by Ian McDonald
‘This is not a stage,’ Dakota says.
‘It isn’t?’ Ariel works her way down through the seats again and sets her bag on the second space from the right of the left floor-level tier. ‘Front and centre is a rookie error. You want to be the speck in their peripheral vision. You want them distracted, looking over all the time to see what you’ve just done that they’ve missed.’
‘And what will that be?’ Dakota perches on the edge of the judges’ table, swinging her booted feet.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That smart thing that makes the judges look around. What will that be? I’m no expert on the law, but even a ghazi knows that a legal team needs a strategy. Even a decent argument. All I’m getting is, “I’ve challenged my brother to trial by combat, he’s hired the self-proclaimed greatest blade on the moon but hey! I’ve got good sight-lines”.’
Ariel takes out her compact and checks her lips, her eyes. She snaps the little case shut and slips it into her bag.
‘You’re right.’
‘So?’
‘You’re not a lawyer. What you are is a woman in the most need of a siririca I have ever seen. Take yourself off. Flick the bean. Enjoy. Make noise. I did. Best preparation for a trial there is. Are all you ghazis this uptight?’
Dakota’s mouth is still open when the doors open and Abena peeps through.
‘Am I late?’
‘We’re immorally early,’ Ariel says.
Rosario Salgado de Tsiolkovski follows Abena down the stairs, frowning at the court architecture.
‘It had to be a man designed this. A man not getting any sex.’
She slides a foot on to the mirror-bright fighting floor.
‘What the fuck?’
‘It’s not a floor problem, it’s a footwear problem,’ Dakota says.
‘My footwear is always non-problematic,’ Rosario says.
Ariel indicates for Abena to sit on her left.
Tell me what we’re doing here, she says on the private channel to Ariel. Rosario is so jacked up on enhancers she could fight all of Meridian but she doesn’t seem to realise she could get killed here.
Rosario will not get killed, Ariel answers through Beija Flor. Nor the ghazi, who’s itching for a fight. Aloud, she says, ‘And Luna and Lucasinho?’
‘On their way. The judges approved Madrinha Elis as an appropriate adult.’
‘I want them in last,’ Ariel says. ‘And Luna with us.’
‘You’re bringing the kid here?’ Dakota says.
‘She has the knife,’ Abena says.
Dakota Kaur Mackenzie shakes her head.
‘You people,’ she says. ‘You fucking people.’
‘Heads up,’ Ariel says. ‘Court-faces.’
Tamsin Sun and her legal team are waiting outside the court. Amanda Sun has had her turn in the spotlight and she was bested by an Asamoah brat. The professionals will take this. A junior advocate extends a hand to help Lady Sun from the moto. The Court of Clavius has restricted personal security to prevent the violence in the arena spilling into the city but there is no limit on legal aides so Tamsin Sun has rebadged Taiyang’s wushis as junior advocates. The court of argument has failed; this is the court of knives. The forecourt is solid with spectators and socialites. The quasi-legals move to clear a path to the lobby. Cries and yells: Tamsin Sun’s aides are unyielding and quick with hands and shock-staves.
The final moto arrives and Lady Sun waits for the last member of the Taiyang team to step from the plastic petals.
‘Lady Sun …’ Jiang Ying Yue begins. Lady Sun lifts a hand.
‘Not now.’
Lady Sun pauses to admire Court Five. The lowering bare-rock roof, seeming on the point of collapse; the short, ugly columns and seating tiers; the dazzling circle of the fighting floor: there is nowhere to hide here. This is intimidation architecture. It succeeds with Jiang Ying Yue, who leans in to Lady Sun.
‘I understood we would not enter actual combat,’ she whispers. ‘Why am I here?’
‘We cannot be seen without a zashitnik,’ Lady Sun hisses. ‘This family has endured humiliation enough. We will not look like we have already surrendered.’
She takes a seat in the second tier beside Amanda Sun. Tamsin Sun indicates to Jiang Ying Yue that she should join her on the courtside benches. Legals to the fore. Lady Sun nods across the arena to Ariel Corta. A sharp move, arriving first: she has her pick of the pitches. There must be a compelling reason for placing herself on the margin of the court. The Asamoah girl is with her – Lady Sun will not greet her. A ghazi of the University of Farside. Impressive, but she cannot be Ariel Corta’s zashitnik. The university does not involve itself in Nearside politics. That Bairro Alto tramp, then. They are putting their trust in that?
Tamsin Sun turns in her seat to Amanda and Lady Sun.
‘Lucas has arrived.’
Alexia sees him baulk at the size and noise of the crowd. His eyes widen with fear, his stomach muscles tighten, his brow breaks pearls of stress perspiration.
She twines her fingers with Wagner’s. A moment of reassurance that he is not alone against the mob. He squeezes her hand and they part before the gossip spotters and their cameras catch them. They have a more flamboyant spectacle to occupy them: word ripples in an instant from the front to the back of the crowd. Mariano Gabriel Demaria. Lucas Corta has contracted Mariano Gabriel Demaria.
The legend of the greatest blade parts the crowd. Lucas follows, elegant but sober in the grey micro-brocade suit he wore to the eclipse party; then Alexia and Wagner. No lawyers, human or AI. Robson is at the Eyrie, with Haider and Haider’s care givers, whom Lucas has brought from Theophilus.
Robson and Alexia’s arguments had raged through the Eyrie’s terraces and mezzanines.
‘You’re not coming.’
‘He’s my primo!’ Robson yelled back.
‘Lucas doesn’t want you there.’
‘I want to be there.’
In the end she talked Haider, Max and Arjun into pleading for her and to be extra sure, had the Eyrie’s security team hack Joker, Robson’s familiar. His money wouldn’t work, his network was closed down and if he tried to free-run his way up the walls of the Eyrie and along the sunline Nelson Medeiros would have him cuffed and kicking within thirty seconds.
It was a weak case to argue. Robson had seen and done worse than anything he would see on the floor of Court Five. Alexia would gladly have changed places. But the Eagle of the Moon must have his Iron Hand two steps behind him. And his shadow.
Wagner takes a seat at the top of steps. Without looking, Lucas tips his cane: With me. Alexia links fingers again with Wagner. She saw. Fuck it. Ariel Corta saw her.
Lucas indicates that Alexia should take the row behind him. He nods to his one-time wife, to his sister. A nod. The Suns occupy an entire section of the court, Ariel and her entourage a couple of tiers but none are as small and compact as Eagle Team. Lucas turns to Alexia.
‘Show me.’
Alexia lifts the small valise. She has carried it from the Eyrie to the court. It is anonymous, innocuous, impact-proof carbon fibre and titanium, the kind routinely carried in legal cases even in this age of AI documentation. It has been designed to pass unregarded. It carries the meteoric-iron battle blade of the Cortas.
‘Keep it close.’
Alexia sets the case on the bench beside her.
Every head goes up. Every back straightens. The news on the court network is that Lucasinho Corta has arrived.
First Luna, the two halves of her face set fierce, the fighting knife slung across her shoulder. Next Lucasinho, the object, the prize. Groomed, hair quiffed to an insouciance only possible in lunar gravity, shaved and shod, Moonrun badge. Yet Abena sees him hesitate and look down before he commits to the steep steps. Behind him, Madrinha Elis also notices the uncer
tainty. Hands folded demurely in the sleeves of her robe slip free to support, to catch. Abena’s heart is in her mouth. Lucasinho takes a breath and descends the staircase.
Luna takes her seat at Abena’s side. Lucasinho continues to the furthest right section where court zashitniks emerge from a slot in the floor to form an escort around him. Abena catches his eye; makes him smile.
The throb of noise in the lobby becomes a roar as the court is opened to the public. Eager spectators cling to each other as they totter down the treacherous steps, jostle and shove in the narrow aisles as they fight for seats. By the time the doors are closed the crowd is squatting on the steps, standing five deep at the back. Court Five beats like a drum: then there is silence. The judges have entered.
Preceded by their zashitniks, Judge Rieko Ngai, Judge Valentina Arce and Judge Kweko Kumah take their seats at the bench. Judge Rieko surveys the packed court.
‘Court of Clavius in final settlement of Sun versus Corta versus Corta,’ she says. ‘All parties are present or represented?’
Mumbles from the three respondents and Madrinha Elis.
‘Case to be tried under the mutually agreed judgement of Nagai, Arce and Kumah?’ Judge Arce asks. Ayes, nods of the head. The spectators take breath. The informality shocks them: ninety per cent of them have never been inside a court, even to agree a marriage-nikah.
‘And it is also agreed this is to be settled by combat,’ Judge Kumah says.
The spectators exhale. A rumble of assent.
‘The bench is compelled to note that this is not the first time that the Cortas have settled a case by violence, and deplores it,’ Judge Rieko says. ‘It is atavistic and demeaning and the Court of Clavius is disappointed that a family with as noble a history as the Suns have been drawn into this monstrosity. However, the legalities have been observed, we as judges are tied by our contract, so it will be settled the old-fashioned way.’
A tense purr runs through the spectators. It’s on. No retreat, no escape. Knives out. Blood on the stones.
‘I believe the Sun/Corta case will resolve first?’ Judge Arce says. ‘Who represents Lucas Corta?’
Mariano Gabriel Demario rises from the bench. The purr becomes a murmur. All Nearside knows the legend of the School of Seven Bells. The incongruous gripshoes beneath his neatly turned-up pant cuffs tell that he is dressed for fight.
‘Tamsin Sun?’
‘Amanda Sun has indicated …’ Tamsin Sun begins. Lady Sun’s claw hand descends on her shoulder, grips like famine.
‘Jiang Ying Yue will represent Amanda Sun,’ she says.
Tamsin Sun snaps around in her seat. Her face is hollow with incomprehension. We agreed to withdraw, she says on the private channel. The public, sensing a departure from the script, mutters and chatters.
‘It was agreed that we would …’ Jiang Ying Yue begins.
Lady Sun raises a hand and a sheathed knife is passed down the tiers of legal assistants, hand to hand to hand to Jiang Ying Yue’s hand.
‘Lady Sun …’
‘You have a question?’
‘Lady Sun, with respect, I am no match for Demario.’
‘You failed my family at Hadley,’ Lady Sun hisses. ‘You humiliated us before the Mackenzies. You must correct that fault. You will show the world that there is honour and courage still in the Palace of Eternal Light.’
‘Madam Sun, what are your intentions?’ Judge Arce asks from the bench.
‘We are ready,’ Tamsin Sun says.
Fear hardens to resolution on Jiang Ying Yue’s face. She returns the knife to Lady Sun, for zashitniks by long tradition do not carry their own weapons down to the pens, and steps down into the arena. The courtroom floor opens and she descends into the dark. Court Five is thick with silence.
‘Seconds,’ Judge Kumah says. Lady Sun hands the blade to Amanda.
‘Do your duty.’
‘Die in screaming agony, you withered crone.’ Amanda Sun snatches the blade and crosses the floor boldly to the judge’s bench. Knives must be examined by the judges for any non-negotiated toxins.
Across the arena Lucas Corta nods to his Iron Hand. Alexia lifts the valise. As she turns on to the steps she catches Wagner’s eye. He cannot look.
Alexia’s heart pounds as she crosses the fighting floor. Gods but it’s treacherous. This whole Colosseum is treacherous. Every one and every thing is on trial in the Court of Clavius. Some petty infraction, some oversight or offence to an injured party and the knives would sing out of their sheaths and serve justice on her.
She sets the valise on the judges’ desk. The locks click loud. A strange sound, part gasp, part moan, goes up from the arena as she lifts the knife and presents it to the judges. Light gleams along the edge of the blade as they pass it from hand to hand, pretending to examine it. Clever machinery embedded in the desk does the sniffing and tasting and analysing.
‘Meteoric iron,’ Judge Kumah says.
‘Where is its twin?’ Judge Arce asks.
‘This is an unclean thing,’ Judge Rieko says. She almost tosses the knife to Alexia in her haste to get it away from her skin. ‘It reeks of blood.’
Maninho guides Alexia to her second’s position. She glances across to Amanda Sun. She could vomit. She could weep with fear. She has never hated anything more than standing here in a Coco Chanel suit with a knife in her hands. Yet she stands. The floor opens, the fighters emerge. The crowd rises in thunder.
Wagner’s head is bowed, face in hands.
Jiang Ying Yue takes the knife from Amanda Sun, tries it for heft and balance. She is fit, leanly muscled, athletic in capri leggings, crop top and squeaky, fresh-printed gripsoles. Alexia can see at once that she knows nothing of the way of the knife.
Mariano Gabriel Demaria has stripped down to black shorts and gripsoles. His body is the way of the knife incarnate, sinews and knots, wires and scars. He carries himself with the easy grace of the fanatically competent.
He turns dark eyes to Alexia, she offers the valise. He lifts the Corta blade. A voice cries out. A child’s voice.
Luna Corta marches on to the fighting floor.
‘You don’t touch my knife!’
‘I’m sorry?’
Luna is small and exposed and utterly defiant and there is not a note of condescension in Mariano Demaria’s voice.
‘That knife can only be used by a Corta.’
Mariano looks to Lucas. A nod. The zashitnik returns the blade to Alexia. The crowd exhales slowly. A sheathed blade slides across the fighting ring; Mariano scoops it up, unsheathes it. He holds it, inspects it in the hot hard light beating down on to the arena. He dips his head in a small bow. From the far side of the arena, the hidden side, Dakota Kaur Mackenzie returns the courtesy.
‘With your permission?’
‘I have no objection,’ Tamsin Sun says.
The judges’ appraisal is perfunctory.
‘We have endured enough interruptions and theatrics,’ Judge Rieko says. ‘If this type of justice is necessary, it is best done swiftly. Proceed.’
Alexia’s heart skips. It’s blades now and nothing but blades will decide this. There will be blood on the stone. And she realises that she is a coward. When the Gularte’s left Caio for dead in a drainage channel in Barra, when they broke his future, she swore justice. She went to Seu Osvaldo; had him visit terrible deaths on the brothers. She was satisfied, she did right, and she was no different from the bloody justice she condemns here.
‘Seconds out,’ Judge Arce says
Alexia returns to her seat. No: there is a difference. All the difference. She did not have the courage to deliver that justice with her own hands.
‘Approach,’ Judge Kumah says.
Mariano Gabriel Demaria and Jiang Ying Yue move to the centre of the fighting floor. They raise blades before their eyes in salute.
Blades blur, bodies dance at sex-close distances. Blood sprays, Ying Yue’s blade slides across the shimmering stone. She stands, shivering with shock, breath fluttering, blood streaming from her bicep across her wrist to drop from her spasming fingers.
The crowd is silent. This is not what they expected. They are not entertained.
Beija Flor pings. Dakota Kaur Mackenzie, private channel.
He will leave the de Tsiolkovksi woman in steaming chunks on the floor.
Yes, Ariel answers.
Fire her. Hire me.
No.
Dakota Kaur Mackenzie leans forward.
‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’
Ariel looks over at Lucasinho, ash-faced, terrified among the court zashitniks. Wagner’s face is buried in his hands. Alexia is pale with dread. Madrinha Elis has pulled her hood low to conceal her features.
‘Always.’
Ying Yue staggers across the fighting floor towards her knife.
‘Leave it,’ Mariano says. Ying Yue picks up the knife in her left hand, launches herself across the killing floor at Mariano Gabriel Demaria. He sidesteps easily. With a despairing cry, Ying Yue swings at him. He sways away from the knife like thought. Quicker than thought. Like instinct.
‘Stop this,’ he says.
Slipping in the pooling, thickening blood, Ying Yue stumbles towards Mariano Gabriel Demario, slashing wildly.
‘Enough.’
Mariano drops his knife, steps inside Ying Yue’s guard and snaps her wrist. The crack rings from the stern pillars, the lowering, chaotic ceiling.
‘Do you have satisfaction?’ he says to Tamsin Sun. He is not sweating. There is no trace of any distress, much less exertion in his body. ‘Are you satisfied?’ Tamsin Sun glances at Lady Sun. The old woman shakes her head.
‘I am satisfied!’ Amanda Sun’s shout carries from the killing floor to the stone gates of Court Five. ‘I am the complainant, not my legal advisers, not my grandmother. And I have satisfaction.’