A Conspiracy of Truths

by Alexandra Rowland

  “For one thing, because it might save your neck,” she said flatly. “I’ll be the first to admit to my pride, but I’m not stupid. I don’t throw away an advantage just because I find it distasteful.”

  “Is this normal?” I said. “Honestly, is it?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

  “And you don’t care at all? You, an advocate, someone who apparently believes in the rule of law enough to make a career of it—you’ll suggest that your clients bribe the judges as casually as you’ll discuss the weather?”

  “I beg your pardon, but whatever gave you the idea that you had leave to be condescending to me?”

  “I’m trying to understand how you sleep at night.”

  “I sleep content in the knowledge that I’ve done my best to work within an imperfect system to give help to the people who ask for it.”

  “Oh, don’t you sound noble and righteous,” I simpered. “And I suppose you never take bribes, then.”

  “No,” she said sharply. “Most of the time I don’t.”

  “Most of the time.”

  She smoked at me in glowering silence. “This part of the conversation is over. You’ve made yourself clear; I won’t bring up that particular solution again.”

  “Good. It’s useless. Haven’t paid for anything in ages, knowledge or not. Don’t like carrying coin.”

  “Surely you don’t buy your supper with songs and stories?” she said flatly from around the stem of her pipe.

  I sniffed at her. These Nuryevens have no imagination whatsoever—the story of the sand beasts of Ondor-Urt seemed to have held her interest for a moment, but perhaps that was just the last faint heritage of Arjuneh in her. The Arjuni are flush with stories, may the gods smile upon them. I used to marvel at the vibrancy of that place, the colors, the warmth, the life—I see now that they’re just balancing out these fucking Nuryevens. “It’s a complicated trade, advocate.”

  “So is advocacy.” She paused, then smirked at me. “It’s only about telling the right story in the right way, isn’t it?”

  I should have given her more credit. It’s my favorite mistake, one I should have stopped making when I was a young man, but it has only gotten worse as I get older. She’d surprised me with that observation, too, if I’m being completely honest—and I’m always completely honest, which you know if you know me at all. Well, mostly. “Are you going to keep my case, then?”

  She sighed. “I’m not convinced you’re not a spy, but I’m not convinced that you are a spy either. This will be a slow one, though, so there’s time still for me to abandon ship if it seems to be turning sour.” She turned her pipe upside down and tapped the ashes out onto the floor, stepping on them to extinguish any remaining embers. Then she began packing it away into the pockets of her robe. “I’ll keep it for the moment, until I get a better feeling about whether I should stay on or look for greener pastures.”

  “That isn’t very fair,” I said sharply. “If you were a really good advocate, you’d take it. You’d win it.”

  “Maybe anywhere else, old man,” she said in a low voice. “Not in these parts. They’ve already made up their mind about you. I’m not arguing to neutral minds, I’m arguing against ones that have already decided you’re guilty. It’s an uphill battle.”

  “Uphill, and you haven’t decided yourself if I’m innocent.”

  “Not my job. I haven’t decided if I can talk everyone else into deciding you are.”

  “So you might just leave me to the wolves.”

  “I might. We’ll see how many more wolves you whistle for when you run your mouth to the Queen of Justice. You’ll talk yourself right into a noose on the gallows. So if she comes, maybe just don’t talk until I get here.”

  “Comes? What about a court? Witnesses? A trial?”

  “There’s a room upstairs they use for things like this. Spies have friends, and friends help break people out of jail.”

  Friends! I only had Ylfing. Probably starving in the streets by now, or dead. Murdered, maybe, killed in a back alley by thugs. Like I told Consanza, he hasn’t got a whit of self-preservation when it comes to people, but it’s not often that a young man or woman feels like sinking their homeland beneath the waves and taking off to see the world. They all talk like they would do it in a heartbeat, but give them the actual opportunity and . . . Well, Ylfing took it. Grabbed it with both hands. It was possibly a youthful lack of foresight on his part rather than any kind of truly steel-keen thirst to see the world.

  I didn’t miss him, mind you. Of course I didn’t. Why would I? He’s the bane of my old age! Let me tell you, we have never once walked past a smelly shepherd boy who didn’t instantly turn Ylfing’s head. Every single damn time. Not only that—he once composed a poem about a boy he glimpsed across a street. It doesn’t even matter if they’re cute or not—he’ll glance at these boys and find something completely wonderful and unique about each of them, and then guess who has to listen to him blush and burble about it for the rest of the day? Me. I have to. I’m the one who suffers. Mind you, he does that with every person we meet, but with boys it’s a compulsion and insufferable. So no, I didn’t miss him at all, not even a tiny bit. In fact, I was enjoying the vacation.

  “Would it be possible for me to send a letter?” I asked, as Consanza turned away.

  “Eh?” she said, turning back. “To whom?”

  “My apprentice.”

  She shook her head immediately. “No, I’m afraid not. They’d just snap him up for being an accomplice, and I’m not taking on two cases this troublesome.”

  “Could you go to the inn we were—”

  “Not a chance. They’d just snap me and him up for being accomplices, and unlike some people of my acquaintance, I have no interest in initiating an intimate relationship with a length of sisal rope.”

  “But could you ask? Could I ask?”

  “You can ask all you want. Petition the Queen of Justice when you see her, if you want. I’m not going to argue for it, though.”

  “He’s like family! Aren’t prisoners allowed to contact their families?”

  “Prisoners generally are. Spies, generally not. It’s a sensible policy if you think about it.”

  “When will she come? The Queen.”

  “I haven’t been informed about when your hearing will be. When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

  And finally, as she turned away once more: “Will you come back and talk to me?”

  “If I have time. You’re not my only client.”

  And then she left, her robes billowing behind her, and the cell was cold and cramped again, though the smell of her pipe leaf lingered for an hour or two after.

  The Queen of Justice came without warning a day or two later. If Consanza had sent any word of the hearing, it hadn’t reached me. The guards came to unlock my cell, wordlessly, and took me in shackles to the main level of the prison, where I was put in a cage much like the one I had stood in at the courthouse. The Queen of Justice was shown in without fanfare. Not an actual Queen, mind you—the Nuryevens got rid of them long ago, but they kept the titles. The Primes of the realm, their so-called Kings and Queens, are people just like any other citizen, elected to their offices by simple majority.

  The Queen of Justice was Zorya Bozimiros Miroslavat Bartostok, a woman ancient by anyone’s standards. She was dressed in deceptively simple and severely cut clothes, but the fabric was rich and fine, the forest-colored cloak over her shoulders lined in thick dark fur, the hem of her skirt densely embroidered with wool yarn nearly the same green-black color as her dress, and glinting here and there with black glass beads. The only jewel she wore was a golden locket on a chain around her throat, and a long string of tiny beads upon which were hooked a pair of half-moon spectacles with gold rims. She was so well-dressed in comparison to all the other people in this country. I remember noticing that. It didn’t really strike me as excessively strange then—she was a Queen, after all, even if she had
been elected, and Queens are almost always well turned out, just as peasants almost always look like peasants—I’d seen plenty of those in the backwaters of this backwater. Miserable, the lot of them. Miserable, suspicious, afraid, angry. I’d thought nothing of it at the time, and even standing in front of Zorya Miroslavat, I still thought nothing of it.

  Behind her was another woman of middle age who held the door for her, pulled her chair out, took her cloak, and set a bundle of papers bound between two flat boards before her on the table. All in silence. I assumed at the time that she was an aide; I found out later that she was Yunia Antalos Yllonat Csavargo, the Duchess of Justice, Zorya’s second in command.

  Zorya Miroslavat was one of those women who seem like they must have shrunk with age. Her fingers were curved and knobbly with arthritis as she pulled loose the knot and set aside the top board of the bundle. She licked her fingertips to page through the first few sheets of the file, and when she finally looked up at me, her eyes were bright and glittering. “So, a spy, are you? And possibly a blackwitch,” she said, her voice surprisingly loud. Annoying habit.

  “Not that I know of, madam. Might I know where my advocate is?”

  She unhooked her spectacles and shakily slid them onto her nose, looking me over with those sharp little eyes for, I assumed, signs of witchcraft. She seemed in no hurry to reply, and she skimmed through another page of the file before she answered. “I don’t think your advocate will be coming today.”

  “That seems . . . unusual. She said she would be here.”

  “Hard to be somewhere if you don’t know you’re supposed to be there, isn’t it?”

  “Advocate Consanza said that I should keep my mouth shut and let her”—do all the talking sounded suspicious—“state my case for me.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Zorya Miroslavat said with a small smile over the rim of her glasses. “This isn’t a truly formal hearing for you.”

  “Even so, I’d rather not speak without my advocate present to advise me. I don’t know anything about your laws or customs.”

  “What was her name again?” Zorya Miroslavat asked absently.

  “Consanza. Advocate Consanza Priyayat.”

  “Mm, yes, I think I’ve heard of her. Bit of a celebrity in the lower courts, isn’t she?” Zorya Miroslavat addressed this to Yunia Antalos, who stood at her shoulder.

  “I believe so, ma’am. She’s never lost a case, but I haven’t heard that she takes particularly risky cases either.”

  “Heh.” Zorya Miroslavat tapped her finger against the table several times. “She must be a smart one, then. Tactical.”

  “The judges seem fond of her,” Yunia said. “I hear she has a certain . . . flair.”

  “The students like her too,” I added. “Had a whole flock of them following her around at the trial. You should meet her. Perhaps we could send for her now.”

  “If things go well for you, I’m sure my path will cross hers at some point.” Zorya Miroslavat drew herself up. “But back to business. You say you don’t know anything of our laws and customs.”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid, but what I’ve seen firsthand.”

  “Have you ever visited any part of Nuryevet before?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the fringes? One of the outlying villages, perhaps? Passed through the mountains?”

  “No, I’ve never even been within a hundred miles of this place. I would prefer not to answer any more questions without my advocate.”

  “These aren’t questions. We’re just getting to know each other a little better.” Her voice was silky. We’re just chatting, it said. Nothing to fear. It set my teeth on edge. “Now, I’m told you go by the name . . . Chant?”

  “A title, not a name.”

  “I see.”

  “Advocate Consanza said that when I met with you, I might petition you to allow me to send a letter.”

  Zorya Miroslavat looked up from the paperwork. “To whom, Master Chant?”

  “My . . . apprentice. He’s like a nephew to me.”

  “I see. And why would you be writing to an apprentice?”

  “He’s on his own and I haven’t seen him since I was arrested—I only want to tell him what’s happened to me.”

  She broke her gaze and returned to shuffling the papers. “No, I can’t allow that at the present time.”

  “I understand, given the circumstances and the crimes that I have been accused of, that you may be reluctant to allow me contact with the outside world, particularly anyone who may be on my side. Is there any situation in which you could find it acceptable? Even the shortest message would be—”

  “No,” she said briskly.

  “Not even, ‘Apprentice, I have been charged by the Nuryeven courts and I am awaiting trial’?”

  “Not even that.” Zorya Miroslavat folded her hands on the papers. “If we find you guilty and sentence you, we will send a notification to any family members—and that includes your nephew or apprentice or whatever he is, if that’s who you’d like it sent to. If we find you innocent, well—you’d be free to go and you can tell him yourself. Now. You confessed in court to having a close association with the famous spy Xing Fe Hua, also known as Xing Fe the Sailor, is that right?”

  I crossed my arms. “I’d rather not answer any more questions without my advocate’s counsel.”

  “Well, you don’t have to answer, but it’s a matter of record already, so that’s fine.”

  “As long as I have you here, madam, perhaps you could discuss the quality of your prisons—all the cells seem to have a terrible draft, and the blanket they gave me is full of fleas.”

  “Not my problem,” she murmured, examining another sheet of parchment.

  “I—I beg your pardon! The keeping of prisons isn’t your problem?”

  “No,” she said coolly. “It is not. It is, in fact, in the jurisdiction of my colleague, the Queen of Order. But I will be sure to pass along the fact that there is a man charged with espionage who feels that he has the right to critique her maintenance staff. Now, the witchcraft charge—whatever were you doing to get arrested for that?”

  “I would strongly, strongly prefer to answer your questions with counsel from my advocate.”

  “Certainly you would. By the way, what brought you to Nuryevet?”

  “I would strongly,” I repeated, “prefer to answer in the presence of my advocate.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Yunia Antalos stepped quickly towards it and yanked it open. There was a young woman on the other side, dressed in a navy-blue three-quarter-length coat and black trousers, both of which had the cut of a uniform. Her face was swathed in a charcoal scarf that covered her nose and mouth, and there was nothing shiny or reflective anywhere on her. Even the slight shine of her fingernails had been buffed off. She pulled the scarf away from her mouth and made a small bow to the aide. “Duchess Yunia Antalos, greetings. I’m a messenger from Her Majesty, Anfisa Vasilos Zofiyat Lisitsin—”

  “Yes, we know,” Zorya Miroslavat said. “You’re wearing her colors. Do you think we’re blind?”

  “—Queen of Pattern,” the messenger finished. “And I have a writ demanding the release of the accused spy Chant into our custody, citing the right for the Prime of Pattern to question all suspects accused of treason or espionage without obstruction or veto from any source, in accordance with section five of the Nineteenth Modification.” The messenger held out a rolled-up piece of parchment.

  Yunia Antalos snatched it out of the messenger’s hand, broke the seal, and skimmed it. “It’s in order, madam,” she said darkly.

  The messenger smiled.

  “Of course it is,” Zorya Miroslavat snapped. “Anfisa doesn’t cut corners.” Then, to the messenger: “Did you bring guards?”

  “I did,” she said. “They’re in the hall.”

  “Yunia, clean this up,” Zorya Miroslavat snapped, gesturing at the file of papers, and hauled herself, creaking, to her feet.
“Fine,” she said to the messenger. “Take him, then. Vihra Kylliat has already signed him over to you?”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “Take me where?” I asked. None of them answered me, Yunia Antalos being too busy shuffling the papers into order and securing them into their bundle again with a swift knot. The messenger stepped out of the way as Yunia Antalos and Zorya Miroslavat stalked past her, and then she leaned out and beckoned to someone down the hall. “Take me where?” I repeated.

  “Somewhere more comfortable than here, I daresay,” the messenger said with a wry smile. “The House of Order doesn’t allow much in the way of creature comforts, does it?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “It doesn’t. Who are you?”

  “Captain of the Pattern Guard, Vladana Anatoliyos Lyubiyat Ostakolin. Captain Ostakolin to you.”

  “And the Queen of Pattern is . . . ?”

  “Someone who has an interest in talking to accused spies.” Two women—a pair of Order guards in red-and-white uniforms—came into the room, unlocked my cage, and removed the shackles from my wrists. Captain Ostakolin replaced them with new ones, locked with a key from her own pocket. There were four more blue-and-black-uniformed guards standing just outside the door now. “She’ll make it worth your while if you cooperate,” the Captain said in a low voice. “She may be able to help you, even, if you make yourself helpful in return.” She smiled at the Order guards and gave them a little salute with one hand, pulling the scarf back over her nose and mouth with the other. “Always a pleasure, ladies.”

  The escort seemed far less strict than the ones I had enjoyed on the way to and from the courthouse—I wasn’t thrown into any coffins, nor manhandled. Captain Ostakolin led me gently by the elbow, the four guards flanking us before and behind as we navigated the long, twisting hallways, all nearly identical and built of the same dull gray stone as every other building in this damn country. We even left by the main entrance, the ceremonial entrance, rather than the loading dock where they drag prisoners in and out. There was an incongruously well-appointed carriage, lacquered in matte black, with three interlocking crescents painted in dark blue on the side, and two perfectly matched black horses, and wispy fountains of black feathers towering on each corner of the carriage and from the horses’ bridles—another show of wealth and luxury that simply didn’t fit in the Nuryeven landscape. Two of the guards entered the carriage, and Captain Ostakolin handed me in after them. I liked her. She was the pinnacle of graciousness and chivalry. She followed me in after, and the other two guards climbed up, I suppose, to the driver’s seat and the footman’s stand. The inside of the carriage was just as elegant as the outside, with navy-blue velvet cushions on the seat and swirling carving across all the wood trim—it was possibly the most lavish thing I had seen in all of Nuryevet, quite surprising for such an austere and severe people, and I was completely baffled as to why the Captain of the Pattern Guard would be using such a carriage to simply fetch a prisoner.