Halls of Law

by V. M. Escalada

  There was one odd feature to this place, however.

  “I’ve never seen a tower like that on a private home.” Sala pointed ahead with her chin.

  “Looks military, doesn’t it?” Tel said. “A watchtower.”

  “There’s someone in the upper window.” The Griffin Girl pointed.

  Sala focused until she could see a shadow that seemed to move behind the bars of the topmost window. A sudden mental itch made her draw in her breath.

  “Sala?”

  “Nothing. It’s—” She shook herself. “For a moment there I thought I could feel him, or as if he could feel me. But that’s impossible.”

  “Why’s that?” the little redhead said.

  “No male Far-thinkers, that’s why.” Sala looked at the Griffin Girl. “Once or twice I thought I was getting something from you, but I put it down to the influence of the griffin.”

  “To Weimerk?”

  “It’s certain he woke something in you. And even if it wasn’t obvious to anyone who looked, he keeps talking about it.”

  “But you’re not getting anything from the boy in the window now?”

  “No, I must have imagined it.”

  “Maybe.” The girl kept looking ahead. “But then how did you know he’s a boy?”

  Jerek could see them only because the room at the top of the east tower was higher than the trees planted to shade the lower part of the house. He wasn’t a prisoner, exactly. He ate his meals with his father in front of the people of the household, even though it must have been clear to them that he was being punished for running away. There were still a few familiar faces left among them, people who might have asked too many questions if they didn’t see him every day.

  The room at the top of the tower had originally been a study for his great-grandfather’s wife. She’d been a military officer, though Jerek had found out that she hadn’t been a Faro, as family legend had it, but a Wing Laxtor. Not that there was anything wrong with being second-in-command, at least, not in Jerek’s mind. She’d spent most of her life in one military camp or another, so her husband had built her this square lookout tower to help her feel comfortable when she came home on leave.

  The room was comfortable enough, now that a bed had been moved into it. Warm enough, since the chimney of the main fireplace went up the inner wall. You had to pass his own rooms, and his father’s rooms, to reach it. The door could be bolted from the outside.

  But it wasn’t exactly a prison cell.

  Four people were coming along the road down by the old olive tree. Jerek shifted until he sat where the bars curved out at the bottom of the window, forming a sturdy, if cold, window seat. The plant boxes that normally rested here in the summer months were down in the cellars.

  That’s all I need. More strangers.

  He glanced down through the bars. He could see Trien Petain—he refused to think of the man as the Factor—walking from the barns to the door that led to Nessa’s workroom. He cleared his throat and tossed his hair back out of his eyes. He wondered who these strangers would turn out to be.

  As they got closer, he could see that one was quite tall, two shorter—almost the same height—and one very short indeed. For some reason the group made him think of an old children’s story, a papa bear, a mama bear, and the two baby bears who got lost in the woods. Jerek relaxed. One wore the long tunic and cloak of a minor noble, and the others were dressed like upper staff, and all walked like they’d been on foot for a long time. Certainly not with the upright, striding posture of the Wing soldiers he’d seen in the last few weeks. There! One of them stumbled, and Jerek relaxed even further. He glanced over his shoulder. Was that a footstep on the stairs?

  As if they’d seen him leaning in the window, the tall one raised his hand and waved. Jerek hesitated only a moment before waving back. The four of them stood a little straighter now, and walked toward the buildings a little faster.

  Jerek squirmed out of the window, wondering whether his father would let him out to eat with the visitors.

  Ker had seen activity as they walked up the road, but the space between the main house and the out buildings was empty now, as was the tower window. There were paving stones in front of the house, but the rest of the yard was nothing more than firmly packed dirt. Close to, the house was larger and more prosperous than it had looked from the rise. Along with glass in the windows, there were stone cornices under the eaves of the green-tiled roof, and metal-worked griffin heads on the ends of the water spouts.

  One of the doors to the main house swung open as they approached it. A thickset, middle-aged man in suede trousers and a quilted vest over a plain cotton shirt came down the steps toward them.

  “Morning,” Ker said. “Good wishes to the land, good thoughts to the house.” The man’s eyes were unexpectedly dark, considering how fair he was. His smile didn’t quite reach them.

  “And to you,” he replied, with the accent of the far west. “You’ve come to Firoxi Holding. I’m Trien Petain, the Factor. May I ask your business with us?”

  “My name’s Kerida Nast. And these are Tel Cursar, Wynn Martan, and Sala of Dez. We’re on our way to my home, Nast Holding, in the Estremal. We’d appreciate shelter for the night. Or should we be asking your lord?”

  The man’s smile vanished and came back so quickly Ker almost missed the change. “Dern Firoxi would want me to welcome you. The holding is renowned for its hospitality.”

  “No offense meant,” Ker said. “It’s just, in these times . . .”

  “None taken. Here’s my lord Firoxi now.”

  This was it, the man himself. Ker looked for any sign of the Luqs’ features in the man’s face. He had the royal family’s olive skin, sharp features, and slightly wavy dark hair, but then, she was olive-skinned and dark-haired herself, if it came to that. She’d even bet her nose was a little sharper than Firoxi’s.

  Was the boy in the upper window the prince’s son? That would be good news, wouldn’t it?

  “My lord, this is Kerida Nast, and her party, Tel Cursar, Wynn Martan, and Sala of Dez.”

  “Looking for me?” The twinkle in his eye made his words a welcome.

  “In a manner of speaking we are, Lord Firoxi.” Ker cleared her throat as the man’s smile broadened. “We’ve never met, but I’ve certainly seen your name on the lists of landowners. My family’s holding is to the west, close to Meryta. You may have heard of our pigs.” She glanced down at her clothes and shrugged. “I’m afraid my appearance doesn’t recommend me, but the military took over my college, and I’ve been trying to get home.” Paraste, she said to herself.

  Some of the sunshine left the man’s face even as he gestured a welcome and ushered them into the house through the main door. “The military, you say? If I could—that is, do you know which Wing?”

  “I know I should.” Ker pushed her hair back from her face. She didn’t have to pretend to be exhausted. As rehearsed, Wynn slid her satchel to the stone floor of the entrance hall. “The main branch of my family is military.” When planning, they’d thought they’d better stick as closely to the truth as they could. Firoxi would no doubt have the same family lists to check. “But my mother wanted me trained like herself, in the medical arts.” She took a step forward, tripped on the satchel, and grabbed Dern Firoxi’s forearm to steady herself—

  And Flashed immediately, despite all those generations between him and King Rolian, that this was the man they were looking for.

  “Here now, are you all right?” Dern Firoxi gripped her forearm and elbow, holding her upright.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Sala had rushed forward and had her by the other arm, while Wynn, with apologies, pulled the satchel into the clear.

  “Yes,” Ker said again, nodding at the Far-thinker, and getting the minutest of nods in return. “Sorry to be so clumsy.”

  “My own fa
ult. I could tell by looking at you that you were tired, but I’m afraid I let my curiosity get the better of me. Here, Trien, show our guests to the baths and get them sorted into rooms.”

  • • •

  Dern Firoxi’s dining hall, while not huge, was obviously set up to accommodate the entire holding. By the time they’d had a chance to wash, most of the tables were full. The young boy they’d seen in the window was standing next to the prince.

  “My son, Jerek,” the prince said, gesturing for her to join them at the circular main table, placed in the center of the room in the old-fashioned way. The family and their guests would face each other as they ate, rather than sitting against a wall and looking out into the rest of the room.

  There were places at a nearby table, but Dern Firoxi made it plain that he meant Tel, Wynn, and Sala to sit at the family table as well. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Tel, smiling. “But my son is hoping to question you about guard work. I think he wants to give up viniculture and go into the military.”

  The boy’s eyes flicked to his father, to Tel, and back again. He smiled, but a muscle in his jaw moved, and Ker could swear he’d just gritted his teeth. He was old enough to be annoyed at what was clearly an attempt by his father to force him into socializing, but could there be something more serious going on? Ker resisted the urge to Flash. There’d be plenty of time to satisfy her curiosity when they were on the road back to the Mines and Tunnels.

  Ker waited until the first course of a thick vegetable stew was being served and spoke to the prince under cover of his helping her to a serving. “Lord Firoxi.”

  “Dern, please.” He finished ladling out his own serving and passed the tureen to Tel. “As you can see we’re a bit informal here. My wife’s doing, and I’ve kept it up since her death. I hope you’re not made uncomfortable by it.”

  Ker wondered what he’d do if she said yes. “Not at all. We do much the same ourselves.” That was because the only rank her family recognized was military rank, but she thought she’d keep that to herself. “I do have something I’d like to discuss with you privately, however.”

  Dern glanced at her, the quiver in his left eyebrow and the seriousness in his eyes the only signs that he found anything significant in her request. “Of course.”

  The rest of the meal passed in the discussion of everyday things. The boy, Jerek, didn’t seem at all eager to ask Tel about being a guard. Tel tried to interest him with anecdotes about swordplay, but got quiet answers, the boy looking at his father frequently from under his brows. Finally, Tel got Wynn to tell stories about her numerous talented aunties, and the boy began to relax.

  “You seemed a bit uncomfortable when I mentioned soldiers earlier,” Ker said.

  Dern kept his expression very bland, and leaned a little closer to her. “Since the . . .” The man hesitated long enough that Ker began to wonder if he was ever going to speak. Just as she was about to turn the subject, he continued. “Since what happened to the royals, you must be aware there’s been quite a bit of unrest . . . chaos, you might almost say. The military seemed very unsettled, at least at first. And there were even rumors of them fighting among themselves—something, it appears, the Halians put an end to. You said your college has been closed, but you may not know that for the most part the Halians have left our social structures intact. Including the military where those have cooperated.”

  Here he paused and looked at her, his eyes level and steady, as if to ask her if she knew what he meant. She thought “surrender” might be a truer word than “cooperate,” but she nodded. “For the most part,” she agreed.

  “Has there been any further news of the royal family?” Tel asked.

  Dern frowned. “Are any of you students of history, or philosophy?”

  They exchanged glances. Sala moved her head ever so slightly to the left and back again. It wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone who hadn’t been sharing a camp with her for that last few days.

  “Not really,” Ker said, shrugging one shoulder. “Just what we learned in school, I expect. Jurianol the first Luqs, the expansion of the Polity beyond the Faraman Peninsula, that kind of thing.”

  “I used to be able to recite the whole line of Luqs, but I doubt I could do it now.” Wynn smiled at the boy when she said this, and the smile he gave back to her was genuine. Much more so than the polite one from his father.

  “Then you might not realize that the Halians could very well have been studying our own tactics and strategies.”

  Tel put down his knife very carefully. “How so?”

  “Think about it. They’ve made hard strikes against the leaders: the Luqs and her family, the military, and the Halls. But the ordinary people, civil administrators, farmers and so on, they’ve left alone. And now, for all intents and purposes, day-to-day life for the common person is returning to normal. Trade continues, travel is barely restricted. A different person gives orders, perhaps—”

  “Or a not so different person,” Ker put in, thinking of Jak Gulder.

  “Exactly. If there has been cooperation, many people have been confirmed in their positions. As a student of our own history, I can assure you that this is very much what the Polity has done. Smash the organized opposition, leave the citizens alone.”

  Ker thought she could see what Dern was getting at, and it didn’t make her feel any better. After all, until the coming of the Halians, the Faraman Polity had been unstoppable.

  “Take the matter of the royal family, for example. The succession isn’t always a question of the next by blood—look at Gendriol, for example. She was only third in line but took her cousin’s place when a better military ruler was needed back at the time of the second crisis with the then Ma’lakan Empire.” Dern nodded at Sala. “Since then, the military have always formally accepted the proposed Ruler.”

  “But it’s just a formality, isn’t it? A ceremonial acclamation.” Wynn looked from Ker to Dern Firoxi and back again.

  “Oh, I assure you it’s more than that,” Dern went on. “Acclamation by the Wings is a necessary component of the Luqs’ coronation. In default of a living heir, they might well feel that one of their own number should act as a second Jurianol and take the throne. Or, conversely, they could judge that cooperation with a group which intends to leave our society virtually intact is preferable to fighting it out among themselves. After all, by the time they got the succession settled, there might be nothing left to succeed to. No, it’s possible we may never be rid of the Halians.”

  Ker frowned, as if she was considering these ideas for the first time. On the inside, she was smiling. All things considered, it was a lucky thing Dern Firoxi understood the problem so clearly. He’d said nothing about the Halls, though, and she was afraid to bring it up herself. For all she knew, it was something that no one spoke of.

  The conversation passed to the differences inherent in growing olives for oil and grapes for wine until Dern finally called for the steward to make the oblation to the Mother, Son, and Daughter that signaled the end of the meal. The staff and servants wandered off, calling out good nights.

  When the hall was almost empty, Dern gathered them up with a glance around the table as he stood. “We’ll retire to my own sitting room,” he said. “No reason to keep the servants up.”

  He led them through a heavy door into the interior patio of the house. There was a raised pool in the center, surrounded by stone benches carved to look like griffins alternating with lions. Dern cut across the space, leading them through a door identical with the one to the hall, but which opened directly onto a wide staircase that could only be in that square tower, Ker realized, on the east side of the house. The stairs led up to a broad landing, where yet another wooden door stood open to reveal a sitting room.

  “Come, Jerek.” Dern indicated the stairs leading upward with a nod. “It’s an early day for you tomorrow.”

  T
he boy seemed inclined to linger, but he pulled himself up straight. “Of course, Father.” He inclined his head to Ker. “Lady Nast, a pleasure to meet you.” Ker found herself automatically bowing back. Jerek nodded at each of the others before turning and taking the stairs, his back straight, his hands in fists.

  Ker blinked as, after a moment, Dern followed his son up the stairs. True, the boy hadn’t said good night to his father, but was that enough to make the man chase after him? Obviously, they’d shown up in the middle of some kind of domestic entanglement, some disagreement between father and son that neither wanted to play out in front of strangers. They didn’t have time for this, and she was thankful when Dern returned quickly, ushering them into his own apartments.

  His private sitting room was spacious, but oddly empty of furniture for the owner of a holding as large as Firoxi’s. The walls had been painted some time before with the scene of a vineyard in full growth, the mural spreading over even the window shutters so that the image was uninterrupted when the shutters were closed, as they were now. Even faded, the work was richly detailed and full of color.

  Dern waved Ker onto the padded bench nearest what was obviously his own chair before he sat down. Tel and Wynn took the other bench, and Sala stationed herself against the wall by the door. Dern watched them with a slight smile on his lips, waiting until they were sorted before turning to Ker. “Now, what is it we need to discuss?”

  Ker dried her hands on her trousers.

  “You mentioned the royals earlier,” she began. “In a way, that’s why we’re here.” She paused, but Firoxi only raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue. “We haven’t told you the complete truth. I am who I said I am, but we haven’t come from any medical school. We’re sent to you by the Faro of Bears.”

  “Sent to me?”

  “We, that is the Faro, discovered that there is still a member of the royal family living, and as you pointed out yourself, the Wings would quickly rally around this person, and the resistance to the Halians would have a leader. We”—she nodded at her companions—“have been sent to find him, and bring him back to Oste Camp.”