Mulaghesh is sensitive to the fact that, in the full scope of history, Saypur’s global hegemony is minutes old. For many hundreds of years before the Great War, Saypur was the Continent’s colony—established and enforced, naturally, by the Continent’s Divinities—and few have forgotten this in Bulikov: why else would the City Fathers call the current arrangement “the masters serving the servants”? In private only, of course.
So it was a show of enormous negligence and stupidity on the part of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to ignore these tensions and allow the esteemed Dr. Pangyui to travel here, to Bulikov, to study all the history of the Continent: history that the Continentals are legally prevented from studying themselves. Mulaghesh warned the Ministry it’d wreak havoc in Bulikov, and as she predicted, Dr. Pangyui’s time in Bulikov has not exemplified the mission of peace and understanding he supposedly arrived under: she has had to deal with protests, threats, and once, assault, when someone threw a stone at Dr. Pangyui but accidentally struck a police officer on the chin.
“That man,” says Yaroslav, still pointing at the empty chair, “is an insult to Bulikov and the entire Continent! That man is … is the manifestation of the utter contempt Saypur holds for the Continent!”
“Oh, now,” says Troonyi, “that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
“He gets to read the things no one else can read!” says Yaroslav. “He gets to read things written by our fathers, our grandfathers!”
“He is allowed to do so,” says Jindash, “by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His mission here is of an ambassadorial nature. And this is not part of your tria—”
“Just because you won the War doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like!” says Yaroslav. “And just because we lost it doesn’t mean you can strip us of everything we value!”
“You tell them, Vasily!” shouts someone at the back of the room.
Mulaghesh taps her gavel against her desk; immediately, the room falls silent.
“Would I be correct in thinking, Mr. Yaroslav,” she says wearily, “that your rebuttal is finished?”
“I … I reject the legitimacy of this court!” he says hoarsely.
“Duly noted. Chief Diplomat Troonyi—your verdict?”
“Oh, guilty,” says Troonyi. “Very much guilty. Incredibly guilty.”
Eyes in the room shift to Mulaghesh. Yaroslav is shaking his head, mouthing no at her.
I need a smoke, thinks Mulaghesh.
“Mr. Yaroslav,” she says. “If you had pleaded no contest when initially charged with the infraction, your fine would have been more lenient. However, against the recommendation of this court—and against my personal advice—you chose instead to bring it to trial. I believe you can understand that the evidence Prosecutor Jindash has brought against you is highly incriminating. As Prosecutor Jindash said, we do not debate history here: we merely deal with its effects. As such, it is with regret that I am forced to—”
The courtroom door bangs open. Seventy-two heads turn at once.
A small Saypuri official stands in the doorway, looking nervous and alarmed. Mulaghesh recognizes him: Pitry something or other, from the embassy, one of Troonyi’s lackeys.
Pitry swallows and totters down the aisle toward the bench.
“Yes?” says Mulaghesh. “Is there a reason for this intrusion?”
Pitry extends a hand, holding a paper message. Mulaghesh takes it, unfolds it, and reads:
the body of efrem pangyui has been discovered in his office at bulikov university. murder is suspected.
Mulaghesh looks up and realizes everyone in the room is watching her.
This damned trial, she thinks, is now even less important than it was before.
She clears her throat. “Mr. Yaroslav … In light of recent events, I am forced to reconsider the priority of your case.”
Jindash and Troonyi both say, “What?”
Yaroslav frowns. “What?”
“Would you say, Mr. Yaroslav, that you have learned your lesson?” asks Mulaghesh.
Two Continentals creep in through the courtroom doors. They find friends in the crowd, and whisper in their ears. Soon word is spreading throughout the courtroom audience. “… murdered?” someone says loudly.
“My … lesson?” says Yaroslav.
“To put it bluntly, Mr. Yaroslav,” says Mulaghesh, “will you be stupid enough in the future to publicly display what is obviously a Divinity’s sigil in hopes of drumming up more business?”
“What are you doing?” says Jindash. Mulaghesh hands him the message; he scans it and goes white. “Oh, no … Oh, by the seas …”
“… beaten to death!” someone says out in the audience.
The whole of Bulikov must know by now, thinks Mulaghesh.
“I … No,” says Yaroslav. “No, I would … I would not?”
Troonyi has now read the message. He gasps and stares at Dr. Pangyui’s empty chair as if expecting to find it occupied by his dead body.
“Good answer,” says Mulaghesh. She taps her gavel. “Then, as the authority in this courtroom, I will set aside CD Troonyi’s estimable opinions, and dismiss your case. You are free to leave.”
“I am? Really?” says Yaroslav.
“Yes,” says Mulaghesh. “And I would advise you exercise your freedom to leave with all due haste.”