by Andy Boot
The only thing that stood between Simeon 7 and death was not justice; it was his ability to master one small piece of magic. It wasn't very much at all, yet the thought made him feel better. It was, he thought as he practiced the passes, fitting that his fate was now, quite literally, in his hands.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Year Zero - Period Three
When his trial came it was much as he had expected. Those who watched it on the Inan-wide broadcasts were surprised at how detached the accused seemed from the proceedings. The newsvids and newsheets speculated at some length on his mental state. Was he psychotic, catatonic, or simply pumped full of suppressants to ensure that he was of no danger during his trial? A few renegade theorists speculated that he was sedated so that he would not give away any details about the nation state conspiracy that had set him up as a figurehead to appease pubic anger. If he had not been deprived of any access to the media during his time of internment, Simeon would have found this last idea of some bitter irony. The conspiracists, who were the cretin fringe of any society, were closer to the truth than they knew.
The truth was a little more prosaic than anything that the endless speculating could imagine. Simeon knew that he would be painted blacker than the uniform he was alleged to have disgraced. He knew that the trial was nothing more than a show, and he knew that he would be found guilty and sentenced to death. On the most basic of levels, he had been denied access to his defence counsel and had no knowledge of the man who stood up in the trial room to present his defence. A defence that seemed to consist, in essence, of little more than a simple 'he did it, he was wrong, he throws himself on the clemency of the court'. Whether his counsel was in league with Daliel and whoever he served, or whether the man felt that Simeon truly was guilty and had been told he was too mad to consort with, the defendant neither knew nor cared.
Bizarrely, there was another reason for his silence and seeming catatonic state. As inappropriate as it may have seemed in the circumstances, Simeon was actually terrified of the cameras as he sat in the trial room, under armed guard. The thought that he was being watched by millions across the planet made him acutely aware of every move, every breath. He was not a man who had ever pushed himself forward in a crowd and now, faced with the knowledge that he was under intense scrutiny, he felt appallingly self-conscious. Which, he considered at night as he was led back to the comforting obscurity of a cell where only a guard watching a surveillance imager could see him, was an odd priority of concern for someone staring his own demise in the face.
Except that he was not. He knew he would be found guilty and sentenced to death. He knew, too, that he could use the charm he had been perfecting to walk out of the building when the time came. He was formulating a plan for the aftermath of such an eventuality. He just had to wait for the right moment.
So he bided his time. The trial would be over soon enough.
In the event, it took four days to confirm what he had known from the beginning. The court put on a good show for the waiting world. The decoration in the trial room was sparse, with just a pair of ceremonial hangings depicting the Bethelian figures of justice and parity to cover the cold stone walls. Dark wood benches housed the jury, soberly dressed in robes of black and slate grey.
The counsel for the prosecution and the defence reported their evidence to a judge, who directed the jurors where necessary on obscure points of law. Not that there was much to obscure in this case. The sombre black and purple plush of the robes worn by counsel and judge contrasted with the dynamic holovid images used to demonstrate the case against the defendant. Grainy, pictures of the night in question were presented to show the attack, and to highlight the way in which - after some deft manipulation - Simeon appeared to lead the Mage to a point where he was meekly handed over to the enemy. There were allusions to the fact that the strike force had appeared to originate from Varn, but given that there had been no response from that nation state as to culpability at this point, the emphasis was rather on the treachery of the defendant.
Were these manipulated images down to Daliel and just a few co-conspirators, or was the whole of the Bethel Ministry involved? Simeon spent most of his time in the trial room wondering about this as his name was blackened beyond the darkest judicial hue.
He had a simple aim: get out, get the Mage, and see what crawled from the woodwork. He had no time for intrigues, even though he had been entrapped in one. He would only be able to work out what had been going on, to deal with it in some way, once he had flushed everyone out into the open.
And so he sat through the farce that was his trial, feeling the eyes of the planet upon him, and withdrawing into himself until he could effect an escape. He did not know what the outside world would make of him, and could only surmise that they would loathe him as the lowest form of life. He couldn't feel aggrieved. If he had been sitting at home, watching the teli-mage broadcasts, he may have felt the same way. The truth would emerge eventually, or he would be terminated in the attempt.
At the end, he sat impassive as ever while the jury proclaimed him guilty, after a deliberation that was so short that they did not even leave the trial room. He was made to stand while ignominy was heaped upon him, and he was described as the vilest and lowest creature in the history of his land. It was an invective that would have withered the hardiest of warriors, hitting at the heart of what they had been trained in, and believed in... and yet it washed over him. Commentators around the globe believed him either arrogant beyond imagining, or a man with a broken mind.
Neither was true. Simeon hardly heard the scathing indictment, having closed his mind to the judge's words. Despite knowing his own innocence, despite his plans to clear his name and regain the day, he also knew that to listen and absorb these words would anger him, and cause him deep sorrow and depression. The only way to cope was to shut them from his mind.
So Simeon never registered the sentence bestowed upon him, and it was only afterwards, when he was returned to his cell, that he discovered how long he had been granted before termination. A guard repeated the sentence to him upon request.
There would be three days, during which time a public platform would be made, and broadcast space across the globe cleared. On this third day, he would be executed in the centre of Bethel at the peak of the day. His execution was to be transmitted live to every nation state on the planet.
It would also signal the last moment of the ultimatum delivered to Varn: show your hand, and declare innocence or guilt. If not, then face the wrath of the rest of Inan, as the so-called alliance formed post-treaty would act as one and take retaliation.
When Simeon was alone in his cell, he pondered on this new turn of events.
Now, it would seem, there was more onus on him than ever to put things right. Not only must he clear his name and rescue Ramus-Bey, he must act to prevent another war. Varn may be guilty, but the beginning of another conflict would signal an internal revolution in the Bethel Ministry from the faction that included Daliel. These two actions combined could prove to be more incendiary than any other nation state would realise.
Yet, he realised that the thing foremost in his mind was the old man. He had let down Ramus-Bey, and he wanted to atone for that.
But could one man alone do this?
A smile crossed his face. It would have confused the guard watching the surveillance imager, but it made perfect sense to Simeon.
For he was not alone.
He wanted it to be like this.
The market square in the centre of the city of Belthan would be cleared for the event. The stalls and units where traders plied their wares - from the most basic and unrefined grains to the smallest of holovid receivers and communicators - would have been swept from the old flagstones, which were covered with the hieroglyphs of age. The buildings surrounding the square - both those of ancient stone and those of steel and glass - would have been cleared for the day, and warrior security installed to keep order within the crowds below and to ensure
that nothing would go wrong with the termination.
Crowds would have been gathering from early - perhaps even from the night before - and the square would be packed solid. A mass of sweating, excited people, seeking revenge and the satiation of their bloodlust. Amongst those who lived in the capital, or had travelled from outlying towns and other parts of the continent - perhaps even from other nation states - in order to witness this historic and vengeful event, there would be holovid crews from around the planet, with newscasters of differing styles, all presenting their take on events.
Simeon, taken from his cell, comes into the scene almost at the last. Hysteria has been mounting, and now the crowds must have their sacrifice. He is to be taken to a platform, led like an animal through the hissing, spitting masses, to be raised above them and ceremonially terminated by a blade of tempered steel with a burnished golden hilt, kept for such a purpose since the day of the seventeenth Chief Minister, over three hundred anums previous.
He is laid on the slab, stretched out, with a guard standing by to ensure that he does not move at the last. The executioner, selected from the warrior security by a random registration generator to ensure no stigma attaches to the post, raises the blade. As he waits for the signal to bring it down, Simeon makes a few simple passes, and is rendered invisible.
From his record, and from his ranking, there is no way he should know even such a simple piece of magic. Confusion reigns, and in the chaos he is able to make his way through the crowd unseen.
He would have liked it to be that way. It would have appealed to his sense of drama, his sense of righteous indignation, which had grown as he waited for the day of termination. It would have seemed fitting.
It was also completely idiotic, and if he was going to make this work he had to cover as many angles as possible.
Much as it would be pleasing to walk away from the scene of intended termination, there were too many factors dictating against it. Firstly, he would have to get through the crowd without being jostled or hit by anything that may be thrown. One well-aimed missile could ruin his plans before they began.
He could be secured to the slab, or his hands bound as he was led to his execution. That would really ruin his chances.
Even if he did manage to render himself invisible before the sword fell, the confused crowd could be as much of a hindrance as an aid, rather than allow him to lose himself, they could impede his progress. Furthermore, he knew that although he would be invisible to the people in the square, he would still register on any security imagers as a disruption of space. He could still be traced, albeit with great difficulty. If he were to be delayed, then this would give his enemies time.
No - no matter how much it appealed to his sense of drama he must make his break before they came to lead him out to his demise. But he must time it well, too early and they would have the manpower to track him. The optimum time would be when the crowds were assembled, and the last preparations were being made.
It seems to be a ritual of every society throughout time that the condemned man has a last meal. A chance, perhaps, for the doomed to sample the delights of the material world in its most primal form - the need to feed - and so gain a greater insight into what they are about to lose. Or maybe it was a chance for those about to perform the execution to show some mercy to those about to leave this mortal veil. A remnant from the days of sacrifice to the Gods.
Simeon pondered on this, and concluded that - fascinating though it may be at any other time - it was of no importance whatsoever to him right now. All that mattered was that he was to be given a last meal of his choosing. To be delivered on the morning of his termination. By one guard.
There would never be a better time.
As he waited for the guard to arrive with his meal, he dressed in the drab black uniform he had been given. It was a battlesuit, stripped of all insignia as a sign of his complete degradation. He didn't care. It was a damn sight more practical than the shirt he had been forced to wear up to this point, and would serve him well for his escape. Once dressed, he sat on his bunk going over the passes in his mind. He would have only one chance to get this right. How he wished that he had also been shown the charm with which Najwin had looped the surveillance imagers. It would have bought him some more time.
He heard the guard approach and flexed his wrists, hoping that it would look to the imagers as though he were nothing more than a little stiff, a little anxious on his final day.
The guard unlocked and entered the cell. He carried a tray on which there was a wine glass with a yellow and magenta liquid. Beside it lay a plate with delicately seasoned roots and vegetables in a wine sauce, artfully arranged around a steak of rare Tallus.
Simeon, who had been on a diet of slops during his time in the cell, felt his stomach rumble. He was so hungry that for a fraction of a moment he almost considered forgoing his plan in order to eat first.
It would have been an incredibly stupid idea, but at least the thought served a purpose. The expression on his face as the tray was wafted before him completely fooled the guard, and deceived those who watched the surveillance imager.
As the guard placed the tray on the floor, and made ready to pass another in a long succession of sarcastic comments, Simeon made a few simple passes. They were small movements of the hands, which he attempted to mask from the imager by hunching over as he sat on his bunk. He could not totally hide it, but could make it so that it would take several viewings of the security disks to work out what had happened.
As he made the passes, he focused on them, and what they would mean. They were a ritualisation of his own desire to bring about the change. The combination honed a part of his mind that was now unlocked. The power to change a small part of the world was now his. "What the..." the guard exclaimed, steeping back and into the tray of food as he turned, only to find that the subject of his latest, wittily sculpted insult had seemingly disappeared from the room.
For a moment the guard stood, dumbfounded, eyes searching. There was nowhere that the prisoner could be hiding and yet... the guard tried the door to the cell. It was locked, just as he knew it was.
Bewildered, he opened the door and rushed out, determined to raise the alarm. He tugged the emergency cord that ran the length of this level. Simeon slipped out, and made his way swiftly away from the panicking guard. He knew that he would show on imagers as a disruption of the air when the images were viewed closely. But if he moved quickly, to a casual viewer the disruption would barely register.
He had noted where he was in the building when he had been taken to interrogation, and then again to his trial each day. It was easy to negotiate the corridors in the middle of such an alarm. Guards were rushing from one point to another, following procedures that probably had no bearing on a situation like this - he knew what warrior security could be like for trained procedure as much as anyone - and all he had to do was to literally avoid bumping into any of them.
Simeon made his way up to ground level, and through to the reception of the building, tracing in reverse Najwin's route a short while before. It was made simple by the confusion. Attention was focused on the lower levels, and the higher he went, the easier progress became.
He took several deep breaths as he left the building, savouring the cold autumn air after being in an air-conditioned cellar for so long. Briskly he began to move away from the building, avoiding the square to which it was adjacent. To cut across on any other day would have taken him a quick route to his destination. But today, filled as it was with people awaiting his termination, and warrior security who were probably hearing about his apparent escape at this very moment, it seemed like a bad idea.
Besides which, with only a few hours to go until the scheduled time of termination, the streets around the square were deserted, and it was simple for him to move quickly through them, snaking down alleyways and side streets until he had completed a semi-circle, and had come up at the rear wall of a castle he knew only too well.
The
gaping hole blasted by the strike force was still there. Through the gap Simeon could see that the lawns and pockets of foliage had been cut back and some adepts were in the process of replanting. There was little sign of the wildlife that had once roamed free, and the place seemed strangely lonely without it.
Simeon stepped through the gap and into the grounds, still keeping the charm in operation. Near to him, the adepts looked up, sensing a magical intrusion.
It was the moment of truth. Simeon needed help and he believed he would get it from the academy. Not a single wizard or adept had been called at his trial, and he believed this was because their evidence would not uphold the view of him presented to the world.
He stood within the bounds of the academy, looking around. He could see that some reconstruction was taking place, the wizards using their magic to remake and remodel the debris into its original form. Like the adepts, they could sense a magical intrusion. Walking towards the group of adepts, he let the charm drop and waited for their reaction.
"Simeon!" Almost as one, the adepts exclaimed their surprise, then rushed towards him. He was embraced, clapped on the shoulder, and subjected to a barrage of joyful celebration.
The wizards joined the adepts. Despite their own apparent joy, they were more circumspect. Before he had a chance to answer any of the questions flung at him - or, indeed, to pose any of his own - he was whisked into the Institute. Once there, the wizards established magical defences around the grounds.
"A precaution," muttered Avathon, who had been considered the natural successor to Ramus-Bey, but seemed less than pleased with his status as head-by-default of the Institute. He seemed ill at ease with having to lead. "These have been testing times. We have been given no help in repairing damage. We have viewed your so-called trial, but had been denied the chance to speak in your favour. Ramus is... I don't know. I can feel he still lives. Now you, who knew no magic before, rejoin us with a charm surrounding you."