The Justice of Kings, page 39
“The sword.”
“But you are hanging him?”
“I am hanging him.”
It was as though we were back on the Hauner road, and Vonvalt was striding towards the Templar, about to strike his head from his shoulders in violation of the common law. This was a lesser transgression, but it was still unlawful – and petty. It reeked of vendetta. Perhaps I had been naïve to expect anything else.
“But if the law says—”
“Peace, Helena.”
I fell silent. What could I say? What could I do? Even if I had the means to intervene, I wasn’t exactly about to dart forwards and chop the man’s head off. I doubted I even had the strength to do it. And what a ridiculous scene that would be, the Justice’s clerk snatching up a sword and beheading the condemned.
No. I was forced to weather it like so many other things. There would be a time to air my concerns, but that time was not now. No citizen of the Vale was about to object to Westenholtz hanging. Indeed, many of them would relish a much more prolonged end. I just hoped that Vonvalt was hanging Westenholtz for some principle, perhaps as a mark of disrespect for the violations of his oaths of office, rather than as an indulgence to the crowd. The former I could understand, even if I didn’t like it; the latter would take Vonvalt into the realms of populism, the very antithesis of Sovan legal doctrine.
I was jolted from my unhappy reverie by Westenholtz surmounting the scaffold. He struggled against the iron grip of his escort.
“I’m entitled to an honourable death,” he spat. The fear which Vonvalt had instilled in him in the gaol had given way to anger again.
“Waldemar Westenholtz,” Vonvalt said, ignoring him. His voice boomed like the thunder overhead. “On the twenty-eighth day of Ebbe, you led a large company of your own retainers into the town of Galen’s Vale and killed, or caused to be killed, without lawful justification and under the Emperor’s peace, numerous of the Emperor’s subjects therein. In doing so you have committed the crimes of murder and treason, and I so indict you.
“I further indict you with the murder, or its incitement or authorisation thereof, of Sir Otmar Frost, Lady Karol Frost and the other inhabitants of the village of Rill, located in the province of Tolsburg, on a date unknown but nevertheless falling within the month of Goss.
“On these charges, His Most Excellent Majesty the Emperor Lothar Kzosic IV, through me, His Justice, Sir Konrad Vonvalt, does adjudge you guilty, and on this, the seventh day of Wirter, you are sentenced to die by hanging. Have you anything to say?”
“I’m entitled to an honourable death,” Westenholtz repeated. Despite his gaunt and bedraggled form, he still managed to summon every ounce of venom remaining in his system and direct it at Vonvalt.
“You are entitled to a death,” Vonvalt said. “If you wanted an honourable one, you should have conducted yourself honourably.”
“That is not what the law says!” Westenholtz shouted, once more struggling fruitlessly against the men holding him. “You’re not permitted to hang me!”
Vonvalt leant in close. He spoke quietly, intending for only Westenholtz to hear him, but I was close enough to catch the words.
“This is the difference between a piece of paper and steel. If you have not learned by now, you will soon enough.”
When Vonvalt took a step backwards, Westenholtz’s expression had changed. The realisation that nothing he could say or do would alter his fate finally hit him. I watched as the man’s soul snapped like an overtaxed bowstring. He sagged, and had to be physically held up.
Vonvalt nodded to the two executioners.
Lightning split the sky dramatically as Westenholtz was dragged towards the noose. I turned to Sir Radomir, but his face was grim set, and I knew I would not find an ally in him. He was an uncomplicated man, in favour of uncomplicated justice, and did not agonise over the intricacies of the common law.
The crowd was now jeering again. Some, presumably those who had lost family members or friends, were screaming bloody exhortations until they were hoarse. As a display of collective rage, it was powerful – and who could blame them? I was not so high-minded that I felt no satisfaction watching Westenholtz die. I hated him, and did not deny that the living world was a better place without him in it. It was just that any succour I may have taken from his execution was being tempered by the effect I knew it was having on Vonvalt. It seems strange to quibble about it – a death, after all, was a death, an execution an execution. What did it matter if Westenholtz was beheaded or hanged?
Well, the answer is that it couldn’t have mattered more. The Reichskrieg had claimed the lives of tens of thousands, yet the consequentialist philosophers and jurists of the day considered it justifiable because the great forces of civilisation that had followed in its wake had improved the lives of millions. Under the watchful gaze of the common law, every person from the lowliest peasant to the highest nobleman was rendered equal. So many had sacrificed so much, so many lives had been extinguished upon its altar, that to abandon its tenets now rendered the whole thing worthless. Take away a representative senate, the Magistratum, and a set of laws common to all persons, and the Reichskrieg had been no more than an end in itself, a mere sequence of bloody conquests.
One of Vonvalt’s favourite quotes was, “All may be judged by the law, so all may uphold it”, and I spoke it once to Matas when I was trying to be clever. But that is not the full quote. The full quote is, “All may be judged by the law, so all may uphold it; but all those who uphold the law may not judge it.” It was for Vonvalt to apply the law as it stood, in spite of himself, not to further his own designs.
The noose went around Westenholtz’s neck, and the executioner to whom Vonvalt had delegated the task turned the winch. Westenholtz was hoisted into the air no more than twelve inches. His feet kicked and his body convulsed. His face turned an incredible shade of purple. Every so often he would emit a screeching, choking sound as his throat opened and spasmed. I looked around the crowd, waiting for someone, perhaps Claver, to suddenly rush to the man’s rescue. But of course, there was no one.
Vonvalt lost interest after a few minutes and left the scaffold. Sauter, pleased to be able to do so, hurried after him and headed home. Only Sir Radomir remained, watching Westenholtz dispassionately.
I myself watched the entire gruesome spectacle. I felt it was somehow important, like I was witnessing history being made – which of course, I was.
Eventually it was over. By the tolling of the bell, the man had taken perhaps ten minutes to expire. His death could not have been more ignominious. Urine dripped from his lifeless legs. His eyes were almost black where every single blood vessel had ruptured. Thick spittle foamed around his mouth, and his tongue thrust out gruesomely.
Once it was clear Westenholtz had expired, I left the scaffold. I heard Sir Radomir cut him down behind me.
The crowd let out a great cheer as his lifeless body thumped on to the boards.
Another day and night passed before I saw Vonvalt again. For the first time in a long time, he looked fresh. His hair had been cut, his beard trimmed, and his face looked fleshier, as though he had eaten and drunk well. I must admit that despite everything that had happened recently, this simple transformation had a powerful impact on me, and served to obscure many of my misgivings.
“It is time to leave for Sova,” he said. We were standing in Vonvalt’s chambers in the upper levels of the courthouse. Vonvalt was drinking a goblet of red wine, and looking out over the town. Already many of the houses which had been burned were being rebuilt, and I did not doubt that Galen’s Vale would return to something resembling business as usual in a few days’ time. Vonvalt sat quietly for a little while, then drained the last of his wine. “I will not achieve satisfaction for Resi in this place.” He looked around the town as though it were a pagan relic constructed on unholy ground.
“Have you decided?” he asked after another silence.
“Have I decided what?” I asked.
“What you want to do. The death of Matas changes your circumstances somewhat, I should imagine, but…” He shrugged. “You may want to stay in the Vale anyway. Or part ways with me and Dubine.”
To my shame, I had not thought of Matas for some time, so preoccupied was I with recent events. I was surprised that Vonvalt had so badly misjudged the source of my unhappiness – for I was clearly unhappy with how Vonvalt was changing. But I did not have the courage to confront him about it, and I really did not have any other option except to accompany him.
“I will stay with you,” I said. I paused. I felt wretched, and I did not want to cry, and so took a half-minute to compose myself. Vonvalt did not look up. “There is so much left to do, so many wrongs to set right. I can only do that if I come with you to Sova.”
“Do you want to accompany me for vengeance, or do you want to accompany me to learn how to become a Justice?” Vonvalt asked.
I took a deep breath. There was no sense in lying to him. “I do not know,” I said. “The former. Perhaps both. I cannot say for sure that I want to become a Justice.”
“Perhaps it is for the best,” Vonvalt said, surprising me. “It would appear that now is a dangerous time to be associating with the Order anyway.”
I looked at my hands. “My loyalty is to you, not the Order,” I said quietly.
“My dear Helena,” Vonvalt said. I looked up. He was smiling, albeit sadly. “You owe me nothing.”
“I owe you everything,” I said.
“I have… misused you. Put you in danger. Asked things of you I should not have.”
“I am an adult. I could have refused.”
“Were it not for me, Matas would still be alive.”
“It was Vogt who murdered him,” I said simply.
“My actions created the circum—”
“I don’t want to discuss it particularly,” I said.
“No,” Vonvalt said. “No, that is fair.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“I wish to speak to Sir Radomir before we leave,” Vonvalt said. “I sense he feels he has lost his place here. He is a good man with a keen sense of justice. He is a doughty fighter, too. He might be persuaded to join us. Gods know we could use an extra sword arm.” His eyes widened as he realised what he had just said. “You take my meaning,” he added.
“Yes,” I said.
“Go then. Ready your things and have our horses and the ass prepared. Then inform Dubine that we will be on our way today, and ask him if he feels capable of joining us.”
“You would have me accompany you?” Sir Radomir asked later that morning.
We were standing in the sheriff’s office, the fire for once unlit on account of the unseasonably mild weather. Sir Radomir looked gaunt, and his wine-stain birthmark looked redder and more inflamed. He offered us drinks, which we refused on account of our impending departure.
The man was drunk, but lucid. Since the attack on the Vale, his drinking appeared to have increased in both volume and intensity. “With respect, Sir Konrad, it seems like something of a demotion. I am the sheriff of a town. By its ordinances I am entitled to employ a hundred men.”
“A hundred men?” Vonvalt asked.
“Aye,” Sir Radomir said.
“How many do you answer to?”
“I answer to the mayor.”
“And certain other lords?”
“Indirectly.”
“And Lord Sauter answers to?”
Sir Radomir shrugged.
“Lord Hangmar,” Vonvalt said. “Eventually.”
“The Lord of Haunersheim?”
“The Baron of Osterlen,” Vonvalt corrected. “And who does Baron Hangmar answer to?”
“I know not.”
“Count Maier, of Oldenburg and Lord of the Southmark. Who in turn answers to?”
“Some high lord I should imagine,” Sir Radomir said dourly.
“Duke Hofmann, foremost lord of Haunersheim. And Duke Hofmann answers to His Highness Gordan Kzosic, Prince of Guelich, who answers to his father, His Imperial Majesty.”
“I take your meaning,” Sir Radomir grumbled.
“Who do I answer to?” Vonvalt persisted.
“Nema?”
“The Emperor Himself. Directly. And that is no hollow honour; it is as fundamental to the constitution of the Empire as that beam is to the structure of this watch house. I am offering you a singular honour, Sir Radomir,” Vonvalt said. “As my retainer you would be second only to me. And I have just told you who I am second to.”
“Aye,” Sir Radomir said. “That you have.”
“And your hundred men become a hundred million. Across the whole of the Empire.”
“Gods,” Sir Radomir muttered. “No man should have so much authority.”
“I can think of several men who would agree,” Vonvalt remarked.
Sir Radomir’s face was grim. “What would my duties be?”
“Investigations. Arrests. Protection. Prosecution. Anything in furtherance of my ultimate objective: justice.”
“Does revenge fall within that remit?” Sir Radomir growled. He leant in slightly.
There was a dangerous silence. I looked at Vonvalt, expecting – hoping – to see him shake his head like a parent gently chiding a child. But to my great sadness, Vonvalt nodded.
“Aye,” he said. “That would fall within justice.”
“What is the procedure? If I were to accept?” Sir Radomir asked.
“It is as simple as a signature on a piece of paper, and that is only to ensure that you are paid.”
There was silence as the sheriff thought. “I will need time to prepare. To set things in order. ’Tis true I have no family here, but I have… acquaintances, if you take my meaning. I should not like to leave unannounced.”
“You have the balance of the morning. We will be leaving at noon. Meet us by the Veldelin Gate at the twelfth bell and no later.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Sova, Sir Radomir. To the seat of the Empire and the beating heart of the civilised world.”
Epilogue
The Emperor’s Justice
“Justice is not vengeance, and vengeance is not justice. But the two often overlap. The state is as capable of vengeance as any individual, for what is the state if not the people that comprise it?”
SIR RANDALL KORMONDOLT
A week later we were plodding down a muddy track through an open stretch of hilly Guelan farmland. Warm rain thrummed on my hood and I could feel the slow but inevitable surrender of my waxed cloak to full saturation.
We had spent the time travelling briskly south, avoiding the Hauner road wherever possible, stopping only for Vonvalt or Sir Radomir to make enquiries at the various waystations and inns on the way. Bressinger lay in the Duke of Brondsey’s cart, covered over in waxed cloaks, drinking and sleeping. Though his convalescence was ultimately successful, it would be a while before he was ready to engage in the banter and raucous behaviour I had been used to. I think he resented, too, the inclusion of Sir Radomir into Vonvalt’s retinue.
I did not really appreciate what was happening until it came to me suddenly that afternoon. I pieced together the various strands: our route, which conspicuously avoided the Hauner road and the Imperial Relay; and the frequent stops for information which did not involve me.
I urged my horse forwards until it was trotting next to Vincento.
“Where is he?” I asked Vonvalt. I had to raise my voice above the rain.
“Ossica,” he replied simply. He looked grim and uncharacteristically unkempt, his black beard tangled like a bird’s nest, his hair long and lank in the mild wet weather.
I tried to think of the right words. “He cannot be—”
“I know, Helena,” Vonvalt replied.
We carried on. I urged my horse up again so that it was level with Vonvalt.
“The jury did not—”
“I know, Helena.”
His face was inscrutable.
“So why are we—”
“Enough. You have worked it out, despite my efforts. I should have known you would. You are not to be a part of it. It is a minor detour, then we will be on our way south. We need information.”
“Just information?” I pressed.
Vonvalt did not respond.
“You are talking about—”
“I said enough,” he snapped. “I do not want to discuss it with you.”
I lapsed into silence, both wounded and troubled, and resumed my place in the line.
We carried on for the rest of the day while the sun slowly set. Twilight crept up on us in the late afternoon. Still, the watch fires of Ossica, another large merchant town connected to Galen’s Vale by the same wide, deep river, glowed on the horizon like beacons.
We reached the town long after nightfall, and it was only by Vonvalt’s authority that we were able to gain entry through the main gate. I could feel the eyes of the nightwatchmen following us as we clattered along the cobbled streets. It was as if they could sense why we were there.
We found an inconspicuous inn and had the horses stabled. I saw Vonvalt pay the keeper an exorbitant sum by the flash of silver in the firelight. The common room was filled with unsavoury types but none spared us a second glance.
Vonvalt spoke quietly to the innkeeper for a few minutes, then we turned to leave.
“Stay here with Dubine, Helena,” Vonvalt said as we reached the door. “I have booked you a room upstairs.”
“Mm,” I replied noncommittally. Bressinger slumped next to me, only half-conscious thanks to the pain in his arm stump and his inebriation.
“Bolt the door and do not come out. I will come and find you in a few hours or so.”
I made some show of protestation, but I knew that if I wanted any hope of following them I would have to play along. I dallied for a little while, then departed upstairs to our room. I helped Bressinger into the bed and shot the bolt once I was inside.
I watched Vonvalt and Sir Radomir from the window. The moment they rounded the corner I dashed back out of the room, downstairs and out the common-room door. Outside, I followed Vonvalt’s route down the unfamiliar streets until I picked them up a minute or so later. I kept to the shadows and followed them for around a quarter of an hour. Their route took them away from the lantern-lit cobbles of the main streets and into the back alleys, where whores waited in doorways and called out to them and where men gave them appraising looks and decided that robbing them would be unwise.
