The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

  The king was listening but did not seem particularly interested.

  “Present your evidence, Red Khalif,” he said, his hand caressing the carved eagle’s head on the right arm of the throne.

  The Red Khalif bowed, passed his right hand before his eyes, and called to the troopers, “Bring the first witness.”

  A short, wizened man was brought in. He was clearly nervous, and his eyes moved rapidly over the dais and to the throne. He threw himself on his knees, crying out, “Your Highness, I have done nothing. Nothing, I swear.”

  “Silence,” Alumus said angrily. “You are in no trouble if you tell the truth. State your name and how you know the prisoners.”

  “I am Savos, a baker in Chenak, lords,” he said, his words tumbling out. He indicated the two in chains. “My young son took ill last month with fever and chills. The deacon, he said to pray by his bedside, and we did, my lords. The healer leeched him and gave him a black draught. But he got no better. The prisoners were customers of mine. ‘Let us look at him,’ Venaj says, and I was doubtful, but my wife, she let them into house. They said the air was bad and opened all the windows and lit a magical incense stick and said prayers in a strange tongue that none of us could follow.”

  Alumus had walked to the edge of the dais. “Praying to the Evil One, would you say? And what of the magical incense?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord, but it wasn’t Thermad they was praying to. And the incense stick was magical, for it cleared all the flies, fleas, and mosquitoes from the room. They mixed up some strange herbs and potions and made my son drink it.”

  “You did not stop this sorcery?” Alumus thundered.

  Savos quailed and went to his knees again.

  “I would have, my lord, but my son’s fever broke, and he got better. He is back on his feet now, my lord. But the deacon, he said I must come here and…and…” He searched for the word. “Testify. He says I have to tell the king’s justice what happened. He says that it is better to be dead than walking around through the power of the Evil One. I don’t know if that’s right, my lord—”

  But Alumus had heard enough and cut him off. “Thank you for your testimony, Savos. Let this be a warning to you—trafficking with the Evil One will lead you to damnation and trouble with the law besides. You may go.”

  Savos looked like he wanted to say more, but a trooper hustled him out through the exit on the king’s left.

  “Bring in the second witness, Batrius, Deacon of Chenak,” Alumus intoned.

  Batrius was an overfed, pale man of medium height and a pompous demeanor. His eyes were watery, but he had a sharp look about him, as though he expected to be displeased with whatever he saw. He walked in unguarded and did not so much as glance at the prisoners or their guards. He knelt before the king and touched his forehead to the ground.

  “Your Majesty, it is with great pleasure that I come today to offer my meager assistance to your celebrated justice,” he said in carrying tones. He clearly had much more to say, but Alumus cut him off.

  “State your name and occupation,” he said brusquely.

  “I am Batrius, Deacon of Chenak, sire,” he said, giving Alumus a reproachful look. “It is my humble privilege to minister to the poor citizenry there, to comfort them and help them find the peace and love of the One God and our Lord Thermad.”

  “State your testimony in the case, Batrius.”

  “The prisoners are well known to me. They have lived in Chenak these four years past. From the first I endeavored to bid them welcome and introduce them to the love of Lord Thermad, but they spurned me. They would continue to indulge their unholy fire rituals and prayers to the Evil One. Not only this, but they used their magical incantations, potions, and sorcery to relieve many of their honest suffering and have been leading them into temptation. They use their black arts to seduce your god-fearing subjects away from the True Lord. The baker Savos is just the latest example. It was the last straw. They are beyond redemption, Your Majesty, my lord Khalif, my lords of the Privy Council. I conveyed my fears to my ecclesiastical superiors, and I am pleased to find this case has found its way to your justice.”

  “Thank you, Batrius. We thank you for your diligence.” Alumus cleared his throat again. “I call on—”

  The king interrupted, but politely. “Pardon us, Red Khalif, but how many more witnesses do you have?”

  “Nine, sire,” said Alumus with satisfaction. “We have been very thorough.”

  “We have heard quite enough,” the king said. “Unless contradicted, this evidence is grave indeed. We call on the prisoners to state their defense. Is it true that you repudiate our Lord Thermad and the One God?”

  Venaj did not answer immediately. Finally he said in a low, but strong voice, “We repudiate no god, sire. God is one and the same, no matter what he or she is named. We ask that we be judged for our deeds, not our words. It is true that we have healed the sick. We have asked no payment, we have asked no one to forsake any god or prophet, Thermad or otherwise. People have come to us, asked to partake in our rituals, and we have not turned them away. They have befriended us, fed us, supported us. How else can an old man feed and clothe his child? I have no other trade. I do not have the strength to labor in the fields or the workshops. If healing Your Majesty’s subjects is a crime, then I am guilty indeed. But I have never practiced sorcery or any dark arts. I have given all my herbs and potions to Deacon Batrius to inspect—”

  “I found all manner of witchcraft in his potions! Leaves and herbs and animal entrails, such as I have never seen before or since!” Batrius interjected angrily.

  “I have never used animal—” began Venaj, but the Red Khalif put up his hand and silenced him.

  “Your Majesty, I beseech you to allow me to call my next witness, a prominent merchant of Chenak, who will testify as to the prisoners’ use of the black arts.”

  “Proceed, Red Khalif,” said the king resignedly.

  “I call on Numius, Master of the Merchants’ Guild of Chenak,” intoned Alumus.

  Numius was even plumper than Batrius, with heavy jowls and bags under his small, suspicious eyes. He wore a long, richly brocaded coat over fine silks and his heavy Guild Master’s chain of office.

  Alumus got him to state his name and occupation, and he began his testimony in a flat monotone.

  “The prisoners rented rooms from me. They were always late with their rent, so I always had to go over after work to collect it. On numerous occasions I saw the herbalist Venaj prostrate himself before a fire, sprinkle it with butter, and chant unholy incantations. Twice I saw ghostly figures rise out of the flames, moaning and groaning. It was an evil sight, Your Majesty, my lords. I could feel the presence of the Evil One, and it made my flesh crawl. Finally, last month, I evicted them from my rooms. They have been living in the streets since then, I believe.”

  “They have refused to accept the love of Thermad and take shelter in the Thermadan Mission’s abode for the homeless,” put in Batrius.

  Alumus allowed a pause before bowing to the king. “Sire, will your render your judgment now, or shall I call more witnesses?”

  “We will hear once more from the accused, Red Khalif, and then render our judgment,” the king said and turned to Venaj. “What say you to these charges?”

  Venaj bowed his head. “I can only plead my innocence, sire. I have worshiped fire, it is true, but no ghosts have risen from it. I have used potions and herbs known to my people, but only to heal, not to suborn or influence. I place myself at the mercy of Your Majesty’s justice, trusting your righteousness and your defense of the weak and powerless.”

  “We had hoped you would come up something more tangible, Venaj of Chenak. Your accusers are many and are men of unimpeachable character. We have no option but to pronounce you guilty as charged.”

  Now Venaj did fall to his knees and touch his forehead to the floor.

  “Your Majesty, I accept your judgment. But please, for the love of your Lord Thermad, release
my daughter. She is but a child; she had no part of this. She is innocent—please do not punish her for my crimes!”

  The king looked slightly embarrassed by this display.

  “How old is your daughter, Venaj?” he asked, attempting to prevent further begging.

  “Twelve, sire, just last month. I beg you—”

  “We are merciful, Venaj, we hear your plea,” said the king, swiftly cutting him off. “Your daughter will be judged separately from you. We do not believe in guilt by association. However, we must dispose of your case first. Red Khalif, state the sentence for guilt.”

  Alumus stood up eagerly. “Your Highness, for heresy, sorcery, and for worship of the Evil One, the sentence is death.”

  “Very well, summon the headsman,” said the king in the same tone he would have used to say, “Pray, bring me a glass of wine.”

  The Royal Speaker stood and rapped the dais with his staff. “Master Magnus Pontus to the audience floor!”

  Pontus was a hulking brute of a man with the massive shoulders and arms required in his profession. He carried an enormous two-headed executioner’s ax in his right hand. A trooper accompanied him, carrying the block. There was hush in the audience chamber as every eye drank in the macabre tableau being played out. Caitlin watched with grim fascination. She could not believe they were actually going to go through with this. She looked at Nitya, Venaj’s young daughter. The girl’s eyes were wide and staring as though she was in a trance.

  Two troopers propelled her father to the block and forced him to kneel, arranging his neck. Pontus marked his spot with the razorsharp blade, drawing a thin line of blood, and then raised the ax. He was a professional and did his job with precision. Venaj was decapitated with a single blow. There was a collective gasp from the hundreds of watchers. Someone cheered. This broke the dam, and there rained down a stream of invective from the benches and galleries. Caitlin thought she was going to be sick. She averted her gaze from the troopers collecting Venaj’s head and body to look at Nitya again. The crowd was screaming for her blood now. She did not seem to hear. Her eyes followed the lifeless body of her father, and as Caitlin watched, tears formed in her large eyes and silently rolled down her cheeks. But that was all.

  “Well, girl, it is your turn now,” said the king sternly. He looked over at Alumus. “Red Khalif, how do you charge her?”

  “Sire, you have been merciful in granting her a separate trial. But the charges are the same, and the nine prosecution witnesses will testify to her active participation in sorcery and invocations of the Evil One. Indeed, several will attest to her undertaking dark rituals on her own, unaided by her father.”

  “Then proceed, Red Khalif,” said the king, in a tone that indicated that he would really rather be somewhere else.

  “Your Majesty!” the girl spoke. She almost managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. Nonetheless, it was a sweet voice, clear and carrying—a singer’s voice.

  “Speak, child,” said the king, not unkindly. “Have you evidence to clear your name?”

  “What evidence can I produce, Your Majesty? I am of a strange race, alone and friendless. God alone knows my innocence. He alone can help me. I demand my right to a trial by combat.” She raised her right arm to the extent allowed by the chain. Surrounded by the burly soldiers, it was pitifully thin.

  There was stunned silence in the chamber. At first there were some titters, then laughter and jeers that rose and swelled. “This we have to see! Put the bitch in the fighting pits!” “Give her a longsword! Let’s see her with a bear!” Much coarser quips followed, aimed her femininity, her maidenhood, and her parentage.

  Caitlin’s indignation overcame her discipline and diplomacy. She stood and pounded the table in front of her. “Your Majesty, you cannot be serious! This trial is a farce. The girl is a minor, a child!”

  The crowd noise died down as they waited to hear the response to this Zon outrage. The king did not deign to respond. The Royal Speaker stepped down from beside the throne to the dais and rapped his staff. Silence immediately descended on the great chamber.

  “We will remind the Zon envoy that she is an observer on the Privy Council and is present at the pleasure of the king. Interference in the internal affairs of Briga will not be tolerated!”

  This pleased the crowd, which began booing and catcalling. Caitlin could see that Megara was being jostled in her seat on the front bench. This could get ugly real fast, she thought.

  “I beg pardon for my intrusion, Your Majesty,” Caitlin said in a flat voice. “It was uncalled for. This is clearly an internal affair of Briga.”

  The king turned his attention to Nitya again.

  “Baron da Coel, our Lord Commandant will select the Royal Champion. Do you have a champion, girl?”

  “No, Your Majesty, I will represent myself,” said Nitya without hesitation. This brought forth renewed gales of laughter and a resumption of the coarse catcalls and taunts.

  Old Baron va Haxos cleared his throat. The king looked at him expectantly. The baron addressed himself to Nitya.

  “Child,” he said gruffly, “you must know that you have as much chance of survival in the fighting pits as on the block. And death is not the only violence you may suffer in a fighting pit.”

  “I fully understand that, sir,” said the little girl, sounding far more mature than her twelve years. “In the fighting pit I may face the pain of wounds. But I would rather die on my feet than on my knees.”

  “Very well,” said the king, who clearly wanted to get this over with. “Royal Speaker, the case will decided tomorrow at 10 a.m. in a fighting pit chosen by the prosecution. Pray inform Baron da Coel.”

  The Royal Speaker repeated the king’s commands and banged his staff again. The king rose and exited the chamber, led by two of his Life Guards and followed by the Privy Council. The two other Life Guards brought up the rear. When they had exited the chamber, the Royal Speaker rapped his staff a final time.

  “The Royal Audience is concluded,” he said in stentorian tones. People now rose to their feet and began leaving. The Life Guards opened the huge doors at the rear of the chamber. The air was soon filled with the rising buzz of hundreds of conversations. Caitlin joined Megara, and they pushed their way through the crowds to get out of the chamber and into the square outside. Megara found the grooms and got a trooper to inform the rest of the huntresses. In fifteen minutes they were mounted and with a light, decidedly unceremonial escort of a half dozen Royal Blacks, were riding out of the Great Stony Keep, down the hill, and out of Dreslin Center.

  “The barbarians are going to butcher that poor girl tomorrow,” said Megara bitterly, as they parted with their escort and crossed the drawbridge. “Can you imagine putting that little thing in a fighting pit with some great hulking brute?”

  “We are the Zon Sisterhood, we protect our sisters,” murmured Caitlin, repeating the catechism from their school days.

  “Too bad real life can’t be like the heroic sagas of our foremothers,” Megara observed, with a sidelong glance at Caitlin. “The priestesses and huntresses triumphing over insuperable odds; the Mother Goddess Ma and her court smiling down on the Sisterhood.”

  “Don’t the sagas contain grains of truth?” asked Caitlin quietly.

  “Come, come, Caitlin, you know that the Sisterhood will stand by and watch the murder of this little girl. And not for the first time.”

  “It hasn’t happened yet,” said Caitlin, looking straight ahead and avoiding Megara’s eyes. Megara glanced at her expectantly from time to time as they crossed the Pontoon Bridge over the Amu-Shan and ascended the facing hill to the Residency. Caitlin did not elaborate.

  As the sun set, Caitlin paced on the shining white battlements of the Zon Residency, gazing over the valley into Dreslin Center, where the watch fires were being lit. As it grew dark, light panels automatically came on throughout the Residency, and floodlights powered up making all the approaches to the white walls as bright as day. The hillside from
the walls all the way down to the river and to the surrounding plain was covered with soft, manicured grass, unobstructed by tree, bush, or boulder. No one could approach the Residency unseen. She passed a strolling sentry, who put her hand to her heart in salute.

  “Evening, Seignora Lady Caitlin,” she said politely. “I heard the barbarians are going to have a little girl face a gladiator in the fighting pits tomorrow.”

  “To the death,” she responded dully.

  She went down to the officers’ mess and joined Megara, but neither of them had much of an appetite. The mess had enormous viewports overlooking the Amu-Shan river valley. The watch fires of Dreslin Center twinkled in the dark like fireflies. They were both looking out of the viewports, each lost in her thoughts, when they were jerked into reality by the arrival of Resident Lady Selene Allerand, whose trailing handmaiden said “Ahem, officiae” to draw their attention. The staff of Zon Residencies had the greatest interaction with the barbarians and were chosen to overawe them, the Residents most of all. Lady Selene was no exception. She was a tall and willowy brunette with one shocking streak of white hair, and large, luminous gray eyes that could warm or chill depending on her temper.

  Both Caitlin and Megara rose and put their hands on their hearts. Lady Selene waved aside their salutes and, parting her outer robes, grasped Caitlin’s shoulders and touched breasts in the traditional Zon greeting between equals, as befitted her high birth. The armored lyntronex of Caitlin’s uniform slid smoothly over the fine chiffon of Lady Selene’s bodice.

  “May I join you for dinner, ladies?” she asked.

  Both Caitlin and Megara bowed acquiescence, not quite sure what to expect. Lady Selene’s handmaiden clapped her hands, and a mess stewardess materialized bearing a silver tray with an assortment of silver dishes, each under a silver dome lid. Lady Selene pulled out a chair and sat as her meal was being served. She waved them back to their seats, buttered a roll, and began on her soup. After a pause, both Megara and Caitlin began to nibble their dinners, waiting expectantly. When Lady Selene continued to eat, their gazes drifted back to Dreslin again.