the balcony, a proper grin, light and joy like he hadn’t felt for ages. Tishara returned it and Nyra mouthed a greeting. Ariana walked up, also beaming. “I told you I was good,” she said.

  “Good? You were amazing. Was that defence your idea?”

  “No, Sark’s. It was the only play. Accusing her directly would never have stuck, and she had no way to disprove his story witho
ut implicating herself.”

  “Clever,” Guyen said admiringly.

  “Still yourself, Maker, I shall get a big head.” Her nose wrinkled impishly. “Mind you, this will look good on my résumé, few counsels get a murder charge quashed in under an hour.” Her smile waned. “Sark needs to talk with you. He said it was important.”

  “Globes. The man’s an angel. Can you get me in to see him?”

  “Yes, come on.” They approached the Captain of the Guard. “Captain,” Ariana said, “please escort Citizen Yorkov to see Von Deliau. They must talk on a personal matter.”

  “Of course,” the captain said. He paused. “Apologies if I spoke unkindly, citizen. Just doing my job.”

  “That’s all right,” Guyen grunted, not sure it was.

  Ariana looked towards her father. “I have to go. I need to build some bridges.”

  Guyen stared into her crystal lagoon eyes. A man could lose himself in those forever. “How will I ever repay you?” he mumbled.

  “You can start by having a bath. And then you can make good on your promise.”

  Her meaning was clear. He owed her now. It was up to him to stop Jal. “You have my word,” he said.

  She lowered her voice. “Don’t go back to the Makers, not yet. Lie low for a few days, just until things settle. Promise me.”

  He shrugged. “I promise.”

  She waved at the antechamber. “Sark’s not the only one keen to see you.”

  Mist stood there. Guyen waved. She returned the gesture, looking as dangerous as ever. “Tell her I’ll be five minutes,” he said.

  The captain led the way to a holding cell adjacent to the chamber. Light emanated from a high window. Sark huddled against the wall, staring into the middle distance. He got to his feet.

  “I’ll leave you to speak,” the captain said. He pulled the door closed and locked them in.

  Guyen considered the broken man. There was a lot to thank him for. “I’m so sorry to hear about Sabetha,” he said. “She was a lovely girl.”

  Sark’s expression faltered. “I’ll always be grateful to you, Maker. You gave her a fighting chance.”

  “Why did you want to see me?” Guyen asked. “Would you like me to pass on a message to your sister?”