Unholy War (10 page)

‘He ruined my daughter from spite!’ Mukla shouted. ‘He was ashamed of being refused!’ She burst into tears. ‘She was so beautiful, my Oviya, the light of my life! She deserves justice!
Justice!
’

Cera threw up a hand as the call for justice echoed from the palace walls and as silence fell, asked, ‘How came you and your husband Hazmani to fall out?’

‘At the Godspeaker’s court Hazmani took money from the boy’s family to withdraw the charges,’ Mukla said.

Cera had to suppress the urge to growl in disgust. This too was disgracefully predictable – the sort of thing that happened far too frequently … which was why she and Tarita had selected this case. No doubt the father could see no point in defending the honour of a ruined girl, so why not take a few coins, allow the girl to bear the guilt and no doubt hope she would become another’s problem. She was now unmarriageable, nothing but a burden on her family, so unless some man could be found to take her in out of pity, her fate was either slavery or, if she converted, a place among the Sollan sisters. That wasn’t an option for most Amteh. Many girls in such a plight took their own lives – though Cera suspected that many such suicides were assisted, and involuntary.

‘You refused to agree with your husband?’ Cera asked gently.

Mukla nodded, tears streaming down her face. ‘I stood before the Godspeaker and denied these lies, even as my husband was changing my daughter’s plea. So he cast me out without my dowry, and my daughter too, and now I can live only through charity. If I cannot have justice, my daughter must be sold into service or we will starve together.’ She made begging gestures with her clasped hands, and repeated, ‘She was so beautiful, Holy Queen—’

‘Is she here?’ Cera asked.

Tarita had spent a day persuading Mukla that it would be necessary to display her daughter to the queen. A small figure completely covered by her bekira-shroud was ushered to the front. Her mother turned to her and slowly lowered the hood. The crowd hissed as her left side was presented to them, but Cera at first saw only her right side: a sweet, sad face; she could have been any pretty girl in the market.

Then the girl turned and Cera saw the whole of the left side, from above the hairline to the jaw, and the neck below, was livid red and glistening wetly. Where her left eye should have been was a sightless white orb oozing yellowy pus. The ear was half-eaten away and upper and lower teeth were visible through holes in her cheek. Though she’d been prepared for something horrible, Cera was still aghast.

I should not forget that this might be a move in a game, but it is also about real people – real crimes
, she thought, trying to keep her face impassive.

‘Holy Queen, you are our only hope,’ Mukla pleaded. ‘Please, give us justice!’

The call was taken up, and throughout the Beggars’ Court the women chanted, ‘Adaala, Adaala, Adaala!’ –
Justice, justice, justice!

She could feel their anger building and at last she raised her hands for silence. ‘My people,’ she cried, ‘I am only a queen. I may do no more than beg my husband the king for justice.’

The gathering fell silent, then let loose a hissing sound of displeasure. ‘The king will not listen!’ someone from the back shouted. ‘He does not care!’

‘But I care,’ Cera shouted in response. ‘Your tale breaks my heart and I too wish to see justice!’ She looked theatrically at the towers above, where the Dorobon flags flew. ‘My people, justice is something all people crave. Disagreements happen, crimes are committed, but it is how we deal with them that defines us. Fairness must be seen for the king to retain the love of his people! This is why in his role as Justiciari, the king listens to both the accused and the accuser equally. This is why his judgements must be rooted in the statutes, not in arbitrary whim and selective use of scripture – this is why justice cannot be neglected. And it will not be!’

She paused, and the crowd, growing all the time as people slipped in from the market streets outside to see what was happening, fell silent expectantly.

‘I will tell you a story,’ she said, dropping her words carefully into the silence. ‘Once there was a robber from Hytel who came to Brochena because he thought the people of Brochena foolish and easy to steal from.’

The story was well-known; it had been told many times when the nobles had wrested control of the courts from the Amteh. It was almost certainly made up, but she told it anyway.

‘This robber was wrong, and the vigilant people of Brochena seized him and turned him over to the Godspeaker for punishment. But the robber told the Godspeaker he had much gold hidden away, and he agreed to hand it over in return for his freedom. So the robber was freed, and the Godspeaker profited.’

The gathering hissed angrily, though they had all heard this tale before, and plenty of others besides; the Godspeakers themselves had their own variants, designed to show the perfidy of noblemen.

‘However, the people who saw this injustice were not happy, so they found and captured the robber and they surrounded the Godspeaker outside his own Dom-al’Ahm and demanded the gold with which the robber had bribed him. The robber they hanged, and the Godspeaker they sent on his way. They took the robber’s gold and distributed it to his victims. And thus is it known that true justice lies in the hands of the people.’

She felt the
frisson
of tension in the court grow as the crowd took in her message, none too subtle: that they were not powerless.

Sol et Lune! I can’t believe I’m advocating mob justice.
She took a deep breath.
But if that is what it must take …

‘My people,’ she said, her voice intimate, confiding, ‘from the time I was a child, my father ensured that I was well versed in law. He knew that there might come a time when I was forced by circumstance to hear such cases. You may have seen me sitting at my father’s knee as he heard your problems.’ She’d been known as
La Scrittoretta
– the Little Scribe-Girl – as she’d sat beside her father’s throne jotting down notes during his cases and writing up his verdicts as he spoke. She saw several of the women smile at the remembrance.

‘So while I might not be permitted to hear cases, I am permitted to listen. And if at times I venture an opinion, you are not obligated to accept it, but my views might give you some …
consolation
.’

She studied the upturned, hopeful faces; she saw understanding grow.

Yes, come to me, tell me your complaints and hear my
opinions.
Act on them as you see fit, because there are many,
many
ways to ensure that a person suffers if the community at large agrees that it should be so …

‘So hear me, my people. I cannot legally sit in judgement, but I can give an opinion, which you can choose to ignore. In this matter I believe that Mukla’s husband should take his wife and daughter back. I believe the boy who perpetrated this offence should be punished.’ That meant being hanged, everyone here knew that. ‘And I believe that this boy’s family should support your wronged daughter for the rest of her life.’

Murmurs of agreement, and anger directed at the boy and his family, filled the courtyard. Mukla fell to her knees, her daughter beside her, their hands clasped in thanks.

Cera swallowed, and wonder whether any of her decree would come to pass – after all, she had no formal authority, and no power to enforce her views. But word would spread, that she knew.

She looked around, and at Tarita’s nudge, beckoned forward another woman, who spoke on behalf of an already dead daughter, stoned to death for adultery after being raped by a married man who had been acquitted of any crime; another bereaved mother spoke of another rape by the same man; an act which had driven her only daughter to suicide.

‘Such a man deserves no protection from the Godspeakers, if his guilt is known,’ Cera ventured. Heads nodded, and more cases were raised. Next she heard from the daughter of a woman sold into slavery for a theft she had not committed and who had then been denied freedom even when the true thief had been caught. She heard from servants abused by masters, mothers whose girls had been abducted and sold into prostitution in neighbouring towns; victims of property disputes, confidence tricksters and false doctors. Some of the tales were heartbreaking, others just made her furious. And some were disputed, as relatives of one side or other came forward to tell their versions of the truth.

Once Cera had heard both sides of the case, she gave an opinion. The first time she ventured her view, that the plaintiff might be entitled to compensation, the accused, who had knowingly passed off used cooking oil as a herbal remedy, read the mood of those about her and suspecting that her life would not be worth living if she did not comply, paid up immediately and apologised, her head bowed low. It set a precedent, and more people began to gather, and more cases were raised.

Cera sat all day without a break, soothing her throat with tea brought by silent servants. Some time after noon she became conscious of a grey-clad man on the battlements above, watching silently. The crowd, growing all the time, saw him too, and a few brave souls jeered at him. Cera smiled inwardly as he disappeared, but outwardly, she ignored the interruption.

As the sun went down, she called the session to an end. ‘My people, thank you for telling me your tales,’ she said, rising from the throne. ‘I thank you for your generosity, and your indulgence in hearing what are nothing more than my opinions.’

‘Holy Queen, when will you come here again?’ Tarita asked loudly, and the cry was taken up throughout the yard.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Cera said tiredly, ‘from the third bell.’

*

Gurvon Gyle found Queen Cera Nesti on her balcony, wrapped up in herself, her eyes closed and her whole body shaking. It was evening, and the banquet about to commence below awaited his presence. Cera had already cried off, pleading illness.

Exhaustion is more likely
, Gurvon thought.
She’s been holding informal court all day
. He studied her, still faintly stirred by her combination of serious intellect and womanly dignity. In the two weeks since the fall of Octa Dorobon he’d been deliberately avoiding her; he was disturbed by how easily he’d fallen into Octa’s trap. Cera had been mesmerised with the gnosis and sent to his rooms to seduce him, which would have given Octa Dorobon the chance to lay charges of adultery against him. It was a simple, almost banal plot, and it had so very nearly worked.

Mesmerism works best when you’re persuading someone to do something they are inclined towards anyway …
That hinted at vulnerabilities he could exploit.

Her black hair, still braided and caught up in gold filigree, gleamed in the setting sun. She wasn’t a statuesque beauty like Portia Tolidi, but she was by no means ill-formed either. If she did not develop a taste for exercise she would run to fat in middle age, but for now she had an attractive face and a full but pleasing figure. But it was her mind that interested him: Cera was a dispassionate thinker, cool under pressure and willing to take risks. She’d been regent for less than a year, but she and Elena had been a formidable team and that hadn’t been down to Elena entirely. Her name still had power among the people of Javon, something she was only just beginning to realise. His agents told him that many Jhafi and Rimoni commoners believed she would escape and unite them in rebellion, but without her, her people were paralysed.

That was something he could put to good use. His own bridges, if not burned, were certainly on fire. Octa Dorobon had been a favourite of Mater-Imperia Lucia and Octa had to have moved against him with Lucia’s blessing. But the fact that Lucia had kept her name out of the matter hinted at a way back. The bankers Jusst & Holsen had his gold in transit, and Francis Dorobon was pliable. Javon was still the haven he needed post-Crusade, but it was becoming volatile again. The Godspeakers were speaking against him, and the Javonesi nobles were meeting soon to discuss disinheriting the boy-king Timori Nesti and choosing another to lead them in rebellion. He needed to regain full control before war broke out, and that included the Dorobon court and its queens.

So what was Cera Nesti doing in her little courtyard?
he wondered.
And how can I use it?

‘Cera,’ he said softly, speaking in Rimoni, the tongue they shared. He raised a placatory hand as she jerked around, frightened at his sudden appearance. ‘Peace, girl. I mean you no harm.’

‘I don’t wish to see you,’ she said loudly. ‘Not without a chaperone.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Octa’s dead, girl. Show some gratitude: I saved you from the axe.’

‘Really. Where’s my brother? I want to see Timori.’

‘You will, as soon as it can be arranged. Right now I have more urgent matters to attend to.’ Which was true: he had to reassert control over King Francis, mollify Mater-Imperia Lucia and get his mercenary friends inside Javon as soon as possible. ‘What were you doing in the courtyard today?’

‘The Beggars’ Court? I gave alms. And listened to my people.’

‘Really? What for?’

‘Because I care.’

He studied her face. She sounded in earnest, but she was also an intelligent young woman who was politically adept. ‘Inciting rebellion is treason.’

‘I didn’t incite anything. I listened to complaints, that is all.’

‘You heard civil cases?’

‘I listened. I did not judge: I don’t have the right, as I’m
only
a woman.’

Gurvon was dimly aware that Francis had stopped hearing civil cases, because constitutional reforms were sucking up all the legal resources. But the clergy were stepping in, surely? That had been something he’d been happy to allow Francis to relinquish, as it had taken the heat out of the Godspeakers’ incessant preaching against the Crusade. ‘Acmed al-Istan has been hearing the civil cases recently.’

‘He has no constitutional right to do so,’ Cera sniffed. ‘And his Godspeakers don’t rule according to the facts. They favour the pious and the generous over those who’ve been wronged.’