The Justice of Kings, page 38
Jansen, too, was visibly taken aback.
“In my experience it is best to get these things out of the way early in life,” he continued with affected brightness. “How did they use to do it in the Lodge? Take the Order’s initiates down to the Palace gaol and have them slice the heads off the condemned?”
Vonvalt sniffed. “They used livestock in the first instance.”
It was too much even for the conversational talents of Jansen. The three of us lapsed to silence, and I found myself wishing that the senator had not suggested he accompany us, for it was from that point on an awkward journey, marked by uncomfortable silence.
Baron Hangmar and the mayor were already there, waiting for us in the great hall. The mood was palpably sombre, and though a great spread of food had been laid on for these high lords of state, it might as well have been a funeral feast.
“Justice, Senator,” Sauter said nervously. He gestured to some chairs around the table. “Please, come and help yourselves to food and wine.”
The three of us made our way to the table. I lifted up one of the platters in front of me and loaded it up with some venison pie, and filled my goblet from one of the wine jugs about the table. I watched Jansen do the same, but Vonvalt did not touch any of the food.
“I have heard word from the town physician as to the final tally of dead,” Baron Hangmar said. He was a big, barrel-chested man, possessed of a thick head of blond hair and a close-cropped blond beard. In the wake of the battle, I had seen him briefly in the street, his plate armour black like Westenholtz’s, but his surcoat was white and embroidered with a crimson bull’s head.
“Aye?” Jansen asked.
“Sixty from the town watch. A hundred from my own men killed, another hundred wounded.”
“And of the margrave’s men?”
“Two hundred and fifty killed. Of the prisoners we have taken, thirty have gone to the noose. We will clear the balance in the next day or two.”
“If I may ask, what accounts for the disparity in the numbers?” Sauter asked. “Westenholtz had the greater force. Not that I am displeased with the result, of course.”
“Cohesion,” Hangmar grunted. “My men were organised. They were not. Too busy pillaging the place like bloody Draedists.”
“But did the margrave not say they were Reichskrieg veterans?” Sauter pressed.
Hangmar shrugged. “What man is not?”
“They were retainers,” Jansen said. “No match for legionnaires.”
I frowned. I was not really permitted to speak, on account of my low rank, but I sensed an ally in Jansen, and my curiosity was too piqued to let the point slide.
“What is the difference?” I asked.
Everyone looked at me. Vonvalt looked slightly irritated that I had breached protocol, but the man could drink brine. I was still smarting from the snub he had dealt me en route to the mayor’s house.
As I suspected, Jansen was happy to indulge me. “Westenholtz’s men belonged to Westenholtz – and probably a large number from Baron Naumov’s household, too. The Legions belong to the Emperor. A lord may keep a number of men on retainer, though they require a royal licence to do it. But such men are no match for the Imperial armies. Good at terrorising the countryside like bandits, and not much else.”
“I have not heard of the practice,” I said. “It seems rather outdated, does it not?”
“’Tis on the wane, like many other things,” Hangmar said. He seemed to glance over at Vonvalt as he said it. “It is mostly confined to the countryside. I expect it will be outlawed entirely after this sorry episode.”
“Indeed,” Jansen said. “More pressingly, is there any sign of our priest? I have asked Sir Konrad here specifically to hear your news.”
Hangmar grunted. He took a long draw of red wine. “My scouting parties report that the body of Westenholtz’s surviving troops have made for Roundstone. Claver was among them, as well as the other one…” He snapped his fingers. “What was his name?”
“Fischer,” Vonvalt said. “Obenpatria Ralf Fischer.”
“That was it,” Hangmar said.
“And what precisely is your plan to deal with them?” Vonvalt asked. His face was a mask of displeasure. “I guarantee they will not remain in Roundstone for very long.”
Jansen and Hangmar exchanged a look. Much like the senator, the baron was subordinate to Vonvalt, and was bound by protocol to endure his bad moods.
“Word has been sent to Count Maier of Oldenburg, and His Highness Prince Gordan,” Hangmar said. Gordan Kzosic was the Emperor’s third son and the Prince of Guelich. I knew that word had been sent to the Emperor as well, but given that Guelich bordered Haunersheim, the Prince would almost certainly receive the news first. “I am confident His Highness will strike north in force. You have seen what a few hundred wayfort garrisoneers can do; wait until you see what a full Imperial Legion is capable of. Roundstone and Seaguard will be bled dry.”
Hangmar seemed satisfied with his own answer, but Vonvalt said nothing, and there followed a silence, which stretched unbearably.
“Sir Konrad?” Jansen prompted.
“I’m thinking,” Vonvalt replied.
There was another silence, until eventually Sauter cleared his throat. “What will you do now, Sir Konrad?” he asked. “I don’t imagine there is much to keep you here in the Vale.”
“Once my business is finished with Westenholtz, I will make for the capital,” Vonvalt said. “Clearly, matters are reaching a head within my Order – and in such a way as to require my personal attention.”
“Indeed,” Jansen said. “I will give you the names of a few senators to call on. The situation is precarious, but you are not without allies. There is still time. Westenholtz’s actions here will reflect catastrophically on the Mlyanars – not to mention Claver’s on the Nemans. I daresay you will have the wind at your back.”
“Aye,” Hangmar agreed. “When Sova hears that a Mlyanar has sacked one of the largest and most important towns in Haunersheim, it will be poison to their cause. There will be outrage in the capital.”
But Vonvalt was immune to such optimism. “Senatorial politicking will count for nothing soon enough. The Emperor would do well to send the Legions south and destroy the Templars before Claver is able to reunite with them. And smoke out Claver from Roundstone and destroy Naumov’s entire household while he’s at it.”
“Roundstone will be taken care of,” Hangmar said. “And the Emperor is no fool, Justice. He will not allow the Savarans within a hundred miles of Sova.”
Vonvalt looked up at the baron, as though he had only just noticed him at the table. He regarded the man in silence for a long time; but unlike before, there was a leaden quality to this deliberate pause that meant no one moved to prompt him.
And then, slowly, Vonvalt began to smile.
Hangmar, disarmed, smiled back uncertainly. Even Jansen, who was the only one close to Vonvalt’s intellectual equal, seemed compelled to smile as well, as though preparing himself for the punchline to a joke he didn’t quite understand. Sauter went as far as to chuckle, in his sweaty, anxious way.
Vonvalt continued to smile, but I was the only one who could see it for what it was. It was the cold, helpless smile of a man who has just lost a high-stakes game he might otherwise have won had he just paid more attention. For the first time, Vonvalt saw his own naïveté reflected back at him. He might as well have been looking into a mirror. He saw in Hangmar and Jansen exactly what August had seen in him: an unshakeable yet entirely misplaced confidence in the permanence of the state. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, they were still willing to believe that because the Empire was geographically vast, and had armies and a complex bureaucracy and a religion and all the other great institutions that came with it, it would simply… endure. That it was an entity greater than the sum of its parts, rather than a huge collective delusion that required constant maintenance at gigantic expense of treasure and blood. The Empire’s power was drawn entirely from its subjects’ perception of it. We had just witnessed how a couple of rogue lords and a deranged priest could nearly destroy one of its towns in an afternoon. It was not a great leap of the imagination to see how Claver, given another few weeks and set at the head of five or ten thousand men, could undo the world as we knew it.
The effect on Vonvalt was transformative. It did not rob him of his bitterness, nor did it realign his personal ethical code – as I would come to discover but a few weeks later. But it did infuse him with a sudden sense of purpose that, for now at least, provided a decent simulation of both.
He stood, and we all stood with him, though our obeisance was slightly delayed on account of how wrong-footed we were. “Westenholtz will die at dawn. I have decided to bring his execution forwards.” Vonvalt turned to Sauter. “Please erect a scaffold in the market square, tonight.”
“Uh – at once, my lord,” Sauter spluttered, but Vonvalt was already sweeping out of the room.
“Come, Helena,” he called over his shoulder. “Make preparations for our departure.”
XXX
Leaving the Vale
“To meet a Justice is often to meet a dispassionate automaton, so robbed of any human nature it is like conversing with a walking textbook. And yet, one cannot help but question the wisdom of entrusting unlimited power to any class of person. Can the Order really be so successful in stamping out every last partiality, every last prejudice and quirk of the human soul?”
FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE
“Tell me how he did it.”
It was dawn, and heavy rain lashed the Vale. Vonvalt and I stood in the margrave’s cell, this time accompanied by Sir Radomir. Our cloaks dripped with rainwater, and more water trickled down the stones of the wall where a rash of mould had sprung up overnight. Given that, under the common law, a person was not guilty of a crime until declared so by a jury or a Justice, Sovan ordinances commanded that gaols were to be constructed robustly, and in such a way as to provide some measure of comfort to their occupants. After all, not everyone who entered them exited having been adjudged guilty. But, perhaps unsurprisingly, of all the Imperial decrees around the legal process, it was the most neglected. Vonvalt once told me that the effectiveness of a state’s criminal justice bureaucracy was entirely congruent with the compassion of its citizens, and the Sovans were a vengeful mob. It was one of life’s great ironies that the better treated the criminal class, the less crime there was overall, but that is a hard sell to the parents of a murdered child, or the peddler who has just been violently robbed on the highway.
Westenholtz was very much a victim of this wilful oversight. Freezing cold, starving and with his meagre clothes concealing all manner of bruises, he was a broken man. I was surprised at how much pity I felt for him. I detested him, of course, and had done from the moment we had met. He was a loathsome creature, and deserved nothing other than death. Yet, to look at his pale and emaciated form, my overwhelming emotion was one of sadness. How could we claim any moral superiority over him when we allowed him to be kicked by his gaolers or starved of victuals?
“There is nothing left for you,” Vonvalt said. “It is over. Your estates and titles have been revoked. Your household disbanded. The Imperial Herald has erased your device. Any goodwill you have built up as the guardian of the northern shores of this Empire has been obliterated.” Vonvalt took a step forwards, and squatted down. When he spoke again, his voice had softened somewhat. “Do some good now. Salvage something. Don’t take it with you. Tell me how he did it. Tell me where he got the knowledge from. Tell me who helped you.”
Westenholtz opened his mouth to speak, but only a dry rasp came out. Vonvalt turned to the gaoler. “Bring some ale in here,” he said, and a few minutes later Westenholtz’s throat was moistened enough to speak.
“But you are wrong. It is not over,” he said. He spoke quietly, but with absolute conviction. Rather than break him, the last few days seemed only to have hardened his resolve. The sincerity in his voice frightened me. “It is only just beginning.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sir Radomir muttered, and spat on the floor. He gestured roughly to the margrave. “Sir Konrad, you are wasting your time. He has naught but trite prophecies in him.”
Vonvalt did not take his eyes off Westenholtz. “Is Sir Radomir right? Are your final words really to be so unimpressive?”
“You’ll not goad me into confessing anything,” Westenholtz said, irritably, as though Vonvalt were a beggar hassling him on the street. He turned to look out of the window again. “My fate is in Nema’s hands.”
Sir Radomir sighed angrily. “If I wanted to listen to this shit there are a dozen madmen outside the temple who preach it better. I’ll see you at the scaffold.” And with that, he left.
Vonvalt regarded Westenholtz for a long minute. Outside, the rain intensified. One thing was certain: it was going to be a dramatic execution.
“You are not special,” Vonvalt said. He spoke as though he were simply listing facts. “Martyrdom does not await you. You will die a dishonourable death as a hated man, your only legacy that of a butcher.”
Westenholtz rolled his eyes. “If you are going to kill me, then get on with it.”
Now Vonvalt sighed, and smiled sadly. He seemed to be lost in thought for a few moments; then he shook his head, as though he were having some internal conversation with himself. When he spoke, it was quietly.
“I have been there. I have seen what is on the other side.” He brought his face in close to the margrave’s, his voice freighted with haunted authority. “If you knew what awaited you, you would not be so eager to die.”
For the first time, Westenholtz’s composure fractured. Now he could not keep the fear from his face. Nema, even my skin broke out in gooseflesh at Vonvalt’s cold delivery. But of course, I had been there. I had seen the truth of it for myself.
“What do you mean? What is there?” Westenholtz whispered, wide-eyed and in spite of himself. Claver must have filled his head with all sorts of nonsense, which he was only now beginning to see for what it was – empty exhortation. He reminded me of myself, calling out to the soldier on the bank of the Gale. Even such debasement was better than the alternative. Faced with the enormity of death and an afterlife as dark and vast and filled with predatory entities as the oceans of the world, it was not surprising that the man cracked. The only thing that was surprising was how long it had taken. But, in my experience, people are able to deny the reality of their situation in the face of quite overwhelming evidence.
Vonvalt stood, and turned to leave. “I have given you ample time to assist me. You will find out very shortly.”
“What is there, Justice?” Westenholtz called. His voice was louder now, and urgent, but he was speaking to our backs. “Justice? What is there? Justice!”
But he did not get his answer – at least, not from Vonvalt.
We stepped out into the street, and made our way to the market square. Rain lashed down around us, overwhelming the shit-ditches either side of the road, which now overflowed with effluent. Without winter to chill the air, the Vale was coming alive with unpleasant smells, and I knew the place would be unbearable in summer.
We reached our destination after ten minutes of brisk walking. There, a scaffold had been erected per Vonvalt’s instructions. Above, the sky was dark and filled with bloated black cloud, and thunder pealed through the air. In spite of this, a huge crowd had turned out, and there was a palpable sense of tension and excitement in the air.
We pressed our way through the throng. No one quite had the temerity to shout at us, though there was plenty of angry and resentful muttering in our wake. I was largely oblivious to it. Thoughts of divination and the afterlife clamoured for attention in my head. I could not help but think that the weather was some kind of divine expression of displeasure – but how could the elemental gods not be pleased with what was about to take place? Vonvalt was a great believer in the Natural Law, the idea that morality and ethics were absolutes irrespective of human-made laws, and if this were truly the case, then by any measure, Westenholtz deserved to die. Perhaps the answer lay in the works of Justice Kane and his theory of Entanglement. Although we were taking immediate succour in revenge, perhaps Westenholtz’s execution was objectively the wrong thing to do, an action which would shunt us onto a different temporal pathway and doom the Autun to destruction. Perhaps it was not so much an expression of displeasure as a warning?
Or perhaps it was simply some bad weather.
Vonvalt had not given me anywhere specific to stand, so I joined him on the scaffold. We were joined shortly after by Sir Radomir and Lord Sauter, the former with a sense of grim anticipation, the latter with a sense of abject misery. A few months ago I might have been surprised by Sauter’s reaction, but my opinion of him had changed over time. There was cowardice in his honour. His light-touch approach was not born of a desire to do the right thing; it was a consequence of his weak moral foundation. As he would be glad to see the back of us, so I would be glad to see the back of him. Once we left the Vale, our paths would never cross again.
We were not long on the platform when a great jeer went up from the crowd, and I turned sharply to the end of the street. There I saw Westenholtz being led to the scaffold by a pair of burly executioners’ assistants and a Neman priest. He seemed to come compliantly enough – for what choice did he have? – but when he saw the noose, he baulked. I saw him stiffen with resistance. He started shouting something, but it was not the raving of a man who has gone insane with fear. He seemed angry about something.
I leant towards Vonvalt, and asked quietly, “What is the matter with him?”
Vonvalt did not look at me, but his face was grim set. “The man was a lord. He will say he is entitled to a lordly death.”
“By law?”
Vonvalt nodded. “Aye.”
“What manner of death is he entitled to?”
