Her calm determination and the way the other women were looking to her for leadership despite the senselessness of what was going on here was maddening – although not half so maddening as the damned music. ‘Would someone please shut that minstrel up?’
The guitar stopped and a figure rose up from behind one of the gibbets. ‘No one may tell a Bardatti to stop playing, Falcio val Mond. Be thankful I don’t play a snake melody to slither its way into your dreams and drive you insane.’ No sooner had I registered the deep, feminine voice than Nehra stepped into view, guitar still in hand. ‘On reflection, a snake melody probably wouldn’t have any effect on you, given how insane you already appear to be.’
‘What in the name of—?’ Once again I struggled for a Saint’s name. Since the Saints I’d grown up with had all been killed and I didn’t know any of the new ones, cursing had become a real trial.
‘Go with “Saint Drusian-who-falls-amongst-the-dead”,’ Kest suggested. ‘Apparently he’s the new Saint of Sorrow.’
Unlike Rhyleis, who looked exactly like the seductive portrayals of Bardatti troubadours immortalised in the tapestries of wealthy nobles and the imaginations of young men and women everywhere, Nehra could easily have been mistaken for a farm labourer: she was stocky, with plain features and short hair kept tidy without any attempt at style. She neither dressed nor acted the part of a Bardatti – but when she played, the beauty and power of her music was almost frightening. If there was anyone more highly respected amongst the Bardatti, I had yet to encounter them.
‘What are you doing here, Nehra?’ I asked.
She raised an arm and motioned at the scene before us. ‘Witnessing the end of a people,’ she said. ‘Writing their last song.’
‘If I want poetry I’ll ask a—’ I stopped. ‘Actually, I almost never want poetry. Just tell me what’s happening here.’
Nehra turned to Olise. ‘Tell your folk to stand down. These three truly are Trattari, not pirates or brigands. They aren’t trying to take anything of yours.’
The other women looked at her, then at their magistrate, but only on Olise’s signal did they set down their weapons. The strain on their faces gave way to sorrow as they walked back to the magistrate’s throne.
‘Just watch, and listen,’ said Nehra. ‘There is no battle to be fought here, no victory to be won.’
I stared at the scene playing out before me, at the grey wood of the gallows and the grey faces of the dead hanging from them. The magistrate’s throne was little more than a few rough planks hammered together; it would give no comfort to whoever sat there. The air felt heavy, like a fog weighted down by the numbness and desolation all around us.
‘Come with me,’ the Bardatti said, pulling at my arm. ‘Keep silent, and bear witness to what justice is left to those without hope.’
*
Kest, Brasti and I stood at the back and watched as the self-proclaimed magistrate of Vois Calan took her seat and read aloud the charges. The dead man’s body lay on the ground by her feet, a broken doll being summoned to justice.
‘That you did, with full will, understanding and intent, flee from your debts, from your oaths and from your duties,’ Olise proclaimed. ‘That you did, without just cause, abandon your wife and child to starve, leaving them without even the meagre solace your small labours could provide.’
‘What is she on about?’ Brasti asked, his voice low.
‘The man committed suicide,’ Kest whispered back.
Olise looked down at the dead man. ‘Hearing no plea, I deem the defendant’s response to the charges to be a claim of innocence.’
‘That’s generous of her,’ Brasti whispered. ‘But since when is suicide illegal in Luth?’
‘It’s not—’
Nehra gave us an angry look and mouthed, Shut up.
The magistrate leaned back in her throne. ‘Who will prosecute these charges, and bring forth what evidence can lend them weight?’
The crowd shuffled about a bit as a young woman emerged from their midst, holding one of the little girls by the hand. ‘I will prosecute, and I will give evidence.’
Olise said, ‘And would any come forward in defence, to plead this man’s innocence?’
No one spoke, nor made any move to stand opposite the young woman.
‘Falcio,’ Kest whispered, ‘we could still—’
‘I know,’ I said.
As Greatcoats, representatives of the Crown in matters of law, we had the right to serve as advocates in any trial in Tristia. This wasn’t simply privilege; one of the most pernicious judicial problems in the Duchies was that no one would dare serve as a prosecutor or advocate if it would set them against the wishes of the local nobility. So if we wanted to, Kest, Brasti or I could act as the advocate here, and it was highly unlikely the young woman standing as prosecutor could win.
It was likely Olise knew this – after all, she’d made a sufficiently convincing show of being a magistrate thus far – and the question was answered when she caught my gaze. ‘Well, Trattari, will you invoke your right to advocate for the defendant?’
The women in the crowd turned, their faces full of confusion and no small amount of trepidation.
‘Don’t,’ Nehra said quietly. ‘Please, just trust me and for once don’t try to fix the world all by yourself.’
I’d managed to get through most of my life without being caught up in the tangled ways of the Bardatti. Apparently that time was at an end. ‘We defer to your wisdom, Magistrate of Vois Calan,’ I said after a tense moment.
The old woman gave no acknowledgment, but said to the younger one before her, ‘Let us hear the evidence.’
‘I am Janelle Turisse. This man was my husband. He swore before the Gods and Saints alike his faithfulness and devotion. He gave his life to me, as I gave mine to him.’ She looked down at her daughter, who clutched at her leg as if she was afraid the wind might blow her away. ‘When Dia was born, we gave our lives to her . . .’ The young mother’s voice trailed off, sadness and futility overcoming whatever need had brought her here.
The magistrate gave her sorrow no ground: she banged her fist against the rough wood of her chair and cried, ‘The witness will continue her testimony or else as prosecutor she must withdraw her case.’
Janelle sobbed for a moment longer, then swallowed and whispered, ‘When our crops failed again this year, for want of better seed, he fled in the night, taking with him our last few coins.’
Olise banged her fist. ‘To claim that this man fled is to accuse him of leaving the jurisdiction of your contract. Do you stand by this testimony?’
‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I misspoke. He left our cottage that night, but he did not flee the village.’
‘Tell us, then, what he did upon departing your home.’
The woman’s back was to me so I couldn’t see her face, but the pain and anger in her voice were palpable. ‘He took our coin with him to the tavern and ate a meal of good, rich beef: three thick slices, the tavern master said.’
Here a murmur passed through the crowd. Beef wasn’t cheap in these parts.