MY hands shake. I clasp them together in my lap, intertwining my fingers as I look at him. At the killer. Ernst and Myrthe are talking to each other in hushed voices, are getting to know each other. I hear Ernst asking her whether this is her first time. The answer is no. Great – I’m the only neophyte around here.
Why? I stare at Aron wondering why he killed Irina. Why he grabbed a knife to stab her. Not just once, or even twice, but three times. In her side, in her neck, and in her heart. “They’re animals without a conscience. Even less than animals, because some of them are of limited human intelligence.” Those were Marcus’s bedtime stories, back in the days. Why is there Segregation? Why do we have Sector Gates? To keep the monsters out, so the well-behaved children of the Sectorials can sleep safely at night.
“Argumentation.” Marcus is in front of us. Behind him, a screen appears from above, dropping out of the ceiling. It shows us the first photograph – a picture of Irina as I used to know her, her blue eyes sparkling and her sweet smile lighting up her pretty face.
“To those present, I kindly ask of you and the Tributants to pay close attention. We’ve entered into the first phase of this Tribunal. The following days will be devoted to argumentation and the presentation of evidence. The Tributants will be given the opportunity to ask questions to the suspect after hearing this evidence.” Marcus turns around to address Aron directly then. “We advise you to speak the truth.” The threat in his voice isn’t lost on me. Suddenly, I feel cold. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of Marcus’s ire and contempt. His tone of voice can shift so unpredictably, from warm and compassionate to cool and deadly, filled with promises of misery and pain.
Aron lifts his head. I notice his hands are no longer cuffed. They’re in his lap, the sleeves of his gray overall too short to cover up his chafed wrists. One of his injuries is still fresh, alongside his jaw line which is covered in a shadow of hesitant stubble. A red-blue mark, obviously caused by knuckles hitting his skin. He doesn’t smile, but raises his eyebrows in mockery. For the first time I hear his voice.
“The truth? Like anyone in here wants to hear it.”
His words are bitter and acidic, but at the same time his voice reminds me of honey, rich and sweet. The inconsistency confuses me. Immediately, guards approach him to move him in his seat and force him to bow his head once more.
“The suspect will remain quiet until addressed to,” Marcus barks. “If this is too difficult a request for him to comply with, we can gag him. Tribunal?”
Ernst leans toward me. “Justa?” It makes me realize that we’re expected – that I am expected – to make a decision on this.
“Ehm. No. That won’t be necessary just yet. Right?” I whisper uncertainly. Ernst shrugs and turns to Myrthe who says she doesn’t care either way.
“Arbiter, we don’t think that’s needed.”
Marcus nods his acquiescence to Ernst’s reply and taps the screen behind him. The photo showing Irina alive and well disappears, making room for a shocking image. My best friend’s lifeless body with the knife still sticking out of her chest. I suppress the urge to jump up and run, and I force myself to look at it. It’s a copy of the kaleidoscope of misery plaguing my dreams with distorted imagery every night. My heart protests, my lungs refuse to budge. Pain is the taskmaster of my restless body.
“The victim was found on Wednesday, March 21st, at half past eight. She was discovered by her best friend who was picking her up from home to go to classes at the College together. Investigation shows that the murder was committed between twelve and one P.M. the night before. Tributants, any questions so far?” Marcus pauses. The room has grown silent – only Aron’s breathing is audible. Every gulp of air seems to cause him to cough, and every sigh he lets out is slow and labored.
There are no questions and so Marcus continues. “The subject was killed with three stabs of a knife.” He lists where Irina’s body was cut open with the murder weapon. “Questions?”
Ernst leans over to Myrthe, they exchange a few whispers, and she shakes her head. I can’t make out what Ernst is saying. The blood in my head is pounding too loudly, drowning out every other sound. Again, my eyes find Aron and our gazes collide when he looks up just at that moment. Anger pools in his eyes. And it makes me livid, too. He’s the one with blood on his hands. Why can’t he just accept his fate? Why doesn’t he put his head down on the chopping block willingly? There’s nothing wrong with putting down a vicious dog, either.
“Did she suffer?” My voice sounds strange, barb-wired and sharp like the knife that killed Irina. I’d like to cut Aron with it just as much. Aron is a beautiful name for such a ruthless killer, I suddenly think, very inappropriately.
“How should I know?” If his words could have a color, they’d be golden yellow. There’s a hint of an accent in there that I can’t quite place, even though it seems familiar.
I hadn’t expected him to respond like that.
I feel my eyebrows settle into a frown, and for a moment, I no longer know what to do. Ernst saves me. His hand finds mine and pats it briefly before he addresses the Arbiter.
“I assume that the victim had passed out by the time the fatal stab wound was inflicted, Arbiter?”
“You guys deaf up there or what? I just told you…” I see Aron drop even before I realize what’s happening. Slowly, my perplexed brain registers that one of the soldiers knocked him on the back of the head. Knocked him so forcefully that he falls out of his chair and onto his knees. Right in front of me. He is so close now that I could touch the shadow of hair on his head if I wanted to. I back away when he gets up, scrambling up to one knee, then towering over me.
He’s tall.
The soldiers yank him backward and push him down into the chair once more. I dare to let out my breath again.
“If you open your filthy mouth one more time…” the soldier next to him says threateningly.
Aron opens and closes his mouth, looking like a fish thrown onto the quay. And then, a grin flashes across his face. It terrifies me even more than his shrewd eyes filled with anger.
“Indeed, Tributant Medax. The victim was most likely unconscious when the final, fatal stab was delivered,” Marcus replies, once order has been restored in the courtroom.
Aron shakes his head.
“Which…” I swallow and try again. My voice is stronger now, because my need to know whether Irina would have stood a chance if only I’d shown up there sooner gives power to my words. “Which one was fatal?”
“Be more specific, Tributant Advena.” Irritation laces Marcus’s reaction.
I clear my throat. “I – I was wondering... A knife wound in someone’s neck. Isn’t that fatal? We keep talking about the fatal stab wound, but which of the three was fatal?”
“I don’t see the relevance of this, Tributant Advena?” Marcus has crossed his arms and taps his upper arm with his long middle finger impatiently. I can’t tell him that the answer to this question is only important to me. That I simply want to know whether I could have saved Irina if I’d gotten to her sooner. Had I found her before Aron plunged the knife into her heart, giving me the chance to save her, then…
“I was just wondering,” I respond, sounding unconvinced. But then I remember the protocol, Bartholomew’s never-ending speeches about the exact rules and regulations of a Tribunal. I straighten my back, knowing full well that I’m about to step onto thin ice. A sheet of ice not only thin enough to crack under my weight, but slippery enough to trip me up. And yet… I lean slightly forward. “Arbiter, I insist on getting a response to my question.”
Marcus stares back at me, his gaze dark and inscrutable. I know he can’t ignore a formal request and is, as such, obliged to answer.
“The stab wound in the neck was the fatal one.”
I can feel the balloon stretching the edges of my soul as it slowly drains of air in a long, arduous quiver. For a second,
I close my eyes to fully take in this new information.
I couldn’t have saved her.
No blood is on my hands.
Even before I open my eyes again I know that Aron is watching me. I respond to his inquisitive gaze by knitting my eyebrows together and glaring back at him with as much revulsion and loathing as I can punch my stare with.
“If there are no further questions, this seems like an appropriate time for a short break. We’ll come back here after lunch. This Tribunal is now in recess.” Marcus taps the screen again and the horrible photo of Irina slides back up into the ceiling. Ernst and Myrthe both get up at the same time, laughing about something I must have missed. Marcus sets course toward us and I know he wants to talk to me. I jump up from my chair and trip on the steps of the short flight of stairs leading down from our seats. Before I hit the floor, two arms catch me and hold me up against an unfamiliar body. A voice like honey whispers in my ear.
“I need to talk to you. It’s not what you…”
Before Aron can finish his sentence, the soldiers grab him to drag him off me and down to a door leading to his waiting cell.
5
“WHY your line of questioning, Justa?”
Of course there’s no way to avoid Marcus. Just before the Tribunal is in session again, he steers me to a corner of the room with soft but insistent hands. His body is blocking my only escape route.
“It’s difficult to explain.” The words I fear to speak can’t help but come out. “I feel guilty because...” Actually, I don’t want to tell him about my feelings of guilt over Irina’s death, but I have to. I know what he’s going to say, even before the words leave his lips for real. He forces my chin up so I have to look him in the eye, and he lowers his face until it’s mere inches from mine.
“Irina’s murderer is in this room, Justa. You’re not responsible for his deeds. You’re only responsible for the verdict you’ll have given by the time this Tribunal is adjourned.” Marcus steps backward and takes my hand. Together, we walk back to the seats where Ernst and Myrthe are already waiting. “Please remember this well, Justa. What happened to Irina isn’t your fault.” Then Marcus lets me go. Unsteadily, I sit down in my chair and feel the plush fabric embrace me. Marcus takes his position in the courtroom. We sit there waiting for Aron, who is soon frog-marched back into the room by his two faithful companions.
His voice in my ear. Again, I hear the despair and the quiet demand in his words.
Aron sits down and I see that his hands have now been cuffed behind his back again. Obviously, his acquired freedom didn’t last long.
“Attendees and Tributants, please may I have your attention to consider the next piece of evidence?” Marcus points at the screen, displaying a photo depicting a knife. The same knife is in a transparent bag he’s holding up in his other hand. As he lifts it, I shake with horror when I can still see the remains of dried-up blood stuck to the silver-colored blade in black-and-brown clots. “The weapon that was used to kill the victim. Earlier that particular night, this weapon had come into the possession of the suspect.”
Aron jerks upright, then casts a look at the soldiers lined up on either side of him and sags back in his chair. He sucks on his bottom lip, worries it with his teeth. He obviously wants to speak but thinks better of it based on his previous experience when he opened his mouth unbidden. Again, I can’t help but think that the stereotypical image of the Stateless I’ve been presented with for all these years just doesn’t jibe with what Aron’s like.
“What an idiot. To stab someone with a weapon that’s so easily traced back to you.” Myrthe whispers the comment so that only Ernst and I can hear her as she circles her temple with her index finger. “If stupidity were a crime, we’d be convincing this Stateless for two offenses right now.” Ernst chuckles, and I force myself to smile, afraid I’ll look out of place if I don’t.
“Tributants. Do you have any questions about this item?”
Myrthe and Ernst both shake their heads obligingly. Marcus sends a meaningful look my way. I know he wants me to keep quiet, that much is clear. I understand – he wants to protect me, wants me to understand that I’m not the one on trial here. And yet…
“Arbiter. I have a question for the suspect.”
Marcus doesn’t bat an eyelid. His expression remains neutral. He gestures for me to continue.
“Suspect, why…” I look at Myrthe, who’s giving me a bug-eyed stare. I carefully consider how to formulate my question. “Suspect, how did you get your hands on this knife?” That’s all I can come up with. The person who originally raised the question wasn’t me, and Myrthe obviously feels uncomfortable now that I’ve almost repeated her snarky comment out loud. I cast my gaze to the floor, suddenly feeling clumsy.
“The knife? I won it during a bet that night. But I didn’t own it for long. It was stolen from me that same evening.” Aron’s words make my breath falter.
“What did the suspect say?” Marcus barks out his response, muting the mumbles rising up from the audience.
“I said I won the knife after a wager and that it…”
“Please let it be noted by the Tributants that the suspect admits to having been engaged in the practice of gambling. Also, let them take note of the fact that the suspect confirms having had the weapon in his possession on the same night that the victim was murdered.” Marcus pronounces every syllable with precision and emphasis. A temporary look of triumph seems to flit across his face, but it’s gone so quickly that I’m not sure it was really there, in retrospect.
“What? No! That’s not my point!” Aron jumps up from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor. I hear Myrthe snicker nervously while Ernst remains frozen in his chair, like me.
“Suspect, be quiet! Now!”
“Hell, no! You’re twisting my words around, you bastard! The bet isn’t important, but…” The soldiers try to seize Aron, but this time, he knows they’re coming and he dances away from their clenched fists. He races toward Marcus, who drops the bag containing the knife and uses both hands to shove Aron back.
“I didn’t do it!”
I blindly watch as the soldiers finally get to Aron and remove him from the room kicking and screaming. He’s resisting, his body squirming as he spits and lashes out and keeps yelling at the top of his voice, over and over again.
“I didn’t do it! I’m not a murderer!”
6
“WHAT a total mess.” The man standing next to Marcus raises his hand and a servant comes running to replenish his glass with white wine at once. “But well, what can you expect from Stateless vermin like that?” The man pulls a face, his hand flapping in a dismissive gesture. “If we could just use Catharsis to get rid of them like we used to. But no – we have to accept their existence, allowing them to roam the land outside. Mad dogs, that’s what they are.”
I stare into my glass and hear Marcus laugh out loud. “Severis, come on. This is not the time for political grandstanding, especially now that the word ‘catharsis’ has lost all meaning. You and I both know that the Sectorate will think twice before changing its mind about that. Think about the money it will cost to set up another round of Catharsis. Besides, aren’t we better than that? I say…” Marcus touches his glass to Severis’s in a mock toast. “I say, let them kill each other off instead. It’s a dying race anyway.”
His words shock me, and I realize I’ve lost count of how much he’s had to drink after he topped up his glass for the fifth time. It’s clear he’s had too much, but I don’t dare comment on it. I’ve done enough damage for today as it is. Accusing him of being a boozehound in front of all his colleagues during the Sectorate Quarter Meeting is the very last thing on my list right now.
“Justa. I heard the whole ceremony was kind of hectic today, during your first Tribunal.” I turn around and am face to face with Bartholomew, my Sectorial Legislation teacher.
Bartholomew leaves the living room and stops in the hallway. A few other guests dart past us like butterflies on their way to the lively room we left behind. He waits until we’re alone. I feel uncomfortable, because Bartho and I have never really gotten along. I’m the pupil who can’t do anything right, or right enough, anyway. My grades are always hovering between C and D, and in his eyes, I’m ‘just Marcus’s foster daughter’. That dubious honor is probably the only thing keeping the Dean of the College from booting me out for my underperformance.
“So tell me, Justa. Is he guilty or not guilty?”
The straightforward question takes me by surprise and I don’t know what to say. Or actually, I do know what I want to say, but wanting and being able to are two different things. Is this a trick question? A test. A test I’m failing, because I still haven’t answered.
“I heard you used your right to demand to be answered? That was smart. I had no idea you’d paid such close attention during my protocol classes. Who knows what else you’ll be able to dredge up from memory – presumption of impartiality, right of revote, the tête-à-tête.” Bartholomew shakes his head. It makes his ponytail swing back and forth. I try not to look at it, but it’s like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.
“I do wonder why someone would stab a dead person in the heart, by the way.” His sudden change of subject gives me a mental whiplash.
“Sorry, what?” I hear myself mutter unintelligently. The words tumble out of my mouth hanging half-open with puzzlement.
Bartholomew sets the glass of water he’s been holding in his hand all this time on the floor, of all places, and walks over to the front door. “I mean, that’s strange. Why would anyone do that? It’s almost like the murderer wanted to send us a message. Or he wanted to vent bottled-up anger. Oh well – who’ll tell us now?” he mumbles to himself before turning toward me, seemingly remembering only just now that I’m still here, too. “So, Justa. I wish you much wisdom in the next few days.” I hand him his coat and see him out. Without saying another word, my teacher disappears into the darkness of the night.
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