by Gayle Greeno
To follow Oriel’s last circuit meant traveling roughly west around the foot of the razor-shaped Leger Lake and its two parallel but smaller sister lakes—the obviously misnamed LeGrande and Lunette—then southwest into the foothills and up the lower slopes of the Arnot Ridges. The final loop of the circuit would carry them northeast and then south in the direction of home. All told, a distance just shy of 150 leagues. The three previous Seeker way stations had been minor courtesy stops and produced no cases, so they had ridden on as expected.
Wexler, the first major town on this circuit, obviously flourished, prosperous, pleased with itself and forever smelling faintly of grapes, sweet, resinous, winy. A wine-town with vineyards creeping down gentle, terraced slopes on both sides of Leger Lake, Wexler basked in the accumulated warmth that held off the late spring and early fall frosts and gave the grapes the maximum chance to ripen and mature. The town’s wines traded everywhere in Canderis and beyond for premium prices; if some of the winegrowers could have torn down their houses and installed another terrace or two of grapes, they probably would have. Who cared for a roof over one’s head when the sun, the air, the earth, the water conspired to create wines so robust yet subtle, so variegated in their nuances that the gods themselves could never have grown tired of them?
The coopers held the townspeople’s regard as the second most important, indeed, crucial occupation in Wexler, turning out oak barrels large and small, each with stout iron bands etched with grape leaves and sigils to denote the vineyard. Barrels aged and seasoned to provide the wine-makers with a helping hand toward the creation of an elixir that even a temperance-minded grandam would have to agree could hurt no one if consumed in moderation.
With the late afternoon sun bright in their eyes, they trotted into Wexler and headed toward the Chief Conciliator’s office. Lokka momentarily lost her footing and blew in sharp dismay. “There’s truth in the old adage,” Doyce began, but Khar finished for her, “In Wexler, look where you step. They have to put the grapeskins somewhere!” Doyce giggled and Khar looked pleased with herself; only Lokka seemed not to see the humor in it.
To Darl Allgood, Wexler’s Chief Conciliator for years, fell the task of deciding what punishment—if any—to mete out after a Seeker Pair sifted the evidence and read the truth. Be it civil, criminal, or even familial cases, the Chief Conciliator devised fair and fitting restitution or punishment, or remanded the guilty to the capital if he judged the gravity of the punishment beyond his scope. That, of course, could be interpreted as a sign of weakness—unless the Conciliator was addicted to playing politics and looking for notice and commendation from the High Conciliators.
Doyce swung down from the saddle and felt her foot skate from under her; she grabbed for the stirrup and found herself planted halfway under Lokka’s belly, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched straight ahead as if it had a mind of its own as to where it planned to go.
“Steady, Lokka,” she sputtered as the mare shuffled in confusion and curiosity at the acrobatics beneath her. The ghatta jumped down and paraded under Lokka’s belly, tickling her with her tail. Lokka twitched and stepped ahead, and Doyce landed on her bottom, still clinging to the stirrup. “Steady, fool! Khar, stop that this instant!” Damn, she could swear the horse and ghatta were laughing at her, could hear it inside her head. Khar walked around and sniffed, inspecting the heel of her outstretched boot.
“Grapeskin?”
And Doyce found herself laughing uncontrollably, hooting, holding her sides, tears streaming down her face. “Grapeskin!” she laughed, relishing what suddenly seemed the funniest word in the world. The unpremeditated laughter felt surprisingly good.
Attracted by the noise, the Chief Conciliator strode down the steps, and she realized with consternation that it wasn’t Darl Allgood. Darl would have laughed with them even before he knew the reason. This one stood back, faintly defensive in his somber black pantaloons and white ceremony shirt piped with black, scandalized at the scene in front of him. Lifting his pantaloons fastidiously at the knees, he squatted and boosted Doyce from beneath the mare, making it into a production unwarranted by her smallness. Forehead level with his silver medallion of office, Doyce stood limp with laughter, laughter bubbling up again, and she swallowed hard, lifted her chin, bright hazel eyes meeting and assessing soft brown eyes with yellow around the iris, like a pansy. Timid eyes, obviously worried.
“Chief Conciliator? Where’s Darl Allgood?” Not the most diplomatic, gracious greeting. She winced at her rudeness, immediately reminding the man of his newness, that she knew Darl, and that she didn’t know him. Not a politic start at all.
She swallowed a final laugh, consigned it down to her toes and beyond, refused to check in Khar’s direction. “My apologies, Chief Conciliator, a graceless misstep on my part.” Let him interpret that as he would! “Allow me, I am Seeker Veritas Doyce Marbon, and this is my Bondmate, Khar’pern. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting?”
“Chief Conciliator Elgar Eustace ...” he threw his shoulders back, puffing out his chest so that his medallion of office swung and bounced. She nearly didn’t catch the rest of his sentence, as he perhaps intended she should not. “... the Younger.”
Plague the pompous man who names a child after himself, she thought and stifled another giggle. The name betokened a certain familiarity, though she couldn’t think how or why. A high-browed face, tiny, well-set ears ... the pansy-brown eyes, and then, demons of recognition took over and Doyce gave way. “Not perhaps related to Tasman Elgar, now of Barleston?” Khar writhed with delight at the touch of feigned innocence in her tone, knowing full well that Tasman Elgar of Barleston was none other than Unk Tammy, notorious old mead drinker and the meanest card sharp, when sober, of Barleston and beyond. He could always be found at the Greenway—if not in the Inn, then in a stall, sleeping it off. Still, he had a deep fondness for ghatti and an inexhaustible round of stories, inexhaustible since he tended to repeat himself.
“Mm—er, uncle, my father’s mother’s brother, actually. Though we’ve not seen him in ever so long.” The man did not own up to the relationship with any grace.
“A strong family resemblance.” She stopped herself from continuing further in that vein, embarrassing him even more. “Are there any cases?”
“One. They’ve been waiting all day.” Eustace swung his medallion between his fingers. “Troublesome lot they’ve been. Arguing amongst themselves since they arrived, no respect. They’ve practically turned the Seeking Chamber into a picnic area—hampers of food, cushions, dirty plates. And in my building.” His dark eyes glowed with reverence as he waved a proprietary arm at the building now in his care and command, a two-storied edifice of cedar with its granite lintel carved with the seal of the Chief Conciliator.
“Well, we’ll take care of that. What of Darl Allgood, though?” she pressed, taking her saddlebags off Lokka and loosening the horse’s girth. She’d stay put, both from training and from the desire to crop the front lawn plot.
“Gone,” he replied, still lost in admiration for his charge. “Oh. Gone to the capital. He’s been called to the High Council, surprised you didn’t run into him there. He hated to leave, city life’s not his style, nor the games they play there, but his plain ways will do them good. I received my appointment two days ago.” Honest pride and wonder warred with insecurity in his big brown eyes.
And no wonder. The selection of a Conciliator was serious business, the decision of a township or village to place their fates in the hands of a man or woman who would uphold the laws of Canderis and the local laws and ordinances as well. For a person so chosen justice could be no abstraction but a way of life, the rightness and wrongness of daily decisions reflected in the faces of the people one lived and worked with. Too rigid and a Conciliator failed; too easygoing and failure showed equally apparent. To judge evenhandedly was a monumental—and a lonely—task. Doyce felt a momentary surge of pity for this young man, selected by his fellows and the Ca
nderisian High Council to dispense justice after the Seeker Veritas pair had determined the truth. Though Darl Allgood had never mentioned this young man, this Elgar Eustace the Younger, she had no doubt that he and his fellow townspeople had carefully watched him for years, along with a score of other likely candidates. For when election came, no names appeared on the ballot to vote for or against; each citizen voted from his or her own heart, writing in the name of the person they most trusted to pass fair judgment.
Still, his youthful pomposity annoyed her. He’d obviously wasted no time in readying himself. The Conciliator’s apparel couldn’t be whipped up in a few days, even by an experienced seamstress. The cloth itself was a subtle nub-weave only the capital could provide. The pantaloons required a double front pleat and an overlapping waistband clipped on each side with silver buckles, while the ceremonial shirt boasted a special inset front panel, seven diagonal stripes cut from the bias, the bias running in alternate directions from one strip to the next, and the absolute devil to stitch and have it lay flat. The sleeves, set into squared black-piped armholes, were ranged round with black broidery in a running leaf pattern to denote his territory. His was even a bit more elaborate than usual, she judged with a critical eye, admiring the perfect match of both shoulders. Even her own mother couldn’t have done a nicer job.
As if reading her thoughts or simply self-conscious, Eustace stammered, “M ... my mother and wife worked night and day to finish it. They believed before I did that I’d be selected, and they sent ahead for the cloth.” A look of innocent wonder lit his face, and Doyce couldn’t help responding to it. He’d evidently been too modest to consider himself a Conciliator. But like him? For that, she’d wait and see.
“Good for Darl, and congratulations for you. Now let’s go inside and see what awaits us.”
Something was decidedly wrong in the Change Room, the Chief Conciliator could feel it. Why did the curtain billow out like that? What caused that unseemly thump and bump? Not to mention that giggle again? How disrespectful, disgraceful, how utterly scandalous, he decided, and tasted the word in his mouth, sucking it like a lemon drop until his lips pursed. When he was sure it fit, he stuck his head behind the curtain, prepared to announce his superior sense of decorum and dignity and to reprove them for whatever unseemly behavior they engaged in. Was this really how a Seeker Veritas and a Bondmate behaved? His lip began trembling. It made him suspect for the thousandth time that he really wasn’t ready, wasn’t fit to be a Conciliator, would never be.
What he viewed behind the curtain sent him back to his childhood and teased a smile to his nervously disapproving lips. Struggling to wind her red sash over her black hearing tabard with its gold rim, Doyce tried to wrap and tie it while Khar lay on the floor, toying with the tassel. When Doyce swung the length around her waist, the ghatta followed helter-skelter, batting at the flying gold tassel.
“No, Khar! Stop it!” Doyce muttered and managed to tie the sash. Unperturbed, the ghatta discovered a new object of fascination in the leather tassels on her boots. They, too, swung enchantingly, and her paw developed a rhythm of swipe, wait, swipe, wait, swipe, swipe. “Khar,” Doyce hissed in annoyance.
She bent and shoved the ghatta aside, but the ghatta flipped on her back and imprisoned hand and forearm, front legs wrapped around her wrist, back legs pumping furiously as if to disembowel an enemy.
Elgar Eustace judged that not a single claw protruded. He pulled his head from behind the curtain, loudly cleared his throat, and then stuck his head back inside. “Are we about ready?” Seeker and Bondmate stood at ease, a meter apart, looking as if nothing had happened except for the slightly twitchy, guilty expressions they both wore.
For no reason he could determine, the Chief Conciliator unexpectedly felt happy with himself and his job, more so than he had in the whirlwind days since his appointment. His wife and mother would be delighted about this leap in self-confidence, but he also knew that he wouldn’t tell them about this particular incident. Unk Tammy might understand, but they wouldn’t.
Seeker and Bondmate emerged at a stately pace, gliding, eyes inward-looking, and he knew they communed with each other. His instruction book, already dog-eared, had explained it in detail. Shoulders back, expressionless, he led off down the hall, followed by the pair. They entered the Query Chamber and the Seeker stopped inside the door, let the iron heel of her staff touch the polished hardwood floor three times. The beginning....
As the percussive sound of the staff drummed through their wranglings, the room’s occupants looked up at last. The Chief Conciliator stood with hands clasped behind his back and announced, “The Seeker Veritas Doyce Marbon and her ghatta Bondmate, Khar’pem. Be this your Choice or do ye Choose to await another circuit Pair?”
Anyone seeking conciliation had the right to wait for another Seeker Pair if she or he thought that Pair might be more easily persuaded to their side. A vain hope since Seekers were entirely neutral, but it allowed people to believe they had some control over the situation. Doyce winked at Eustace to indicate a job well done, no quaver in his voice. She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “They may, you know, I’ve dealt with the defendant before.” As if in recognition, the fat old man on the defendant’s side of the room shifted awkwardly on his pile of gaudy plush cushions, obviously brought from home, and wiped his hands on a linen napkin before throwing it on the empty plate at his side. He waved a cheery greeting, pudgy, ringed hand and arm setting the full sleeve to billowing.
“Hello, Seeker Doyce, here we are again,” he announced, stifling a burp. “I and my good-for-nothing sons.”
“I take it that means assent on your part,” Eustace reproved. “And on yours?” he continued, turning to two middle-aged men on the plea-bringer’s side of the room. They consulted with brief intensity amongst themselves and the two women with them, hands waving, backs expressing rigid indignation, and finally turned.
“Agreed.” The elder of the two gave his grudging one-word answer as if it pained him.
Doyce nodded and moved to the center of the polished floor to kneel while Khar paced four lengths beyond, then turned to sit facing her. Doyce laid the wooden staff beside her and unclipped her sword scabbard from her side, placing it in a horizontal line between herself and the ghatta, the hilt by her right hand, the sword drawn about a handbreadth from its sheath. A symbolic reminder that she, as well as the ghatta, could show her claws if truth were hidden. She nodded at Khar. “Begin, plea-bringer.”
“I, Ivor Timor, and my brother, Tybor Timor, are being cheated out of our inheritance,” the elder brother stated with even emphasis, though his manicured hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The two women with them, clearly their wives, moaned in perfectly-orchestrated dismay, casting hostile looks at the old man and the buxom, cinnamon-haired young woman who tended to him, resettling his gaudy striped pillows, pouring him fresh wine, patting his brow with a crisp napkin.
Clearly a great deal of money had been spent to garb the two wives in what they considered a dignified, well-to-do manner, but the effect clamored of provinciality, even to Doyce’s less than fashion-conscious eyes. By comparison the young woman radiated the vibrant glow of lush summer gardens in her pink pantaloons, gauzy white tunic, and embroidered rose overvest—daring choices for her coloration. Such clothes cost far more than Doyce earned on a circuit, but far less than the other women’s and with far better effect. Doyce ruefully fingered the well-worn material of her own pantaloons.
“Your complaint seems premature since your father definitely is not dead. Do you not inherit what wealth he leaves behind once he has died and the disposition of the will is made clear?”
“Well, yes, and no, you see, it’s like this....” The younger brother Tybor spoke, only to be shushed by his brother and the wives. His chagrined face held a modicum of sensitivity and humor and more than a little weakness.
The old man, Hollis Timor, sat up, craning his neck to not miss the action around him. She well rememb
ered Hollis Timor from several other cases: a shrewd, wealthy wine merchant not above cutting things a bit fine if it meant more profit for him. His mind clicked sharply enough to count not just the gold pieces of profit, but the coppers as well. Nothing seined too fine if money could be netted. Still, he had never actually broken the law, just stretched its intent. He had always taken her Seekings and the Conciliator’s rulings in good grace, as if reassured that the system he tried to circumvent at times still held firm.
“Yes, it’s this way,” Ivor broke in, smoothly recapturing his audience from his brother. “Dear Papa gave each of us shares in the business when we came of age. Money that we earned from the business was ours to invest in our own enterprises. Now Papa is beyond himself, lost in his dotage, withdrawing money and never reinvesting it back into the business, as if there’s no tomorrow.” The two proper little wives clasped hands over their mouths in practiced unison, miming shock at what they’d heard.
She beamed a thought at Khar. “And if there’s money being taken out with no reinvesting, they don’t make as much as before. There’s no growth except from their own investments, right? What do you read?”
She depended on Khar to read the true feelings, the true facts in each mind, treading paths of emotions, wistfulness, ought to’s and should have’s, seeking the truth no matter how concealed in the human mind. Then, to transfer the information to her without losing any of it along the way, not discarding anything which might seem irrelevant to the ghatta but not to a human. Finally, questioning if need be, but always through the Seeker, through her, so as not to insult the fragile human ego and brain by direct contact with a beast. Bad enough for a human to know his mind was no longer sacred, but even worse to feel it directly pierced by an alien thought.