by E G Manetti
“Fortunate for Martin that his mentor proved Shade-ridden,” Raphael says with disgust. “The scandal of having a Serengeti governor and Grey Spear preeminence declared deranged and taken into shrine care was scandal enough.”
Given into the care of shrines, the Shade-ridden are outside the control of protocol and stricture and are restricted only to the extent necessary to protect them or others from themselves. Due to Sebastian’s warrior status and wealth, shrine care translates into luxurious retirement to one of his agrarian estates, attended by shrine guards and acolytes.
“Fortunate for Sebastian Mehta as well,” Cesare remarks, his dark eyes fixed on his father. “Had he been stripped of Grey Spear preeminence for any other cause, his wealth would have been forfeit to his Cartouche.”
His eyes sharpening, Raphael flicks a glance between his father and brother. “Father, is there naught else you will say about Sebastian’s Cartel review?”
Although speculation was rife, Lucius’ sons are among the few with certain knowledge that Serengeti banished Sebastian Mehta for crimes against the Cartel. Seigneur Aristides’ official statement on behalf of Grey Spear and Serengeti claimed that Sebastian Mehta’s departure was due to failing health. Not that the media accepted the story. A storm of speculation filled the media streams for a sevenday, fueled by Martin’s indictment for crimes against Lucius’ conservator. Settling the indictment by agreement rather than public trial keeps Sebastian’s crimes hidden, and the media moved onto the next scandal. Raphael and Cesare have not been so willing to release their curiosity. They know their father was able to rid the Cartel of his rival but not the details of Sebastian’s mad and treasonous schemes.
“It is sealed to Serengeti security-privilege and will remain so until you hold a signet.” Lucius’ stern reply closes the topic. When they reach majority at twenty-four, his children will receive seigneur signets and access to Blooded Dagger’s and Serengeti’s deepest and darkest secrets. Until then, while they complete their advanced studies, their involvement with Serengeti will be limited and their access to security-privileged data regulated by the requirements of their tasks.
Before either young man can respond, the transport enters the subterranean transport bay of the Houses of Justice.
»◊«
“Lilian!” Chrys eagerly rises from his chair at the console in the Mercium lab. Lilian’s first friend in the Cartel, Chrys is a tall young man with a deceptively nondescript appearance. The raven black of Blooded Dagger does not flatter his medium complexion, sandy hair, and light brown eyes. The boxy suits he favors deceive many into overlooking his powerful build. Lilian knows better. Beneath the camouflage is a vibrant, daring, and gallant man.
“Chrys, well met,” Lilian murmurs with a wary glance at the others in the long chamber. As much as she has missed Chrys during his two month absence, any overt display of affection could put the two apprentices on the wrong side of stricture.
At the only desk in the chamber, Master Simon nods his approval at Lilian’s restraint. A tall, gangly man with a short torso, long arms and legs, and a pronounced nose, Master Simon reminds Lilian of a stork. That Master Simon is a brilliant technologist has earned Lilian’s respect. That he has extended himself to instruct Chrys beyond the requirements of duty has earned him her loyalty.
“You must see the newest projections!” Chrys covers his lapse with a valid excuse for his excitement. As apprentices, their bodies, minds, and will belong to their bondholders—strong attachments to others are suspect. “Based on the pilot, the Troy facility can produce twenty percent more Mercium than we thought.”
“Show me, if you please.” Lilian takes the vacant seat next to Chrys. His two-month absence was spent on Troy, where his bondholder, Seigneur Rachelle, the Blooded Dagger and Serengeti research and development seigneur, supervised the construction of the Mercium facility. The revolutionary synthetic is an inexpensive alternative to Vistrite in simple technology. It will be a boon to the underdeveloped systems where the distance from the Vistrite Crevasse makes such luxuries as lighting and premise controls prohibitively expensive.
“I was gone but a day before you fell into strife,” Chrys teases, his fingers flying between his slate and the console controls. “Could you not have waited until my return to sweep Martin from the Cartel? I would have enjoyed seeing that crevasse-crawler caned.”
“I cannot say I found it pleasant,” Lilian says, swallowing against the unpleasant memory. Only milord knows of her deep abhorrence of caning and its source. “It was necessary that Cartel justice be served.”
Chrys hands still as he searches Lilian’s face, a frown forming at whatever he is reading from her expression. One hand lifts from his slate only to drop again. Sensitive to Simon’s watchful presence, Chrys turns to the reviewers. In a bracing tone, he announces, “Our Mercium projections proved beyond conservative.”
“Monsignor Lucius will be pleased.” Lilian welcomes the change in topic. Their original projections had Mercium increasing the Cartel’s wealth by a third. The new projections mean even greater benefit. “We thought the Troy facility would reach capacity within two years. These additional efficiencies will extend the projections by at least another year.”
Chrys nods, scrolling through the display. “So says Seigneur Rachelle.” With a sideways glance at Lilian, he murmurs, “Not bad for a training exercise.”
Other than Lucius, Rachelle, and Trevelyan, only Chrys and Lilian know that Mercium has its origins in a training exercise Nickolas set for Lilian in her first week as an apprentice. With Chrys’ help, Lilian followed a financial anomaly to the discovery of an illegal Vistrite counterfeiting scheme. At Lilian’s suggestion, Lucius Mercio abandoned centuries of Cartel custom and claimed the counterfeiting technology instead of destroying it.
“Our service is well rewarded.” Lilian taps notes into her slate. “Mercium is the first major change in Twelve Systems’ commerce in two centuries, and we have roles that a protégé could envy.”
“Luck of the First.” Chrys’ smile is met by Lilian’s frown. With a soft laugh, he says, “You need not say it, I know. ‘Luck is the product of hard work and diligence.’ ”
“Do we wish to continue our ‘luck,’ we should focus on this task,” Lilian says repressively.
“As you wish.” Chrys grins. “But even you must smile at these numbers.”
With a flourish, Chrys finishes the display. At the projections, Lilian does indeed smile.
»◊«
Located in the northwest section of the River Quarter, the Houses of Justice are a scant two miles from the Garden Center as the raven flies. They are twice that when using a transport to navigate the twisting transitways of the most ancient part of the city. Towering walls surround a stone plaza used for parades and the public displays of corporal punishment. The House of Judgment is on the far side of the plaza, facing the river. The Crevasse City Militia Headquarters is on the east side, and the Incarceration Halls on the west. Gated and guarded, the river-facing main entrance is restricted to pedestrians, the governor’s militia, and credentialed media. All others are restricted to the tightly controlled subterranean transport bays beneath the plaza.
Escorted by the governor’s militia, Lucius and his party take the secure riser from the subterranean transport lot directly into the covered Justice Pavilion. Reserved for the governor’s officials, witnesses, and high-ranking guests, the pavilion is but a dozen yards from the execution block. Dating back to the time of the Fourth Warrior’s rule, the central five-foot stone platform is used for executions and holds a modern metal frame. A low barrier encircles the structure and forms a narrow corridor to the Halls of Incarceration. Militia guards posted along the barrier serve to control the observers in the plaza and protect the pavilion. Beyond the barrier, two score observers and three media rigs populate an area able to hold several hundred.
“Three media rigs?” Raphael turns surprised eyes to his father. “It is naught but a moderate c
aning.”
“Martin is a warrior,” Lucius returns, taking a front row seat. “It will be on all the more lurid media streams. I have not checked, but I imagine the wagering is brisk.”
“Wagering, Father?” Cesare chimes in. “On what?”
“The number of strikes until Martin bleeds,” Lucius responds quietly. “How many times before he cries out.”
“Cries out?” Raphael challenges. “He is a meager warrior to have attacked your apprentice, but as meager as that?”
“As I have said, this is not the light correction of Crossed Sabers,” Lucius reminds them. “It will be more severe than even Socraide’s Scourge.”
“I am surprised there are so few observers if the media are so interested.” Cesare frowns at the media rigs.
“It is midday on a commerce day,” Lucius explains. “If it were Seventh Day, the plaza would be thronged. Martin’s cartouche offered a hefty bribe for this obscure time.”
A drummer strides out from the lower level of the Justice Pavilion, striking a slow beat. At her appearance, the milling crowd quiets and closes in on the barriers circling the execution block. When the drummer reaches the block, she turns and faces the pavilion. At an unseen signal, she offers a brisk drum roll that ends with an abrupt flourish, leaving the plaza quiet but for the hum of the city at midday.
The governor’s justicar strides to the edge of the pavilion, careful to be fully visible to the media rigs. With appropriate somberness, the justicar reads the list of Martin’s crimes and the penalty. When he finishes, the drummer once again strikes a slow and ominous beat.
At the far side of the barrier corridor, a door opens in the Incarceration Halls. A militia guard strides out, a chain in his hand. Behind him, a shackled and naked man follows with another guard. Tall, well-muscled, and with bronze skin, Martin is an attractive man with dark brown hair close-cropped except for the slender lock of a warrior’s braid. The convicted felon is nearly the ideal image of a warrior. Or was.
Last in line is a powerfully built figure, his features obscured by the traditional hood. With eager cries, the observers crowd the corridor to hurl insults at the prisoner. One goes further than insults—something dark and wet splatters against Martin’s chest. Gazing across the crowd, Lucius sees a hand raised with another projectile. Before it is thrown, the raised arm disappears under an assault of figures in concealing clothes. The crowd surges around the scuffling figures, continuing to jeer and mock Martin, although naught else is tossed. As the crowd follows Martin to the execution block, his assailant lies unmoving on the ground, splattered with the same dark substance dripping on Martin’s chest. An empty sack flutters in the breeze, undoubtedly the source of the muck.
“Father, why would anyone defend Martin from the crowd?” Cesare wonders.
“Martin’s father will have sent them.” Lucius gives the fallen figure a dismissive glance. “That man who threw the mud was a fool to think it might be otherwise.”
No one else goes beyond verbal abuse as Martin completes the walk, reaches the execution block, and mounts it. At the top of the platform, Martin is bound by the wrists to the upper crosspiece of the metal frame, his arms spread, his toes barely on the ground.
With deliberate movements, the executioner places his implements case on a ledge built into the metal frame. Opening the case, he reaches in. He hesitates and the crowd forgets to breathe. With a flourish, the executioner pulls forth massive shears. The crowd gasps.
“Father?” Raphael questions nervously.
“It is for the media,” Lucius says with mild disgust. “Normally, it would be naught but scissors or a razor.”
The executioner grabs Martin’s slender warrior’s braid and roughly wraps it in his fist, pulling hard to jerk Martin’s head almost parallel with the ground. The shears come up and sever the symbol of Martin’s warrior honor. Exultantly, the executioner waves the shorn tail like a banner, circling the stone platform to the cheers of the crowd.
“The executioner is deliberately humiliating Martin and dragging this out,” Cesare accuses.
“Of course.” Lucius’ gaze is dispassionate. “It is expected, and with the media present, the executioner will make it last as long as he can.”
“I wish they would get on with it,” Raphael mutters, shifting in his well-cushioned chair.
“Raphael, you are a warrior,” Lucius chides. “It matters not if you dislike this, you may not reveal it.”
“Yes, Father.” Raphael straightens in his chair, doing his best to imitate Lucius’ stern expression.
“He assaulted Father’s conservator,” Cesare says quietly. “It is a profound insult as well as a crime.”
“You need not remind me,” Raphael snaps at his brother.
“I needed to remind myself,” Cesare replies, his eyes fixed on the executioner, who once again reaches into the implement case.
The cane for a public execution is not the slender, flexible rod of academy or Cartel correction. The cane the executioner brandishes for the crowd is a heavy piece of bamboo that has been split into three sections halfway down. Though not blade sharp, wielded by an expert, the split sections will draw blood with every stroke.
The cane rises high and falls fast, the split sections a whistling blur as they strike Martin’s shoulders. Martin jerks under the impact, and blood flows. Four strokes later, Martin is covered in bleeding stripes from his shoulders to the back of his knees.
The executioner pauses and pulls a cloth from his case, carefully wiping the blood-smeared implement.
“Why does he bother? It will get bloody on the next stroke,” Cesare whispers to his father.
“He is drawing out the execution for the media,” Lucius replies. “It also gives time for the flesh around the lacerations to swell. The next strikes will hurt more and bleed more freely.”
The executioner strikes, the cane interlacing with the strikes on Martin’s shoulders. Martin jerks violently under the impact, his hands fisting in their bindings. The next stroke is directly on top of the last. A harsh cry rips from Martin as the beaten man shudders in his bonds.
The crowd screams encouragement.
The executioner strikes three more times but fails to force another cry from the condemned man.
»◊«
The transport is silent. Lucius waits patiently for his sons to speak. It is likely that Raphael will speak first while Cesare considers the implications of the event.
“He cried out, Father,” Raphael breaks the silence. “He is a coward as well as a vicious fool for attacking your conservator. Serengeti is well rid of him.”
“Is he a coward, Father? Would a Serengeti governor have such as a protégé?” Cesare struggles to reconcile what he knows of Serengeti standards with the man’s inability to withstand physical torment that will leave no lasting harm.
“Raphael, I agree, Serengeti is well rid of him,” Lucius acknowledges his eldest. Even better, Cesare has taken the conversation where Lucius wishes it to go. “As to your question, Cesare, there is naught that suggests Martin is a coward. He endured Cartel discipline without a sound. The executioner is well skilled. Wringing a cry from a warrior would be a matter of professional pride. It is not an opportunity he will enjoy often.”
“Why is that? Why would it not be frequent?” Cesare questions.
“In most situations, a First Family is able to offer sufficient inducement that the claimant will forego the caning,” Lucius explains.
“Martin’s family failed to offer inducements?” Raphael is horrified.
“Martin’s father offered. There is not sufficient inducement in all the Twelve Systems. Some transgressions cannot be bought away.” Lucius drives home his point. “An assault on my conservator and our Cartouche is one of them. I imagine had harm come to Mrs. Hibiscus’ daughter, that would have been another.”
“I was careless, Father, not vicious.” Raphael protests. The idea that his prank could lead to such an outcome seems impossible.
<
br /> “Do you think motive would have mattered to Mrs. Hibiscus had her child taken harm or been killed?” Lucius is not about to let Raphael hide from the potential cost of his heedlessness and self-indulgence.
“Father!” Raphael pales as he finally understands the true scope of his error.
Softening at Raphael’s horror, Lucius reaches a hand to his son’s shoulder. “I worry not that your soul is as corrupt as Martin’s.”
Feeling Raphael relax under his hand, Lucius squeezes firmly to emphasize his point. “It does concern me that you are on a path that will put you on the wrong side of a festival brawl or something similar. I will be able to do naught to protect you but send guards to control the crowd. Your future would be reduced to naught but management of the fisheries or a Mercium plant. It is not the future I would have for you.”
Raphael shudders at his father’s warning, finally recognizing the justice of his father’s punishment. “Father, I beg your pardon for my ill deeds. Do you still permit me a choice, I would prefer the fisheries.”
3. Complexity and Codes
Before Rimon Ben Claude signed the Code of Engagement, he demanded a series of amendments for consistent governance and the settlement of disputes throughout the territories of the Five Warriors. Among of the Second Warrior’s protocols was the provision that all inhabitants be educated from the ages of seven to sixteen, ensuring that ignorance would not overcome the populace and form a gateway to anarchy. To this day, the governors’ schools educate all those who have not the means for a shrine education. Those who excel have their choice between pursuing advanced studies through militia service or apprenticeship.
For those with the means to fund advanced studies, the university system founded by the Third Warrior, Mulan Tsao, expanded throughout the Twelve Systems. She was aided by Universalists, who remain dedicated to retaining the remnants of the Ancients’ knowledge and zealously protecting all that has been discovered since the rise of Order. Independent of the university system but offering the same advanced studies, the militia academies train the elite for positions in the Twelve Systems’ government. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.