Several moments of contemplative silence followed.
“Regular ball of fire, that one,” Fraxi observed at last.
“He’s a live one, he is.” Verth nodded.
“Maybe.” Odilline shot Jianna a penetrating glance. “Maybe so. Well then, I say we go back to Vazian, he’s better fare. What happens after they clobber the Serpent of the Sky with the magic amulet? Let’s hear it, Burlap. And,” she added upon a note of warning, “mind you tell it right.”
Jianna complied. The arrival of the usual savorless evening meal furnished a brief recess, and then she was called upon to recite far into the night. Nor did her audience permit her to pause again before the tale had concluded.
It was done at last. She had brought the Zoviriae all the way to their final, glorious destiny. Jianna fell silent. The faces of her listeners were filled with unknowable emotion.
At last, Fraxi expressed herself. “All right, I want to hear the whole thing over again. From the beginning.”
Jianna studied her fingernails.
“Not tonight,” Odilline informed her. “Come on, girls.” She rose to her feet, and the other two did likewise. Addressing herself to Jianna, she remarked, “I’ll tell you what, Burlap—that was good. No two ways, it was good. I wish you luck for tomorrow.” With that she retired, taking her underlings with her.
At last free to slumber, Jianna lay down on the moldering straw, indifferent to the cold, the moisture, the smells, and the insects. Nobody was watching her now. Bringing forth Falaste’s message, she smoothed it out, and read it again, and again, and again, then pressed the scrap of paper to her breast and repeated the words in her mind while imagining them spoken in his voice. She did this until sleep claimed her.
Her sleep was profound and untroubled. She was rested and ready to face the day when the guard’s bellowing woke them in the morning.
Something was different. It took a moment to identify the anomaly. She was warmer, less uncomfortable than usual. She opened her eyes to find herself lying beneath a covering of familiar, grey-black wool. Instantly she recognized her cloak, stolen the night of her arrival. Someone had come and draped it over her while she slept. She sat up, frowning a little. She was pleased to have the garment back again, but the generosity of the anonymous gesture was disquieting. It seemed the sort of kindness ordinarily bestowed upon the sick, the bereaved, or the dying.
She went through the usual morning motions of queuing up to use the buckets, and then queuing up to receive her ration of gruel. She half ate, half drank the watery mess, and all seemed much the same as any other day. When she joined the line marching out the door toward the sifting yard, however, there came a change.
As she approached the exit, one of the guards took her arm and pulled her out of line.
“Penzia?” he inquired.
She nodded warily.
“You wait over there.”
He jerked a thumb, and her eyes followed the gesture to the nearest corner, where a knot of prisoners stood, stone-faced.
“Pick up your feet.” He gave her a shove.
Jianna obeyed, taking her place among the silent women. There were four of them, other than herself. One was a short, wide, round-eyed girl around her own age. Two were older, but still in the prime of life. The other was elderly, with a bent back, a lined face, scanty white hair, and a persistent cough. All the faces were familiar—she had seen them often enough in recent days. But she had never exchanged a word with any of them, nor did she know any by name. All four were dirty, with black fingernails, grubby hands, oily hair, and soiled garments. She herself was in no better state, she realized with a sense of shame. There were no provisions for washing in the women’s dormitory; not so much as a communal basin. Probably all of them stank to the skies, but the foul atmosphere of the room disguised such things. There was no conversation.
The usual double file of prisoners marched from the room. The five selected detainees stood waiting. Two guards conferred inaudibly, then approached.
“Out,” one of them commanded. “Now.”
They exited the dormitory, and the guards turned them left, away from the sifting yard. On they went along the corridor, made a couple of turns, climbed a short stairway, and Jianna found herself walking a section of the Witch that was entirely unknown to her. The vaulted ceilings were higher here, the walls perceptibly drier, the air better. They came to an anonymous door, indistinguishable from dozens of others lining the long hallway. A guard opened it.
“In,” he said.
The women obeyed, and the door shut behind them. Jianna heard the scrape of the lock. Heart beating fast, she glanced about her.
There was almost nothing to see. But for the locked door and the iron grillwork guarding the single window, she would have called it a room rather than a cell—a characterless chamber of modest proportions, with plastered walls of indeterminate hue, and a floor of scuffed, unfinished planking. There was little furniture—just a few wooden stools lined up along the walls and a bucket in the corner.
She went to the window and looked out. Again, little to see. The room overlooked a stretch of empty yard abutting the prison wall. Beyond the wall, she could make out a few city rooftops, veiled in the usual smoke. Turning from the window, she surveyed her companions, who had already taken possession of four stools and now sat waiting in attitudes of dull misery. The guards had withdrawn. There was nothing to stop them from talking, if they chose, but nobody availed herself of the opportunity.
Jianna herself could think of nothing to say, for an exchange of introductions seemed absurd, and questions were unnecessary. Evidently Odilline and her crew had been right. The next court session was indeed scheduled to take place today, and would probably begin shortly. She was about to face trial. No doubt the other four were present for the same purpose. But did the Taerleezi authorities actually expect to complete five separate trials within a single day? The trial of Falaste and Celisse Rione had been a lengthy affair, but that case had been extraordinary. She might reasonably expect her own to proceed with far greater dispatch. Even so … she might easily spend all the coming day cooped up here in this chamber, awaiting her turn to be called into the court.
Seating herself upon a stool, Jianna leaned her back against the wall and bent a blind gaze on the floor. Her hand stole into her pocket to touch Falaste’s missive, but she did not need to look at it. The words sang through her mind.
She quite lost track of time sitting there, but some suppressed internal clock told her that well over an hour had passed before the door opened again—perhaps as long as two hours. The screech of the hinges recalled her to the present. The door gaped, and both guards reappeared.
Who would be summoned first? She wanted the waiting to end—and she wanted it to go on forever.
“Up and out,” came the command.
He meant all of them, she realized, taken aback. The five women rose, and the guards hustled them out of the room, along a short stretch of hallway, through another door, this one tall and imposing, and into the courtroom.
The chamber was spacious, lofty, and furnished with handsomely glazed windows. At the front of the room, a dais supported a tall bench occupied by a long-jawed, large-chinned judge enveloped in dark robes of office bearing Taerleezi insignia. At the foot of the bench, three men of sober and respectable mien sat at a table laden with ledgers, notebooks, and documents. Before the dais stood a single empty chair.
Jianna scarcely noted these arrangements. Her eyes flew to the prisoners’ dock; in this case, a sizable enclosure, encircled with armed guards, and equipped with three long benches of rough planking. The planks were already occupied by—she counted swiftly—sixteen male prisoners. Sixteen filthy, unshaven, ragged, bruised, and wretched fellow defendants. A guard gestured imperatively. The women entered the enclosure and seated themselves. A total of twenty-one prisoners now sat in the dock.
A bailiff called the court to order, and the proceedings commenced. It was not, s
trictly speaking, a trial at all, nor was it referred to as such. The process taking place was simply the official confirmation of confession. Under Taerleezi law, verification of voluntary confession eliminated the necessity of a formal trial—a desirably efficient and economical measure.
A list was produced, and a name was read out.
“Jeef Eneeldi. Come forward.”
One of the men in the dock stood up. He was young, perhaps twenty or so, and extremely handsome, tall and fit, with black hair, and an olive complexion that glowed with health. Edging past his companions, he made his way to the empty chair before the dais and seated himself.
“Jeef Eneeldi, student, you stand charged with the crimes of sedition, subversion, incitement to riot, violation of censorship, illegal distribution of banned printed matter, and divers grave offenses against the sovereign state of Taerleez,”
declared the judge, in practiced tones devoid of indignation or disgust, devoid even of interest. “You have signed a confession acknowledging your guilt in these matters. This confession is now placed before you.”
One of the men at the table presented a document, positioning it within the prisoner’s line of sight, but not within easy reach of his manacled hands.
“Do you acknowledge this signature as your own?” the judge demanded.
“I do acknowledge it,” Eneeldi returned, head high.
“Your guilt has been established. Your life is forfeit to the wronged state of Taerleez,” declared the judge, in tones that barely contained a yawn. “You are condemned to death by hanging or exsanguination, and dismissed.”
“I would do it all again, with pleasure,” the prisoner proclaimed.
The judge did not trouble to reply.
One of the guards escorted Eneeldi to the back of the courtroom, opened the door, and passed him through into the hands of another guard or turnkey waiting in the corridor to remove the condemned. The door closed again.
So much for Jeef Eneeldi.
Hopeless and almost dazed though she was, dismay smote Jianna. It had been so quick, so perfunctory. Had the judge or some prosecutor denounced the student’s crimes, spewing anger, disgust, and indignation, then perhaps his condemnation would have seemed significant. As it was, indifference ruled the courtroom.
But there was no leisure to ponder these matters, for another prisoner was already being called forward. This time, one Gruchi Bobeena, a laborer by the look of him, charged with urinating on the boots and trousers of a Taerleezi officer, while loudly calling for the overthrow of the Taerleezi governing authority in Vitrisi.
His confession was produced and acknowledged.
“I was drunk,” remarked Bobeena, by way of explanation.
The judge promptly sentenced him to death by hanging or exsanguination, and the prisoner was removed.
The next prisoner, Zaranno Novi, a heavyset individual of truculent aspect, denied his confession.
“Never saw it, never touched it. Not my writing,” Novi informed the court.
At this time, the public prosecutor rose briefly from his seat at the table to observe that the confession in question had been witnessed both by the first inquirer Lorcchi, and by the first inquirer’s assistant.
Zaranno Novi was condemned, and led away.
And so it continued, each confession confirmed in turn, each prisoner sentenced to death and removed, with terrible rapidity. There was no confession that failed the test, and no prisoner that escaped condemnation. When all the men were gone, and only the five women remained, the process continued without pause.
Jianna was the second woman to be called forward. Rising from the bench, she advanced with a firm step and seated herself before the judge. Her posture was upright, her face calm and still. She realized, almost with surprise, that she was genuinely unafraid. In fact, she felt very little at all.
“Noro Penzia, female, you stand charged with the attempted liberation of a condemned member of the Faerlonnish conspiracy against the life of the late Governor Anzi Uffrigo; which attempt constitutes a high crime against the sovereign state of Taerleez. You have signed a confession acknowledging your guilt in this matter. The confession is now placed before you.”
Somebody held the paper up. She could see it and read it clearly enough, but the words made no sense to her.
“Do you acknowledge this signature as your own?” the judge inquired without visible interest.
She had signed the confession “Noro Penzia,” and briefly she wondered whether the falsification of her name carried any legal significance. But surely not. She had affirmed the truth of the contents, which was all that mattered.
“I acknowledge it,” she said. Her voice was clear and steady, but seemed to come from far away.
“Your guilt has been established. Your life is forfeit to the wronged state of Taerleez. You are condemned to death by hanging or exsanguination, and dismissed.”
And that was all. It was over with, her death ordained as a matter of little consequence within the space of seconds. It flashed across her mind that she might shake the judge from his bored indifference by shouting out her real name. But the revelation, far from helping her, would only smirch House Belandor. She said nothing.
The guard’s hand was on her arm. She stood up, and he steered her to the rear of the courtroom, then passed her through the door into the custody of another guard waiting in the corridor.
Another stranger’s hand on her arm, a force moving her along. She hardly noted her surroundings, but walked as if already separated from the world of the living by an invisible wall. Presently they passed a guard hurrying back toward the courtroom, presumably to receive the next prisoner issuing thence, and it came to her that these people had, through much practice, achieved a terrible efficiency in their manipulation of the condemned.
Her eyes wandered vaguely. She saw nothing but stone walls and locked doors.
“Are you taking me back to the women’s dormitory?” she asked.
“No, you won’t be going there again.”
She did not request elaboration, and he offered none. At length he halted before a heavy door. Without releasing his one-handed hold on her, he opened it.
“In,” he commanded. Loosing her arm at last, he gave her a moderate push.
She stepped through the door, turned to face him, and asked, “How much time do I have?”
“Hard to say.”
“There are twenty-one of us. Will we all go together?”
“No, ’twouldn’t be civilized, especially with the women. Two or three a day, most like, for the next week or more.”
“And I won’t know until—”
“All to the good. You’re for hanging or draining, aren’t you? They’re both easy, so nothing to worry about.” He shut the door and locked it.
Jianna surveyed her new lodgings. This compartment accorded with her mental image of a traditional prison cell. It was very small, and so narrow that her outstretched hands could touch the two opposing walls. There was no window. The sole illumination made its way through the iron grate in the door. The stone walls and floor appeared tolerably dry. There was no furniture. She had a pile of straw, a bucket, and nothing more.
Seating herself upon the straw, with hands clasped around her bent knees, Jianna strove to empty her mind.
In the quiet depths of the predawn hours, the Cityheart appeared to sleep. The great old structure stood silent, most of its countless windows dark. Only here and there, a subdued glow struggling through gaps in the closed shutters marked the location of a wakeful resident, an ever-burning nightlight, or a guard’s post within. Large lanterns brightly flanked the great front entrance, the main rear entry, and a few lesser side portals. Before these doorways stood sentries, armed and steadfastly alert.
About the building spread the still-pristine, manicured grounds, as far as the tall palisade of iron bars surrounding the entire enclosure. At the end of the drive, the great gate stood closed for the night. Big lanterns burned the
re as well, together with a couple of little charcoal braziers, at which the guards on duty often warmed their hands. Springtime had come to the Veiled Isles, but the nights remained chilly.
On the other side of the bars, the balanced and elegant symmetry of the Plaza of Proclamation had disappeared into the sprawling desolation perhaps ironically known as the Clean Zone. The broad belt of destruction surrounded the Cityheart complex, theoretically preventing a surreptitious approach or attack upon the seat of Taerleezi government in Vitrisi, which was also the deputy governor’s own residence. During the course of preceding weeks, much had been accomplished in the clearing and removal of debris from the Clean Zone. The towering heaps of cracked and broken stone had lost height; the great piles of blackened timber and shattered glass had shrunk. But the job was far from finished, and the smoky night mists still shrouded charred piles housing vibrant colonies of rats, mice, insects, and other, less comfortably recognizable forms of life.
Along one section of the Clean Zone’s curve bulked a grimy row of canvas tents, home to the destitute Faerlonnish whose labors cleared the area. The canvas flaps were lowered and tightly secured, the tents dark and silent. The occupants were asleep, or wished to appear so. Among the lightless tents, the dark piles and heaps, roamed the occasional quiet figure—its nature as human, or other, unclear; its status as living or undead never to be known.
All seemed peacefully somnolent, but this appearance was misleading. In fact, the Cityheart throbbed with clandestine activity.
Along the narrow servants’ passageways, up and down the inconspicuous servants’ stairways, stole many a hairless, greenish figure garbed in livery of purple and gold. The revolt of the Roohaathk Sishmindris had resulted in the flight, murder, or ejection of amphibians all over Vitrisi. Many owners put their potentially dangerous servitors to death, else put them out of doors to starve or prosper, as the case might be. Other owners, unwilling to sacrifice property of such obvious value, had elected to drape their Sishmindris in elegant jeweled fetters during the day, and to confine them to cages at night. But some of the greatest households—including that of the Taerleezi governor—had demonstrated an almost ostentatious confidence in the absolute loyalty of their own amphibians. The firm faith of the very wealthy was perhaps bolstered by the reassuring presence of armed human guards within their homes. Thus, within the Cityheart, as well as a handful of Taerleezi-occupied mansions, Sishmindris served yet in the traditional manner.
The Wanderers Page 28