The Justice of Kings, page 33
Disarmed by the man’s good humour, Vonvalt softened. “Yes, all right,” he said.
We decloaked and sat around the table in the corner of the tent while Jansen filled four glasses. “You have the look of a Grozodan,” he said, nodding to Bressinger. “This is a good Pjolskimis. Ten years ripe.”
Bressinger offered a half-hearted smile. He seemed to be in a sour mood, as he often was when faced with authority. In spite of who he was and what he did, he would never shake his disdain for the Autun. “I’m afraid I’ve no nose for it.”
“Shame,” Jansen said. “Well, you will have to take it from me that this one is very good. Your health.”
We toasted half-heartedly, and drank. The wine was exceptionally good.
“You have come directly from Sova?” Vonvalt asked.
“I have,” Jansen said. “I, and most of the rest of the Senate, have had word that you are tangling with a Neman, Bartholomew Claver. The entire mummery is playing nicely into the hands of your enemies.”
Vonvalt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have just about had my fill of people coming and going and giving me advice about that damned man. He is a menace.”
Jansen gestured to Vonvalt with his wine goblet. “He is much worse than that. The way the Nemans talk about him, you would think he was the earthly incarnation of the God Father Himself. Wherever he goes, money and converts come out. I do not think the Templars have ever seen such a swell in numbers.”
“I know all too well what Bartholomew Claver is up to. You are not the first person to warn me of him. My intention is to finish prosecuting a case in Galen’s Vale and then to head to Sova to undo the damage he and his ilk have wrought there.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Jansen said, sincerely. “Given that you are well-informed, you will be aware then that the master of your order is making something of a fool of himself in the capital. It is an open secret that he is treating with the Mlyanars.”
“How is it that the Mlyanars have gained so much power?” Vonvalt asked. He was as close to exasperation as he got. “They have been nothing but petty agitators for so many years.”
“The ebb and flow of Imperial politics, Justice. The Magistratum has always tried to set itself above our grubby world. But I’m afraid Kadlec has breached the wall between our estates. As it transpires, it was rather a flimsy one.”
Vonvalt thought for a moment. “A colleague of mine has been at pains to explain the situation to me, though I fear I still do not grasp its severity. Tell it to me as you see it; explain as though I were a child.”
Jansen sighed. “’Tis both as tangled as a spider’s web and yet as simple as day versus night.” He held up a thumb. “The Haugenates: both the Emperor’s familial line and those of us in the Senate who owe him our loyalty.” Now he held up his index finger. “The Mlyanar Patricians: wealthy, landed and ‘petty agitators for years’. For the longest time, a substantial minority in the Senate – now a precarious majority – and professional complainers.” Now he held up his middle finger. “The Neman Church: much like your Magistratum – aloof, concerned only with ministering to the ever-expanding volume of Imperial subjects. And of course, complaining about having all of their magickal powers taken away.” He let his hand drop, and shrugged. “An uneasy but functional equilibrium that, apparently, it takes little more than a single man to upset. The Mlyanars and the Savarans have of course historic ties, and with Claver sending rivers of gold and men and women into the Templar’s coffers and ranks, the Mlyanars have become predatory. Emboldened. The Nemans see a way of getting their powers back, and have thrown their lot in with Claver, adopting him with retroactive effect, which is both awkward and amusing since they spent so long distancing themselves from him and his radicalism.” Now he gripped his thumb and index finger together. “So you see, we Haugenates are being overwhelmed. The Magistratum, which should be an ally, is being neutered by Kadlec’s actions, infuriating the Emperor. His Imperial Majesty is all but alone.”
Vonvalt took a drink of his wine. He thought for a moment. “I see the complexity; I do not see the simplicity.”
“Power,” Jansen said simply. “It is about power. Claver wants power for his Templars, and himself. The Nemans want their magickal powers back from the Order. The Mlyanars want to depose the Emperor while they control the Senate. They are like a room full of philosophers, with each of them considering themselves smarter than the next man. They all think they are about to outmanoeuvre one another, but the truth is we are heading for a calamitous fall. I am trying to do what I can to soften the blow, but one of our great institutions of state will not see out the year – of that I am confident. ’Tis like kicking out one of the legs from a stool; it does not take long for the thing to topple over.”
Vonvalt sat quietly for a few minutes. He was no fool – though he had been foolish. Jansen had not told him anything August hadn’t, and he was not blind to the weight of evidence as regarded the situation in Sova. Rather, for the longest time he had been trying to manage what he had considered to be competing priorities. Sitting in that tent with the senator, I think it finally dawned on him that he – like so many others – had badly miscalculated.
“Why is Kadlec treating with the Nemans?” Vonvalt asked. “He has always been a sensible, if uninspiring master. He paid his religious dues to the extent his office required it, but I never got the sense that he was a true believer.”
“Kadlec has always been a Neman at heart,” Jansen said, dismissive. “Particularly in his advancing years. I and many of my colleagues are not surprised to see he has chosen that particular ring in which to throw his hat. But it is not just Kadlec. There are plenty of Justices whom the Mlyanars have their claws in. Their biases are bleeding through into their work – finding against the Crown, cutting tithes for those lords in the Empire who are under the yoke of the Patricians, recusing themselves from common-law matters in favour of canonical adjudicators… My retainers unearth secret networks between members of the Neman Church, the Mlyanars and the Magistratum near daily, all working to undermine the Emperor and transfer power to the Senate, which they seek to control.”
Vonvalt remained admirably impassive, but I knew that hearing the senator dismiss so many Justices as corrupt would have both shocked and offended him. In Vonvalt’s eyes, to be a Justice was to be beyond reproach, an exemplar of incorruptibility and fairhandedness. In that respect, he was quite naïve.
“Is it so bad?” Vonvalt asked eventually. He was in a surly, contrary mood, perhaps because Jansen was so demonstrably better-informed, and did what he often did when he felt like he was on the back foot: retreated to academic, juridical arguments where he could reassert his superiority. “A group of representatives ruling the Empire, rather than the whim of one man? A collection of men and women, tempering one another’s more extreme predilections, governing what has become a gigantic and unwieldy nation?”
Jansen sent back, smiling humourlessly. “So, you are Kasivar now? Summoning sprites out of the ether to distract us from the main argument? Or are you actually suggesting that the Mlyanars stuffing the Senate with loyalists and putting a puppet on the throne – or worse, Claver himself – is a good thing? A collection of men and women the Mlyanars may be, but representatives they are not.”
“You have been speaking to Resi,” Vonvalt muttered. He was not used to being put in his place, and he reacted with uncharacteristic sullenness.
“Infrequently,” Jansen said. “Why, has she been telling you the same thing? Is she the colleague you referred to a moment ago?”
Vonvalt nodded once.
“I am surprised you required me to bolster her entreaties; her reputation is formidable.”
“It is not a question of her intellect or her judgement,” Vonvalt said. “Tell me why you have brought me here. This conversation, as enlightening as it has been, could have taken the form of a letter.”
I could not help but feel bad for Justice August. Whatever the nature of Vonvalt’s and her relationship – and I had no doubt that it was complex – Bressinger had been right: it had clearly coloured Vonvalt’s opinion of the ill tidings she had brought with her from Guelich. My guess was that Vonvalt thought August’s warnings had come from a place of concern for Vonvalt himself – from a place of love and affection – whereas Jansen’s bore the hallmark of cold, hard and self-serving political machination. The former was easy to dismiss – quite wrongly, in the event – as inflated by sentiment; the latter, not so much.
“This is an appropriate juncture to discuss it actually, since we are already talking about her. I had word yesterday of your predicament in the Vale. A note carried by a blackbird, bearing Justice August’s seal. A fortunate coincidence, since I have not made my travel plans widely known.”
“You know, then, that the Mlyanars are already moving?” Vonvalt asked.
“I do now. I would not be surprised, however, if Westenholtz and the Baron of Roundstone are on a frolic of their own. Powerful though our enemies may be, I did not have the sense when I left Sova that the Mlyanars were in a position to take such bold action.” He shrugged. “Either way, there is blood about to be shed.”
“Am I to take it that you are in a position to help?” Vonvalt asked.
“I hope that I already have,” Jansen said. “But a small piece of bad news first: there is no one to be taken from Gormogon – the garrison has already made west for Denholtz.”
“That is bad news.”
“But not fatal. What is much better news is that Lord Hangmar, Baron of Osterlen, is taking a company of Imperial soldiers from the Twenty-eighth Legion west from Weisbaum to replace them. His plan, as far as I am aware, is to hollow out the garrison at Gresch as well. If they are where they should be, and they have received my message, then this should give you a fairly sizeable force – larger, if you are able to supplement it with town watchmen and perhaps a company of volunteers.”
Vonvalt leant forwards sharply. “How many men? Where are they?”
Jansen held out a hand for calm. “Only three hundred to Westenholtz’s five, and these are garrisoneers, not the Emperor’s finest. But they have some cavalry, and are well placed to help, as chance – or Nema – would have it.”
“Why is Baron Hangmar travelling west at all?”
“They are staging at Gormogon in case more soldiers are required in Denholtz.” He gestured dismissively. “Some pagan rebels or something – who knows? There are so many these days. What is important is that they can be spared. I have dispatched my fastest rider to catch up with them – would that I had Justice August’s power, I would have sent a bird. Notwithstanding, I have no reason to think that my man will not succeed – if he has not already. With a tailwind and a bit of luck, Hangmar can reach the Vale inside a day or two.”
“They might as well be marshalled on the Gvòrod Steppe if they cannot get to me inside of two days,” Vonvalt said.
“Well, you know what they say about beggars. I had planned to make an appearance myself, have a tilt at some of your rebels, but I cannot say with honesty that you have enamoured me to your cause.”
Vonvalt sighed. He took a long draw of wine. “I am sorry, Tymoteusz. I am being… extraordinarily ungrateful. There is no excuse.”
The senator appeared to have no difficulty with accepting this apology. “It is just as well you are an old friend, or I might have been offended by your bad grace,” he said wryly. “In any event, I hope it is enough to make a difference. Perhaps Westenholtz will be frightened off.”
“I don’t know,” Vonvalt said uncertainly. “He acts as one who is extraordinarily comfortable in his position.”
“He has plenty of allies in Sova; you may rest assured of that. Do you even know what it is the man is planning to do?”
“My guess is that the work I have undertaken in Galen’s Vale will disrupt the amount of money his and Claver’s scheme is receiving. I had not set out to do it, of course, though I am pleased that I have.”
“What scheme is that?”
“Money being siphoned off from the town’s treasury, funnelled through miscreants in the Neman kloster and ultimately making its way into the hands of the Templars. It is as twisted and complex as anything happening in Sova; would that I had more time, I would tell you about it in detail.”
Jansen waved him off. “Then I am glad you do not have more time.”
Vonvalt laughed despite himself. “And as for you yourself, why are you this far north of Sova? Has the Emperor favoured you with some governorship in the northern Haunersheim?”
“Would that he had,” Jansen said. “It is a dangerous time to be a senator in Sova. I was on my way to Hasse, on some trivial diplomatic function. I must admit the thought of getting my sword red in the Vale sounds much more appealing. Westenholtz always was such a bastard.”
Vonvalt smiled. “Thank you for your help, Tymoteusz. But please, do not put yourself in harm’s way on my account. I cannot face being responsible for the death of a senator.”
“Enough of that, mother hen,” Jansen scolded. It was the first time I had seen his composure fracture. “I shall do as I please, for the glory of the Two-Headed Wolf.”
Vonvalt looked grim. “I do not know what is going to happen in the next day or so – but of one thing I’m certain: there is going to be nothing glorious about it.”
We made our farewells and parted ways with the senator and his retinue in the late afternoon. By the time we reached the Vale, it was well after dark, and I was exhausted from a hard day’s riding.
“Mayor Sauter is looking for you,” Sir Radomir called out to us as we trotted through the Veldelin Gate. He was standing up on the gatehouse, having spent the balance of the day preparing the town’s defences. He looked grim and tired in the dancing firelight of the braziers.
Vonvalt sighed. I knew he had been avoiding Lord Sauter. The mayor was, understandably, very worried about what was going to happen to his town – but it did not make his constant questioning any less irritating.
“Helena, Dubine,” Vonvalt said to us. “Head to the mayor’s house. Tell him whatever he wants to know. As far as I am concerned, nothing we discussed this afternoon needs to be kept from him.”
“Aye,” Bressinger said gruffly.
“Where are you going?” I asked Vonvalt as we trotted past him.
“I am going to find Justice August, and see if she has seen anything further today,” he said, somewhat guardedly.
“I wouldn’t bother,” Sir Radomir called down. “She is gone out ranging.”
Vonvalt’s mouth formed a thin line. “Fine. Then I will be in my chambers in the courthouse.”
“You do not mean to continue with the trial tomorrow?” I asked, incredulous.
“Of course I do. I will not let Westenholtz put an end to everything we have worked so hard to achieve. It is precisely because he is on his way that we must continue. The law is the law; the day we abandon it for the sake of bloodshed is the day we abandon ourselves.”
And with that, he made for the courthouse, leaving us to spend a long and sleepless night without his counsel.
XXVI
A Light to the Touchpaper
“No one is above the law.”
OLD MAGISTRATUM PROVERB
The trial did indeed continue the following morning. I was not the only one who was surprised. Sir Radomir and his watchmen had spent all of the previous day stockpiling arrows and missiles, checking and testing the town gates (the Segamund Gate had been closed for the first time in years) and drafting companies of armed volunteers from the general population. These activities had hardly gone unnoticed.
But in spite of all this, the town’s council had not issued any formal proclamation. After all, Westenholtz’s actual intentions were not known. We had assumed the worst, but not everyone else had. For most, it was business as usual; and by the time we were back in the courthouse, the streets outside were thronged with the usual crowds going about their daily lives.
I sat at the prosecutors’ bench with my ledger opened, scribbling away with my quill, though there was no conscious link between my mind and my hand. As on the day before, I could only focus on the threat of impending violence.
Garb was continuing very much where he had left off the previous day, attacking Vonvalt and the Order of the Magistratum rather than the case against his clients. It was a singularly irritating and unintellectual argument, and also entirely irrelevant, which was probably why it seemed to be having such a powerful effect on the courtroom.
“Think on it, as you sit there,” he said in his rumbling basso. “By what right does this man, this nobleman, with his expensive estate on the Summit of the Prefects in Sova, judge my clients? He does not know the intricacies of life in Galen’s Vale. His people are not our people; his ways are not our ways. He will seek to baffle and impress you with books written by members of his Order, and he will seek to turn you against my clients with intricate and clever points of law. He will urge you to hang these three men not because he is right, but because he thinks that the time he spent being tutored in philosophy and legal theory and other bookish pursuits makes him cleverer than you.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are not beholden to him just because he is a Justice. Despite how he may come across, he is no better judge of character than you are. Trust your instincts; do not be swayed by his sorcerer’s ways and impressive-sounding legal arguments. He is but a man, flesh and blood, no more an expert on what is right and wrong than you are.”
These arguments were also infuriating because of the rank hypocrisy. Garb himself was a wealthy and educated man, and enjoyed all the privileges in life that came with those things; and yet he prattled on like he was a member of the lowliest class of villein, as though he were tilling the fields in between his trips to the courthouse. I could see through it, as could Vonvalt, who weathered this stream of sewage from the lawman imperturbably. What was worrying was that these risible appeals to the prejudices of the commonfolk in that room were actually working. Had the trial been allowed to continue for longer than it did, I would have been genuinely worried about the prospects of our success – and that in spite of the fact that we had three signed confessions.
