The Justice of Kings, page 23
He fell silent, wounded. Eventually, he said, “What is it you want of me? You make me feel like a maid who has been taken advantage of.”
“I want you to realise that I have obligations. At present. There are things I have to do—”
“But you don’t!
“Fine then! Things that I want to do. Because I feel I must.”
“Flame of Savare, Helena, you were nearly murdered!” Matas shouted, gesturing roughly to the shorn side of my head and the contusion there.
“’Tis the nature of the practice,” I said, though it sounded ridiculous.
“I know watchmen three times your age who have not come as close to being killed!”
I let out an angry sigh. “Matas! You are asking me to give up a lot. I need time to consider it.”
“I am not asking you to give up anything!” Matas shouted. “I would not have you spend one more minute with me if resentment is all I can expect from it!”
Now I fell silent. I knew he was right, of course, but I was feeling stubborn and resentful, and I was in no mood to concede anything. How foolish and unkind I was, and how I hated myself afterwards.
There was nothing more either of us was going to say, and so we parted ways just as the light was beginning to fade. We embraced, and I kissed him, but it was perfunctory and I could tell that I had hurt him deeply, perhaps irrevocably.
I should have treasured those stolen moments. I should have taken his hands in mine, held him tightly, and I should have refused to go into the kloster and left Vonvalt’s service then and there.
Instead, I left Matas, wounded and confused, and made back to Lord Sauter’s residence.
XVIII
Gloom Keep
“One cannot uphold the law if one does not follow it. He who comes before the bench must do so with clean hands.”
FROM CATERHAUSER’S PILLARS OF SOVAN CIVIL LAW
I left just after darkness had cloaked the Vale. Vonvalt and I agreed that the ruse would work best if I turned up at the kloster looking as though I had fled in the night. I gathered up a few effects which I knew I would have to surrender on arrival and gave Vonvalt the rest of my things to be added to the Duke of Brondsey’s cart.
To reach the kloster I had to leave Galen’s Vale by the north, via a poorly tended gatehouse that was a far cry from those guarding the River Gale and the Hauner road. No one said anything to me as I left. Like many towns it was much easier to leave than it was to get in. The rain had abated and the night was clear and crisp. The stars shone brightly above. Had I a physician’s mind for astronomy, I might have been able to name some of them; as it was, only one larger object drew my attention, a bright dot distinguishable by its red tint.
The path to the kloster was well-worn, given the significant amount of foot traffic that passed between it and the town below. There were all manner of religious orders within the Empire. Some, like the Savaran Templars, had only one purpose – to violently stake claims to shrines and parcels of land many hundreds of miles away which the Autun had contrived to make holy. Others’ purpose seemed to be to simply while away their lives in silent contemplation, unable to leave their klosters or even speak to one another.
The kloster above Galen’s Vale was home to one of the orders of Saint Jadranko. Jadranko was one of Creus’s canonised apostles, a popular subject of worship in most temples since Jadranko advocated the bare minimum of obeisance. He was a stout follower of the Fool, one of Nema and Savare’s many demigod children, whose role was to speak plainly to all irrespective of their rank and position.
The Jadrans were not severe. They allowed mixed klosters of men and women, though all were expected to remain celibate. They were also allowed to leave fairly frequently, mostly to purchase provisions, distribute alms and run the town’s temple below. I did not know at that stage much about them beyond this vague reputation, but it did help alleviate some of the trepidation I felt as I approached the gatehouse, a fortification significantly more imposing than its counterpart at the northern closure of the Vale behind me.
“Who goes there?” the nightwatchman cried through the vision slit.
“One who would seek sanctuary,” I said, the time-honoured invocation.
I heard the gatekeeper mutter a curse, as though this were a common occurrence. In fact, it might well have been; the temptation would be strong for many to try their luck with bed and board for a whole month. A bit of silent contemplation and godly boredom would be a small price to pay. I imagined that the kloster would seek to discourage such naked opportunism by making that first month a hard one to endure.
“What do you seek sanctuary from?” he asked me in the voice of a mummer who has been trapped in the same hated role for two decades.
“My employer,” I said in a frail voice. “He is a Justice.”
The gate was unlocked and yanked open.
“You’re the Justice’s clerk,” the man said. He was a wizened old creature dressed in several layers of overcloaks. Somewhere underneath it all was a threadbare habit. “You came down the Hauner road?”
“Yes,” I said. It did not occur to me to question how he knew this. News of the presence of a Justice spread fast.
The man squinted at me through old, watery eyes. “You are injured?” he asked.
“I was injured in his service.”
“You look haunted, girl. Did he raise a hand to you?”
“No, I… He made me party to his witchcraft. We spoke to the dead.”
The old man gasped theatrically. Immediately he turned to one side and motioned me over the threshold. “Come in, child, come in. The Magistrates are a wicked order. They meddle in powers that were long ago those of the Church. No layman has the right to speak to the dead. Come, come, I shall take you to the obenpatria at once.”
I knew that mentioning the séance would get me quick access. I also knew that being a comely young woman would also help. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that an old, stinking beggar would have been given short shrift. Indeed, I sensed from the man’s reaction that my presence here was something of a prize for the order.
Feeling bolder than before, I crossed over the threshold and followed the nightwatchman inside. We hurried down a covered walkway which enclosed a pleasant square lawn bordered by snowdrops and other winter flowers. In other circumstances I would have paused to admire the flowers and enjoy the tranquillity of the simple garden, but I was being hustled into the kloster proper, a complex of buildings in a medley of architectural styles ranging from basic Draedan to modern Neman gothick.
“In here, come,” he said, gesturing to a stout wooden door.
The gatekeeper led me hurriedly through a warren of warm, dimly lit stone passageways, until eventually we reached the obenpatria’s apartments. We stopped outside the entrance.
“You must be respectful,” the nightwatchman said sharply.
“Of course,” I said.
The nightwatchman rapped on the door. A moment later the obenpatria bade us enter in a loud, commanding voice.
The nightwatchman opened the door and ushered me inside. The reception chamber was sparse, home to little more than a desk and several shelves of books. A hearth, well-stoked, was the only concession to comfort.
The obenpatria himself reminded me of Lord Bauer, being a plain-looking, unremarkable man, grey-haired and -bearded, his stomach given over to fat. He sat behind the desk, attending to some papers by the wan candlelight. In my heightened state I fancied he regarded me as a predator regarded its prey, but in reality it was probably simple curiosity. He wore a habit of deep purple cloth fastened at the waist by a sash of white silk.
“Who is this you have brought to me, Brother Walter?” he asked mildly.
“This is the Justice’s clerk, Excellency,” the nightwatchman, whose name was evidently Walter, said. “She has abandoned him because of his devilry, and seeks sanctuary.”
The obenpatria regarded me. His eyes seemed to narrow slightly, but it might have been my imagination.
“Has she now?” he asked. “What is your name, girl?”
“H-Helena,” I said, affecting a stammer.
“Helena?”
“Sedanka.”
“Helena Sedanka,” the obenpatria said. He turned back to the gatekeeper. “Thank you, Brother Walter. You may leave her with me.”
The gatekeeper bowed and scraped his way back out of the room. The heavy wooden door closed with a thud. My heart pounded. I tried to convince myself that the obenpatria would not suspect my motives so quickly, but my body would not be assuaged. I began to sweat.
“You look frightened, girl,” the obenpatria said. “There is no need to be. This is a place of worship and prayer. There is nowhere safer in the whole of the Empire. Come, sit.”
He gestured to a wooden chair in front of his desk. I recognised it for what it was; Vonvalt called them “piss off chairs” because they were so uncomfortable the sitter would not want to stay long. I walked forwards, now very hot in my cloak, and sat.
“Have you sought sanctuary with us?” the obenpatria asked.
I nodded.
“You are aware of the canon law?”
“I – don’t know,” I said, catching myself. I did not want to make it look as though this had been a prepared move.
The obenpatria looked at me for a few quiet moments. “The canon law dictates that any who claim sanctuary should be offered it for a period of a month. The rule is not infallible, of course. Tell me, Helena: have you committed treason?”
I shook my head emphatically.
“Murder?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Have you renounced the Creed of Nema?”
One last shake. It seemed astonishing that anyone who was guilty of any of those crimes would admit to it in the circumstances, but I would learn later that the penalty under the canon law for claiming false sanctuary was death.
We sat in silence for another few moments.
“What brings you to the Order of Saint Jadranko?”
His manner was mild now, closer to that of a monk than a ruler. Within the kloster walls, he was second only to the Emperor – and an Emperor’s Justice, though our experience with Waldemar Westenholtz had shown me that even that apparently limitless power did indeed have limits.
I told him the fiction that Vonvalt and I had agreed: that the injuries I had suffered, both physical and mental, during the recent days in his service had been the final straw after months of doubt. Vonvalt’s departure south marked a convenient point to flee. He nodded and winced sympathetically as I recounted my story, and made a show of inspecting the scarred, shorn side of my head. But it was the tale of the séance that he was most interested in. He could not keep the hungry look from his eyes as I mentioned it.
“Tell me more about this power,” he said. “I have heard tell of it, of course, everything from folk tales to official reports, though I have never witnessed the practice. Did you know that it was once a holy power, rather than a civil one?”
He posed the question innocently, as one with a mere scholarly interest in the subject. But, like so many Nemans, he was keenly aware of the historical transfer of power that had taken place between the forces of religion and the forces of law – and was bitter despite being a half-dozen generations removed from it.
“I do not know much about it,” I said. It was only a half-lie. Vonvalt had lectured me on the history of the powers of the Order of the Magistratum, but I had found it as dull as many other things he lectured me on, and the knowledge had failed to take. The fact that I was about to hear it again was clearly some form of cosmic revenge.
“You will of course know better than most how the Sovans pride themselves on their system of common law.”
I nodded.
“Did you know that of the two heads of the Autun, one represents the canon law, and the other the common?”
“I do,” I said. Children of three knew that.
“Once it was the case that it was temple priests who spoke to the dead. It was a ritual that was reserved for only the most holy and learned men of the cloth. The rituals were complex and lengthy. Those who undertook them sought to understand the mysteries of the afterlife and so better minister to the masses. It was a… profoundly respectful process.”
“You do not think it respectful now?”
The obenpatria snorted, instantly offended. “These so-called Justices. They swan around the provinces and conjure up the spirits of the departed as though it were a game. They haven’t the skill to do it properly, either. Half the time they obtain nothing but nonsense.”
I stiffened slightly at that. I thought of the incredible reluctance with which Vonvalt exercised the power of necromancy; the haunted and drawn look that he wore for days afterwards; the exhaustion and horror that followed each use. To suggest that he engaged in the practice lightly was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. As for the remark about skill, it was true enough that Graves’s words had been little better than gibberish. But could the men and women of the Church really do better?
“It is a ghastly thing to behold,” I said quietly.
The obenpatria turned back to me, as though he had forgotten I was there.
“I do not doubt it. Questioning the dead as though they were a witness in a trial; is it any wonder that they rail against it? That the spirits of the afterlife claw into the breach between worlds and voice their displeasure? Tell me, did it go to plan, this séance?”
I shook my head.
“No. I’d lay bets it was commandeered by some malign entity?”
I shivered. How could the man possibly know?
“Yes,” he said, eyeing me. “You need not answer. I can see the effect it has had on you. Necromancy is not supposed to be thus. It is not supposed to be frightening and disturbing. Done correctly it is a wonderful thing. Our Neman elders used to revel in the process and the wisdom it yielded. Justices are like grave robbers, smashing their way into the holy dimensions and stealing what information they can.”
He lapsed to silence, stifled by his own nostalgic anger. Eventually, he said, “You disapprove of your former master’s misuse of the power, I take it?”
I nodded vigorously.
“Hm,” he said. “Rightly so. Well, fear not, my child; there are still godly men about, powerful men, who I hope will soon see these powers restored to the Church.”
“You mean Patria Claver?” I asked.
The obenpatria nodded. “Aye. The man is a living saint. He has honoured us with his presence on more than one occasion. He would see the Neman Church restored.”
I did well to hide my alarm at this. If the kloster had thrown its hand in with Claver, then the Bauer matter, already tangled and complex, was about to take a turn for the worse.
“Well,” the obenpatria said, in a tone of voice that made it clear our talk was drawing to its end. “We shall do what we can to wash away the sin of it.” It took me a moment to realise he was talking again about the séance. “It clings to you, even now, like a black cloak. I sense it.”
I shuddered. “Help me,” I said, and it was not entirely part of the act. The last thing I wanted was to somehow be tainted by my contact with the afterlife.
“I will, child, I will. My name is Obenpatria Fischer. You will refer to me as ‘Your Excellency’.” He stood up and, wearing a grim countenance, walked past me to the door. He opened it and called out into the corridor of stone beyond. I heard a muffled response, and then hurried footsteps. Fischer turned back into the room, this time trailed by another young girl dressed in a white frock and wimple.
“Emilia, this is Helena,” he said, introducing us. Emilia looked at me briefly, before returning her eyes to the floor.
“Hello,” she said in a Hauner accent, bobbing briefly.
“Hello,” I replied.
“Emilia will show you around and teach you our ways. She is not so far out of the Trials herself.” Fischer watched me for a little while longer – long enough for it to be uncomfortable. Then, eventually, he nodded. “All right. Nema be with you,” he said, and I was dismissed.
Emilia showed me to my quarters. It was more like a cell than anything else, a small stone room, illuminated during the day by a single small window, furnished with nothing except a cot and a desk. Atop the desk was a leather-bound and illuminated codex of the Nema Creed, and I had to remind myself that, despite the severity of my surroundings, the kloster was a wealthy place.
“’Tis too late for you to do or attend to anything now,” Emilia said. She seemed a sullen sort. “You’d just as well stay in here now and start the day tomorrow.”
“What is the routine?” I asked.
Emilia sighed.
“I know I am an imposition,” I snapped, my anxiety suddenly getting the better of me. “You do not need to remind me with such theatrics.”
The girl looked at me with wide eyes. I realised immediately that at least part of her surliness was born of fear of me. It was easy to forget my own imposing presence. One did not spend two years shadowing a Justice and not take on some of his countenance. I may have seemed like small beer to someone like Obenpatria Fischer, but to many of those my own age and younger, I was as imperious as Vonvalt was to me.
“Bathing is at sun-up,” she said in a slightly more conversational tone of voice. “I will fetch you.”
“And then?”
“Prayers, then tasks before lunch.”
“What will my tasks be?”
Emilia shrugged. “I do not know. You should expect it to be menial.”
I paused for a second. “Did you seek sanctuary here?” I asked.
She looked embarrassed for a moment, then defiant. “It matters not how I came to be here. I am here.”
“All right,” I said. “I wouldn’t think less of you either way.”
“It matters not to me what you think.”
We stood in awkward silence for a few moments until it was clear our interaction was over.
