The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  But Mercy Court wasn’t all about petty squabbles. There were real crimes to be dealt with, particularly thievery. Just before noon, Akeela heard the case of a man named Regial, who had been convicted of stealing sheep two years ago and had since served in Borior, Koth’s infamous prison. Regial had gone into prison at the age of twenty-three. Now, only two years later, he easily looked Akeela’s senior, with gaunt skin bleached white by prison walls and speckled eyes that searched the courtroom suspiciously. He licked dry lips as he stood before Akeela in the petition box, unable or unwilling to sit down. He had no barrister to defend him, just Assistant Chancellor D’marak, who read all the charges against prisoners and who, presumably from his tone, thought Regial deserving of his steep sentence. Akeela looked at Regial curiously, wondering how such a young man could waste away in prison. His father’s justice had been harsh. He offered him a glass of water.

  “Here,” said Akeela, holding out his own glass. “Drink.”

  But Regial was manacled and couldn’t come forward, so Akeela gestured to D’marak. “Give this to him,” he directed.

  The Assistant Chancellor raised his eyebrows for a moment, then reached up to the bench to take the glass from Akeela. He handed it to Regial, who was barely able to bring the glass to his lips for the cuffs around his wrists. Sloppily, he drank the entire contents, then let D’marak take the glass away. The Assistant Chancellor put the glass down with some annoyance before continuing to read the charges in his book.

  “As I said, my king, he has served two years of his eight year sentence. He’s here because he heard about Mercy Court and wouldn’t give his jailors any peace until he spoke to you.” D’marak scowled at Regial. “Well, you’re here now, thief. Speak your plea.”

  Regial shuffled forward awkwardly. His jaundiced eyes looked up at the bench. “My king, I don’t know what to say. How do I plead for myself?”

  Akeela replied, “This is Mercy Court. Tell me why you deserve mercy.”

  “Because I’ve served two years in Borior,” said Regial. “That should be reason enough to free any man.”

  “Your sentence is eight years,” D’marak reminded him. “Now stop wasting the king’s time.”

  Regial became flustered. He held up his manacled hands. “My king, I am twenty-five years old. I stole some sheep and have regretted it every moment since. But I’m fit and I can work, and I shouldn’t be shut away like some leper.”

  “You stole nineteen sheep, to be precise,” said D’marak. “From the Baron Glass’ own herd.”

  “Ah well,” said Regial with a grin. “Not the smartest move, no.”

  The courtroom laughed. So did Akeela.

  “If Baron Glass found out you’d been freed, he’d demand payment for his stolen sheep,” he said.

  “He got his bloody sheep back,” said Regial. “When I was caught.”

  “Still, you’ve a debt to pay,” said Akeela. “You say you’re able-bodied, and you look fit enough to me. A little thin maybe, but nothing some food and sunlight couldn’t cure.”

  Regial’s face brightened. “I’m free, then?”

  “I see no reason for you to waste away in Borior,” said Akeela.

  Assistant Chancellor D’marak cleared his throat loudly, shooting Akeela a cautioning glance. Akeela looked at him askance.

  “Is something wrong, D’marak?”

  “My king,” said D’marak, “this man is a felon, beyond redemption. He got eight years because he deserves it.” He tapped his book. “It’s all in the records. He made his livelihood as a thief. If you let him go he’ll just steal again.”

  Akeela thought for a moment, leaning back in the big chair. Mercy Court wasn’t supposed to be a mockery, and releasing dangerous men was the last thing he wanted to do. But Regial didn’t look dangerous to Akeela. He looked dirty and that was all, the way Lukien had looked as a boy.

  “Regial,” he said, “Mercy Court means a great deal to me, but it’s also important to all these others. If I release someone who then goes out and repeats the same crimes, it would ruin this court. I’d have to stop granting leniency and hearing petitions, and then everyone would lose. Do you take my meaning?”

  The young man nodded quickly. “I do, my king.”

  “So you won’t return to thieving?”

  Regial crossed his heart. “I promise.”

  “Promise,” sneered D’marak. “King Akeela, please . . .”

  Akeela held up his hand. “It’s done. Release him and take him to Lionkeep.” He glowered at Regial. “We’re going to put you to work in the castle, fellow. I’m going to keep an eye on you. And I warn you—I know every stick of silverware in my home. If so much as a spoon goes missing, it’s back to Borior with you.”

  Regial smiled, D’marak sighed, and the crowd of petitioners broke into murmurs, surprised by Akeela’s trust.

  “Thank you, my king,” said Regial, bowing. “I won’t disappoint you, you’ll see.”

  “See that you don’t,” said Akeela. He was pleased with himself, pleased with the respect he saw reflected at him from the crowd.

  For the rest of the afternoon, the petitioners were ordinary. Two more prisoners were brought in from Borior, but neither of them had stolen from a baron and that made them less appealing to the crowd. D’marak, still stung by Akeela’s refusal of his advice, remained quiet throughout the proceedings, simply reading charges and answering Akeela’s inquiries. Akeela could sense D’marak’s disquietude.

  Finally, near sundown, D’marak called the last number for the day.

  “Forty-three.”

  A man stood up from the crowd, his wooden number tag in hand. He was well dressed and groomed, with shining jet black hair combed carefully to one side and a well tailored jacket around his slim frame. He stepped forward, bowing first to D’marak then to Akeela. He presented himself with an earnest smile and a whiff of nervousness.

  “Thank you for hearing my petition, my king,” he said. “My name is Gorlon, from Koth.”

  “Welcome, Gorlon,” said Akeela. It was late in the day now and he was weary, but he was determined to give this last case his full attention. “You look afraid. Don’t be. This is Mercy Court, after all.” He glanced at D’marak. “Assistant Chancellor, what are the particulars?”

  D’marak paged through his book until he came to number forty-three. Half-laughing, he said, “Adultery, my lord.”

  Akeela’s smile waned. “Adultery? Is that true, Gorlon?”

  Gorlon swallowed. “I’m sorry to say so, my lord.”

  In Liiria, adultery wasn’t a crime like rape or thievery, but it was a transgression for which a man could expect restitution. He could put his wife away for it, or demand that damages be paid as compensation for his broken home, if not his broken heart. So far in Mercy Court Akeela had dealt with thieves and whores and even a rapist, but this was his first adulterer. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he disliked the man.

  “I don’t think we should waste your time with this, my king,” said D’marak. “I’m sure Gorlon here is sorry.” He turned to the young man. “My ledger says the offended wants twenty sovereigns for damages. You can pay half that, yes?”

  Gorlon nodded. “Yes, gladly.”

  D’marak made a mark in his book. “Fine. Then we’re done here, I think. My king, if you’d—”

  “Stop,” said Akeela. He looked at D’marak acidly. “We’re not done here, Assistant Chancellor.”

  D’marak blanched, and Gorlon, who hadn’t expected the king’s tone, stepped back a pace.

  “Explain yourself, Gorlon,” Akeela ordered. He leaned forward, gazing down at the man. “I want to hear about your crime.”

  “My king, there’s really nothing to explain,” stammered Gorlon. “I loved a woman who was married. That’s all. It was my foolishness that brought me to this place.”

  “And your lust,” added Akeela.

  “Aye, and that,” agreed Gorlon. “But I did the lady no harm. She was with me willing
ly, and has even told her husband so.”

  “No harm?” said Akeela. “You believe that?”

  Gorlon nodded. “Yes, my lord. But I don’t have the twenty sovereigns to pay the man I’ve wronged. If ten is agreed . . .”

  “It is not agreed, sir,” said Akeela. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples against a rising headache. The way this arrogant Gorlon pranced into court . . .

  “My king,” said D’marak. “Why not let him pay the ten sovereigns and be done with it? It’s late, after all. And it’s only adultery.”

  “Only adultery?” Akeela erupted. He stood up suddenly, forcing a gasp from the courtroom. “Adultery is a crime in Liiria.”

  D’marak chuckled. “It’s hardly the same as murder, King Akeela.”

  Akeela turned to Gorlon. “What is marriage?”

  “My lord?”

  “Come on, man, tell me. What is marriage?”

  “It’s . . .” Gorlon searched for an answer. “It’s a union, my lord.”

  “What kind of union?” snapped Akeela.

  Gorlon was lost. “My lord?”

  “It’s a legal union! It’s two people committing themselves to each other before the Court of Liiria. Before me. And it isn’t something that can be broken just because a man feels an urge or a woman agrees to spread her legs.”

  “My lord, I never . . .”

  “Quiet.” Akeela turned to D’marak. “What is the husband asking for? Twenty sovereigns?”

  “Yes,” said D’marak. “Quite a bit, actually.”

  Was it a lot, Akeela wondered? How much was a marriage worth? And how much should this scraper pay to repair one? Suddenly Akeela didn’t know himself. All the mercy blew out of him like a wind. He saw Gorlon standing before him, prideful and handsome, cocksure that he could come to Mercy Court and bargain a better deal, and Akeela remembered how awkward he had been as a youth. In his mind’s eye, it was all he could see.

  “Right,” he said, nodding. “Gorlon, you will pay the husband you wronged forty sovereigns.”

  “Forty?” Gorlon shrieked. “But my lord, he’s only asking for twenty!”

  “Forty,” Akeela repeated. “And don’t raise your voice to me.”

  Gorlon looked at D’marak for support, but the assistant only stared at the king, his mouth agape.

  “You think I’m being cruel, don’t you?” Akeela asked the petitioner. “You’re lucky I don’t toss you into Borior.”

  “King Akeela, please . . .”

  “Look at you, standing there in your fine clothes with your perfect face. I’ve seen fellows like you all my life. You think that smile of yours lets you get away with anything.”

  Stunned, Gorlon said nothing.

  “Well, not this time.” Akeela rose from the bench. “D’marak, forty sovereigns. Not a penny less.”

  He left the courtroom, suffering the shocked expressions of the crowd.

  9

  Lieutenant Will Trager shook cold rain from his face, cursing his bad luck. The storms that had surged through the valley the past few days had turned the road to muck and swallowed the sun with clouds, and though he suspected it was very near noon, he could barely see the path past the blinding rain. He drew back the reins of his horse, bringing the beast to a stop. A canopy of sable hung overhead, windswept and miserable. Trager’s uniform clung limply to his body, soaked through with rain. Behind him, the muddy road snaked through the forest, back toward his company and the warm fires of camp. Ahead of him lay a fork in the road, both branches leading to darkness. The thick forest weaved a mesh of tangled limbs, warning him away.

  Trager shook his head, muttering to himself and hating Lukien for sending him scouting. The captain and the others were back at camp, enjoying food and the cover of pavilions, while he was out in the storm, enduring the cold and filth. For three days they had traveled, heading west toward Koth, and for three days it had rained, slowing them to a crawl. Worse, the swelling river Kryss had flooded the Novo Valley, forcing them to detour down unfamiliar roads. It had taken a lot of scouting to get this far, and Trager was sick of the duty. He was tired of the rain and the endless mud, but mostly he was tired of Lukien and his orders. Beads of rain fell into his eyes as he considered the forking road.

  “Bloody hell, this figures. Which way now?”

  Only the wind replied, lashing his face. He suddenly felt alone, and the murkiness unnerved him. Again he thought of his arrogant captain, and his patience snapped.

  “God damn it, I’m a lieutenant! Why send me out in this swill?” Then he laughed bitterly, adding, “Because the captain is a bloody bastard, that’s why.”

  He could turn back, he supposed, but then he would have failed in this simple task, and that would give Lukien pleasure. So he squinted through the rain, surveying the routes carefully. Both directions looked equally eerie; not at all hospitable, especially since they had the princess with them. And Lukien had told him to find the safest route. But Trager wasn’t even sure where they were. Somewhere lost in Reec, south of the Novo Valley.

  “Left then,” he decided. It was more southerly and would probably lead them closer to Koth. He urged his mount forward again, his mind polluted with thoughts of Lukien.

  The captain had been very quiet lately. Since leaving Hes, he had hardly spoken at all. He simply rode at the point of the company, occasionally giving orders to the men and checking on Princess Cassandra’s carriage, which rolled along in the middle of the company, comfortably housing the young woman and the maid Jancis. Despite the wind and rain, Trager smiled as he thought about Cassandra. She was comely, more than Akeela deserved, and the image in his mind made him hunger. He didn’t wonder why Lukien was always looking at her—the answer was obvious. The lust in Lukien’s eyes was plain enough for anyone who cared to see it. And Trager didn’t blame his captain for coveting Cassandra, either. He was a man, with a man’s urges. To Trager, that was forgivable. What wasn’t forgivable—what haunted Trager day and night and had for years—was the arrogance with which the captain carried himself. Apparently he thought nothing of craving the king’s property, because he was like a brother to the stupid Akeela and the king was blind to everything. When it came to Lukien, Akeela was like a little boy, hero-worshipping an undeserving bag of pus.

  “It’s time to puncture that bag, I say,” muttered Trager.

  He would do it with a lance. When the spring tourney came, he would be ready for it. Finally, he would tarnish the vaunted knight of bronze.

  Trager rode on, heartened by the image of Lukien dangling from the tip of his lance. Overhead the tangle of branches thickened, blocking out the worst of the rain. He would ride another mile before turning back, he decided. Ahead of him, the forest road widened slightly. Trager congratulated himself for choosing the right direction. Reecian roads were good, at least as good as those in Liiria, but the rainy season turned them all into slop. This year, the rains had come earlier than expected. A slick of mud blanketed the road, making travel hard for his horse. The stallion’s hooves disappeared into the earth with a sucking sound. Trager listened to the noise, wondering if he should stop. Then he heard something else. A hissing sound, very faint. His eyes seized on something dead ahead. Abruptly he jerked back the reins.

  For a moment he saw nothing, then caught a glimpse of something green slipping through the mud. The darkness of the storm and trees shaded the road. He held his breath, afraid to make the smallest sound, realizing that a garmy was ahead, one of the rarest and most deadly creatures that called the forest home.

  The creature lay very still. Trager mimicked its silence, not daring to move. Thankfully, his horse had yet to see the beast. Carefully he scanned the surrounding trees, looking for others, then saw two more pairs of yellow eyes glowing in the thickets. His heart thundering, Trager considered his options. He had to flee, that was plain enough, but garmys could be quick, and might strike if he tried to run. He pretended to ignore the creatures, knowing they would come as close as possible b
efore striking. Predictably, the one in the road began to slither forward.

  It moved like a cat through the mud, its reptilian body barely visible, its spiked tail rising like a dorsal fin above the water. Beneath the filth, two webbed hands pulled it forward. Its head was smooth, covered with scales, and its lidless eyes shone a sickly gold. Each swish of its tail brought its wide mouth closer, while its brothers in the trees watched in silence, ready to spring.

  “Mother of Fate,” Trager whispered. He knew the tales of the garmys, how they looked like people and preyed on human flesh, and how they could hypnotize a man with their preternatural eyes. Now, caught in their watery nest, he believed every word. His horse finally caught the scent of the monsters and began to snort wildly. Trager squeezed his thighs against its flanks to quiet it. Only one thought occurred to him—escape.

  “Now!”

  Drawing his sword in one hand, he wrenched his mount around with the other, bringing the stallion snorting to its hinds. The garmy in the road sprang forward; its hideous face filling Trager’s vision. He swung his sword wide, catching the creature’s neck and slicing the head from its sinewy body. A shriek filled the air, then silence. Trager spun his horse around. The garmys in the trees dropped from the branches. Trager heard them sprinting through the mud. But his horse was already bolting away. He turned to see the creatures scurrying over their fallen brother, slowly dropping back. They were monstrously ugly—like monkeys in the skin of snakes.

  “Hurry!” Trager urged his mount, praying his horse wouldn’t stumble and break a leg.

  Two hours later, Trager approached the camp. His ride back had been uneventful, and he had neither seen nor heard anything more of the garmys. He was proud of himself for having slain one of the beasts, and was looking forward to boasting about it when he returned. The fear that had seized him earlier was gone now, and all he could think about was Lukien, and how the captain would look when he told him about the garmys.