by David Hair
‘Godspeaker!’ she called, her voice cutting through the babble. The women hushed and turned to her. ‘No gathering of women is un-Amteh or unlawful! We have the right to be here!’
A murmur of agreement, loudest away from the front line, greeted her words.
‘And Godspeaker,’ she continued, ‘the civil law cases are the prerogative of the royal family and nobility! This is well known! Shall I send your Maula a copy of the statutes?’
Godspeaker Ilmaz stuck out his wire-brush beard. ‘Usurper!’
‘That is an old argument, which you lost a long time ago! Let rulers rule and priests pray! So said the great King Felix Altamonto more than a hundred years ago. The people wanted real laws for real life, and we have given them this! So go back to your Maula and tell him that the Kalistham is his jurisdiction, not the law statutes.’
‘You quote a Rimoni king!’ Ilmaz bellowed back, hammering his staff against the gates for emphasis. ‘We are Amteh here! Women know nothing of the law! You are only a girl!’
‘I am La Scrittoretta, and I know the laws better than you do,’ she called back. The crowd liked that and started chanting her name and shouting at the Godspeaker. His guards ringed him, fearfully jabbing their staves about as the crowd surged forward, barely contained.
‘Rimoni laws are un-Amteh laws!’ the Godspeaker shouted. ‘This court is an affront to Ahm!’ He glared about him at the wall of female faces. ‘GO HOME, YOU LAZY WRETCHES! RETURN TO YOUR DOMESTIC DUTIES!’
‘Don’t you call me lazy, you soft-handed bouka!’ screeched a woman, skinny and fierce as a jackal, waving gnarled hands, hardened to claws by decades of labour. Others echoed her and the obscenity ran through the crowd: impotent worm, roughly. The crowd’s ingrained respect for the clergy warred with their anger at Ilmaz’s arrogance and effrontery, and while many backed away, the more volatile women poured into the spaces left.
‘Go back to your wormhole, bouka!’ another woman shouted, while Cera’s heart went to her mouth. The first blows were struck, staves hammered against reaching hands. Indignant cries rang out, and the guards shrank against the iron gate. The Godspeaker was roaring into the crowd, face to face with the crone who had first harangued him. Insults flew, getting more and more vicious on both sides.
I have to try to stop this.
Cera stood, raised both hands and shouted, ‘SILENCE, PLEASE!’
Those at the front who weren’t directly threatened by a staff-wielding guard turned their heads to heed her, but most, either facing an armed man or being shoved from behind, carried on struggling, and suddenly the wall of bodies washed forward. Staves flailed, screams resounded and swirled around the walls and she saw a woman in the front row having her face battered by an iron-bound staff. Blood started pouring from a hideous gash. A few more aggressive women were wading forward, but most were here for the courtroom stories, not fighting. The clergyman’s guards battered more women into the ground, while the Godspeaker was pressed against the iron gate, howling imprecations. The press grew heavier, one of the bodyguards went down and then another, trampled in the thick of the mêlée. The noise was deafening.
Then, suddenly, Gurvon Gyle was on the walls above the gate. He gestured and the locks unbound, the gates went flying open and the throng poured through, led by the Godspeaker himself, storming, furious and indignant, towards Cera.
‘You did this, you ungodly bitch!’ he shrieked. ‘Look what you’ve started!’ For an instant Cera thought he was going to grab and throttle her, but Tarita threw herself in his path and that act brought him to his senses. Meanwhile Dorobon soldiers were pouring along the walls and down the stairs into the courtyard. They dragged the Godspeaker’s men, battered and bloodied, from the crowd and ringed them. The women drew back from the line of steel, and some of the pressure was released as many on the fringes took fright and began to flee. But more than a dozen women lay on the stone, some bloodied, a couple unmoving.
Ilmaz glared at her, panting heavily, his beard flecked with spittle, his chest heaving. She stared back, refusing to be intimidated. I am a Nesti. I am a queen.
‘Godspeaker, go back to your Dom-al’Ahm. You have done enough damage today.’
‘You are the one who started this,’ Ilmaz began. ‘You are not a true woman! You are an unnatural whore! You are a—’
‘Oh for Kore’s sake!’ Gurvon Gyle snapped, appearing at her side and shutting the Godspeaker’s mouth with a gesture. ‘Get out of here or I’ll arrest you for disturbing the peace, Godspeaker.’
Loathe Gyle though she did, she had to fight to hide her delight at the terror in the Godspeaker’s eyes as he realised what he was confronting. ‘I wouldn’t press the issue, priest,’ the Rondian drawled.
The Godspeaker found his tongue again. ‘This is only just beginning, Rondian.’
Gyle was not in the least perturbed. ‘It’s time for you to leave. This is the Women’s Palace, and I hate to think what being in here is doing to your purity.’
The Godspeaker scowled, then swallowed. It looked like he was trying to hold his breath, as if inhaling the air of the zenana might pollute his lungs. Cera snorted softly, unable to contain herself, something not lost on the holy man. ‘Rondian-lover!’ he muttered. ‘Collaborator!’
‘You know nothing,’ she told him.
He sneered and turned away.
Gyle summoned an officer. ‘Take them out by another way, Captain, and escort them back to their Dom-al’Ahm.’ He stayed by Cera’s side as the men were led away, then prowled over to the gates, behind the line of soldiers. The crowd were pelting the legionaries with bread and insults, but when Gyle raised a hand the crowd flinched and drew away, leaving enough space for his soldiers to pull the hurt women inside. Some were badly hurt and would bear scars for the rest of their lives, but mercifully none were dead.
I started this, from safe behind an iron gate, and they paid the price. Perhaps I should stop.
She immediately rejected the notion. Over the past month she’d heard hundreds of cases, helping women who otherwise would have got no justice at all. The Queen’s Hospital, housed in an old stables, now offered a refuge to women running from abusive and violent men. It was overflowing. She sensed that something bigger than her was happening here.
I can’t stop now.
Gyle strolled back to the open gates. ‘Queen Cera,’ he called, refraining from re-entering the zenana gardens, ‘might I suggest you cancel the rest of your session today while I regain control in the plaza outside.’
She stood and walked towards him, pointing to the masses still waiting outside. ‘These people have come to be heard. I cannot deny them that right.’
‘Being heard is not a right. It’s a privilege. If it becomes a problem, that privilege will end.’
‘I didn’t think you were the sort of man who backed down to intimidation.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Nor am I.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘You’re not a man at all.’
She waved an impatient hand. ‘My people wish to speak and I wish to listen to them. Today.’ She stopped a foot from him and dropped her voice. ‘You said you’d let me.’
Gyle frowned, considering, then looked up and said shortly, ‘All right. Continue, if you so desire. I’m going to have a strong word with the Maula of Fayeedhar Dom-al’Ahm and if he gives me any lip I’ll haul the old prick away. I’m told he’s been calling me bad names in his sermons and I don’t like that.’
‘You’re using my court as an excuse for your own ends,’ she said quietly.
He dropped his own voice. ‘Of course. But don’t think I’m not a little sympathetic with what you’re doing, girl. You see, Rondelmar and the empire went through just these sorts of issues, centuries ago. The thing was, we had female magi, some of them every bit as capable as their male counterparts, and they demanded a voice. That led to a wider debate, and an ongoing struggle for better rights for women. Ironically, even Mater-Imperia Lucia has played her part in that, despite all
her sins. Yuros might be a magi-led tyranny of privilege and wealth, but we do have a few virtues.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘What do you want? Applause?’
‘No, Cera. I just want you to know that on this matter, we’re working together. It can be done.’
‘I will continue, with or without your so-called support.’
He looked amused. ‘Mob politics is a dangerous thing, Cera. Crowds like simple truths, and law is complex. Remember this: a mob is like an ocean wave: it might bear you far, or drown you. I’ll try to keep Francis off your back, and Acmed al-Istan too, but you should know that if things go too far, I’ll be the first to recommend that we close you down.’
She simmered, then took a deep breath. Just be thankful he’s not trying to do that now. ‘Thank you, Magister,’ she said aloud. ‘I will take your advice.’ She turned from him and addressed the women gathered behind the line of spears.
‘My people,’ she cried, ‘in the light of this disturbance, it is not right for today’s session to go ahead!’
A few groaned, and shouted denials.
‘But I swear that I will be back here tomorrow morning to hear your voices!’
The answering cheers rattled the windows of the towers.
It sustained her through the evening and through the night as she fell asleep wondering where Portia was, what she was doing, and if she still remembered what they’d had.
*
Portia Tolidi buried her face into the pillow, closed her eyes and made the air snorting from her mouth sound like desperate passion. The man behind her was encouraged to ram himself into her faster, his loins slapping the cheeks of her buttocks harder and louder as he grunted and growled, then roaring as he expended himself. They both fell forward as he collapsed over her, he quivering in some kind of ecstasy, she struggling to breathe as his sweaty weight pressed her into the mattress.
‘Uncle,’ she croaked, ‘my belly.’ She twisted sideways and cradled the small bulge until Alfredo Gorgio rolled off her, his softening member sliding wetly from her cleft.
She was twenty-two years old, and for nine years she had been her uncle’s sexual plaything – not his only one, but his favourite. From before she’d even bled, he’d marked her out, told everyone what a beauty his sister’s child would be. She’d been moved into his household the day her father had died in the war. The morning after her first womanly courses, he’d summoned her to his chamber and began to shape her into his own personal fantasy. There had been no one to complain to: he was the most powerful man in Hytel. He used her when he wanted, trained her in every act he could imagine. He also began to dole her out as a reward: to this noble who gave Alfredo something he wanted; or that young knight who won a tourney. She was the golden prize, sent to the boudoir to seduce his favourites and bind them to him closer.
She’d been through so many phases of hating Alfredo Gorgio that she’d lost count. She hated her loss of childhood, her loss of innocence. She hated the way he’d made her realise that everyone around her was driven to some extent by the same desires; that reason and emotion could be buried beneath animal lust. She hated the way that her body could betray her and take pleasure in the filth. And most of all, she hated that she’d become emotionally numb, unable to feel true affection any more, not even for poor little Cera Nesti, who so needed and deserved it.
Alfredo stroked her shoulders, which she endured silently. ‘Four months, si? Your mage-child will be born in Septinon.’
She nodded mutely. This was what she had been raised to be: Alfredo’s offering to the Dorobon on their return. Francis had gobbled her up, become as addicted to her as her uncle had prophesied. The only miracle was that it had taken her so long to quicken, when Francis was at her all the time. But pure-blood magi had thin seed, they said, so conception often took longer. It had felt like Eternity, enduring that buffoon.
‘I told you that there would be rewards for all you’ve learned,’ Alfredo said to the back of her head. ‘And I was right: you are queen, and you have conceived first. Now we need to be rid of the Nesti cagna.’
‘Cera is not a bitch.’
‘She is a cagna if I say so.’ Alfredo was contemptuously amused. ‘Gyle put her in Francis’ bed; I gave him you, after years of amatory training. So much for the legendary cunning of the man, eh?’
Portia wriggled from his arms and sat up. ‘I need to pee. And your court is waiting for you.’
‘They can wait.’ He sat up. ‘Show me yourself.’
She spun slowly, lifting her arms, showing her bulging waist and heavier breasts. ‘Haven’t you already studied me in detail today?’
He wiped his cock on her sheets and chuckled. ‘I never tire of the sight. Even doubled in size and waddling, you are beauty itself. Good bloodlines, well-tended, well-trained.’ He ran his eye down her legs then back up. ‘Smile for me, Portia. Tell me how much you love me.’
It was the one licence he gave her: to truly profess her loathing. ‘Love you? Uncle, I loathe you for the stinking, lecherous rat you are.’
He laughed delightedly.
Oh, but I do hate you, so desperately that one day I will visit suffering on you so profound that it will be remembered for all eternity.
When she was sixteen, one of her uncle’s other young protégés had made a pact with her, that when it became unendurable, they would both kill themselves. But then they’d argued over something trivial and the other girl had gone and hanged herself alone. Seeing her purple, swollen face and lifeless eyes had frightened her from taking her own life. Vanity was a sin, they said, but she was not going to die like that. And certainly not before visiting some kind of revenge on her uncle.
‘The Nesti girl wrote again today,’ Alfredo noted. He’d have read it, of course. ‘Clearly she thinks of you as a friend.’
Portia lifted her shoulders, feigned indifference. ‘I really do need to pee.’
‘I burned the letter,’ he murmured. ‘It was nothing but girlish prattling. Wash yourself too. You smell like a whore.’ He wrapped a robe about him and strode through to his adjoining suite.
She sank to her knees when he left and fought the need to scream.
*
Cera sat at her desk, chose a clean sheet of parchment and inked her quill.
Dearest Sister-Queen
It is evening now, and the city is quiet again. But earlier it was not so quiet. Today was the worst day of all in the Beggars’ Court, and I am becoming frightened.
She frowned, tore up the parchment and started again. Gurvon Gyle was undoubtedly reading her mail, and she would not reveal her fears to him, not in such a tangible way. She began again.
Dearest Portia
It is evening now, and the city is quiet again. Earlier it was not so: the Amteh clergy have been preaching against the Beggars’ Court, and they chose today to unleash their fury. Sadly, Acmed al-Istan, my former counsellor, is at the heart of the troubles, preaching that husbands should lock up their wives to prevent them attending the Beggars’ Court, and ‘disciplining’ those who do. That frightened some away, but still the crowds grow. Women from the Widow Cells have been attending too – it is shameful that we lock away widowed women when they have so much still to offer. Many young unmarried women of the lower castes are coming as well. The things I hear are increasingly horrific.
Why do men hate women so much?
Today, a mob came from a Dom-al’Ahm and attacked the crowd with clubs and sticks. Several women were badly injured before Gyle’s soldiers forced them apart. Gyle then arrested the Maula and that set off a riot. After, there was a march by some women supporting the Maula – women chanting slogans in favour of their own enslavement! They tried to storm the zenana! It is madness here, but I can’t stop.
I wish they would let you write to me; I long to read words from your hand. It would be like hearing your voice. I trust your convalescence goes well, and your health remains strong. May Sol and Ahm smile upon you!
Your lovin
g Sister-Queen, Cera
She reread it critically, hoping she could trust Gyle’s assurances that her letters were being delivered. She wondered again why Portia had not written back, and whether she would ever see her again. So many women died in childbirth … but surely a woman bearing a mage-child would receive the very best gnostic aid? And not just any woman, but the Dorobon king’s favourite, bearing the king’s heir …
With a sigh she folded the parchment and sealed it with a wax signet, trying not to feel like everything was coming apart.
Then she wrapped herself in a gown and left her suite, taking the stairs to the top floor and her waiting husband.
In the daytime I fight for women to have justice and rights. And then in the evening, this …
The guard at the door leered as she disrobed at the door to show that she was unarmed, then allowed her inside, naked and humiliated. Francis was sprawled on the sofa, clad in riding breeches and a loose white shirt, his lank hair dishevelled. He grunted disinterestedly when he saw her, then sighed heavily.
‘Kneel,’ he said. ‘Over there.’ He jabbed a finger towards the rug before the empty fireplace.
Feeling the colour in her face rising, she did as bade, dropped to her knees and sat back on her heels, waiting for him to join her. He didn’t, just glared at her moodily.
‘They say that a beautiful woman makes the seed of her man more potent,’ he said stiffly. ‘That is why Portia conceived and you have not.’
How I loathe you.
He wrestled his breeches off, half rose then sank back again. ‘Oh, rukking Hel! Forget it. I don’t want this any more than you do.’
She blinked, surprised he’d actually noticed her dislike. She stood, at a loss what to do.
Francis poured himself a goblet of red wine, swirled a little in his mouth then swallowed it. He looked her up and down. ‘You have a behind like a cow,’ he remarked, ‘but your teats are well-proportioned.’
And you are running to fat and you stink of horses.
‘Do you judge a woman only by her looks, my king?’ she asked, probably unwisely. She cast about for a blanket and covered herself, then knelt again.
