The Ships of Merior. Janny Wurts
billowed off his padded shoulders like sails let free of their sheetlines.
Forced to duck as a rose struck his face, Dakar stared in amazement as the processional ended. Like trained bears, the players arrayed themselves on the dais. There should have been music, he thought, as the flower maid emptied her basket in the precinct of the mayor’s chair, and the boys unpacked the scribes’ satchels as if laying a cloth for a picnic. The halberdiers dressed weapons with a clang of gold gauntlets, and the tubby mayor berthed himself in his overstuffed throne of state.
Beaked as a vulture beneath his tatty hat, the judiciary rattled a triangle and pronounced, ‘The Jaelot City Court is in session.’
The alderman unrolled a list on parchment and called out Dakar’s name.
‘Well, thank Ath, we’re first,’ the Mad Prophet cracked in dry relief.
Two unamused men at arms who did not wear costly gauntlets caught him under the armpits, hauled him forward and threw him face-down before the dais.
There he was held by two booted feet pressed solidly into his shoulderblades. The alderman cleared his throat, pushed a spidery set of spectacles up his nose, and recited the list of offences: disruption of the city peace; obstruction of the public thoroughfare; wilful damage to the mayor’s property; interference with commerce; negligent handling of horseflesh; and lastly, insolence to officers while in custody.
‘What do you plead?’ The judiciary peered over his spiked and scented beard at the accused crushed prone on the floor.
His jaw jammed against cold granite, Dakar tugged a breath into compressed lungs and swore.
‘Impertinence while in court,’ the alderman droned. Like synchronized vultures, four near-sighted secretaries dipped quills and scribbled the addition to their documents.
‘Fiends and Dharkaron’s vengeance!’ Dakar pealed. ‘What wilful damage? You saw my horse. Did Faery-toes look at all like the sort to attack passing drays out of hand? Ath’s own patience, you’d kick something yourself, if some lout hauled off and rammed his fist in your ribs!’
On the benches, the carter gritted sturdy teeth and restrained himself from springing to his feet to cry protest. Caught up in its rut of due process, the court continued with the prisoner.
Insolence to superiors,’ said the alderman, displaying an unfortunate lisp, while the pens of the secretaries twitched and scratched.
The mayor stifled a yawn and eased the silver-tipped laces on his waistcoat. ‘I never saw your beast.’ In tones of boredom marred by faint shortness of breath, he admitted, ‘My wife was the one out in the carriage. The moulding was cut to satisfy her whim. Its destruction has left her indisposed. As the horse’s owner, you are responsible for its unprovoked fit. Since the question of innocence does not arise on that charge, your punishment must recompense the lady’s losses.’
The carter could no longer contain himself. ‘Does my team and dray count for nothing? Two of my horses are lame, and wheelwright’s services are dear!’
‘Be still.’ The judiciary looked up from adjusting his rings. ‘City justice must be satisfied before any appeal for compensation can be opened.’
Hot and fuming in his town clothes, the carter sat down. Halliron looked deadpan, a sign of irritation; Medlir’s bemusement masked disgust.
Pressed still to the floor, his face twisted sideways and his hair rucked up like a snarl of wind-twisted bracken, Dakar rolled his eyes at the crick that plagued his neck. Heartily tired of embracing clammy stone, he followed the proceedings with difficulty.
An exchange between the city alderman and the prim-faced judiciary again roused the pens of the secretaries. Nibs scritched across parchment like the scurry of roaches, and a pageboy jangled the triangle to some unseen administrative cue.
‘Guilty on all counts.’ The judiciary produced a flannel handkerchief and honked to clear his nose. Then he adjusted his hat and tipped his undershot chin toward the alderman.
‘A fine and six months on the labour gang,’ that official pronounced, then followed with a sum a prince would be beggared to pay.
‘You already confiscated my saddle bags!’ Dakar yelped in outrage. ‘You’ll know I don’t carry any coin.’
‘You’re not lacking friends.’ The mayor swivelled porcine eyes toward the elegant figure of the Master-bard. ‘They may balance the debt for you, should they be so inclined. It is to them you must now beg for clemency.’
They have nothing to do with me,’ Dakar insisted between frog-flop attempts to wiggle free.
The Lord Mayor raised his eyebrows. ‘Then what brings them to Jaelot?’
‘You speak of Halliron Masterbard and his apprentice.’ Dakar stopped struggling, appalled to unwonted seriousness. ‘They ask nothing more than license to practise their art. There’s not a town anywhere that wouldn’t welcome their presence.’
The alderman’s fishy eyes completed their inventory of glittering silk and cut topaz. ‘Is this true?’
Halliron swept to his feet. In a voice burred rough by his cough, but modulated to lyrical acidity, he said, ‘What’s true is that no man alive owns the sum Jaelot’s court of justice sees fit to demand.’ The barbed threat of satire behind his inflection rang without echo into silence.
The Lord Mayor fluttered a hand in capitulation. ‘Well then. We’ll mediate the sentence, naturally. Since my lady was the party offended, it’s fitting that she gain compensation. The spoiled moulding cost four hundred royals, true-silver. The carter’s list of damages will be compiled and paid off to the penny. The city’s fine I will waive on this condition: that Halliron Masterbard entertain my lady’s guests at the feast upon mid-summer solstice.’ A glistening, toothy smile parted the mayor’s lips. ‘License to practise your art, if you will, before this city’s finest. If your playing matches your reputation, no doubt, folk of pedigree will shower their gold at your feet. You might even earn a tidy profit.’
Medlir’s lightning surge to arise was stopped by a feather touch from the bard.
From the floor, Dakar gagged in strangled outrage. ‘That’s rank insult.’
The secretaries’ nibs scraped through a poisonous silence. Halliron, white hair thrown back, light eyes fixed on a point midway between ceiling groins and dais, said nothing. Medlir’s poised stillness showed tension more appropriate to a swordsman than a singer, while the halberdiers who were not one whit ceremonial shifted their balance to readiness.
Strangely desperate, Dakar said, Don’t answer. I don’t require it.’
What bargains you strike between yourselves are entirely your personal affair.’ The mayor parked his hands amid the foamy lace of his waistcoat. ‘The city’s terms will stand: either pay the fine or render performance, with enforced restriction to remain inside city walls until the terms of the sentence are met. You have seven days in which to give your decision.’
At the edge of the candle’s pooled light, the judiciary’s smirk flashed like the teeth of a feeding shark. ‘Set the record.’ His attention brushed Halliron, then bent dismissively to share his amusement with the alderman. ‘It’s a convenient arrangement, since the offender’s stint at forced labour will expire near the same date.’ To the bard, he added gently, ‘Of course you could decline the option. Your companion would then languish in prison till he dies, or his debt to Jaelot is paid.’
On the dais, a striker flared in a scribe’s veined hand. The scent of heated wax curled through the smell of roses, the tang of stale citrus and the unwashed heat of despair that clung to the prisoners uneasily awaiting their turn at trial. The secretaries raised sharp knives and busily resharpened their pens, while the alderman brandished the city seal and impressed Jaelot’s lions on four documents.
‘Case dismissed,’ intoned the