Patriots

14. Zenith Law

Mark and Amy arrived at the courtroom after a morning of sightseeing in New Paris. The city was ten times the size of any place Amy had ever visited before. She wasn't involved in the case, and Mark didn't feel a need to arrive before the scheduled start of the proceedings at noon.

Court was held in half of the third story of the Civil Affairs Building. The remainder of the floor was the Council Chamber, and the walls between the rooms and the central foyer could be removed for exceptionally large assemblies.

Since they were on Zenith, Mark wasn't a bit surprised to see that the whole third floor was decorated in Ancient Egyptian style. The fat pilasters had papyrus-bud capitals; the shafts were red or green, with stylized yellow leaves springing from the bases. The walls were white but decorated with stiffly posed figures in garish contrasting colors.

"Oh, it's gorgeous!" Amy said, gazing around the big room.

Mark blinked. It struck him for the first time that Quelhagen's muted notions of what was attractive weren't universal. In fact, they might well be the minority view.

That was hard to imagine. Everybody on Quelhagen knows what good taste is, so how can so many other human beings be too stupid to feel the way we do?

And Amy isn't stupid.

"This way!" hissed an usher whom the investors had hired to guide the defendants during the court proceedings. The man wore a pink-and-gray-striped costume. The color combination was attractive, but the fellow had ruffs at his throat, waist, wrists, and ankles. He looked like an oddly patterned poodle.

The usher stared at Amy, checked her face against his array of air-projected holographic portraits, and said, "Not you! Find a seat in the gallery or get out."

Mark thought of hitting him. Amy nodded and patted Mark's hand before vanishing up the staircase to the visitors' gallery.

"Come on!" the usher said. He tugged Mark's arm.

Mark gently tweaked the usher's nose. The man gasped and staggered backward. Mark followed him to the defendants' section, on the left front of the courtroom.

The plaintiffs' enclosure, on the right, was as gorgeous as a flock of tropical birds. Hostile birds, too. Though there were more than twenty folk within the low railings-plaintiffs, aides, and attorneys-only two of them stood out. They, a plump fiftyish man in blue and gold uniform and a taller, slightly younger fellow in blue and red, glared at one another.

Mark had watched his father in court many times. The only times he'd seen equal anger and loathing between the parties was during contested divorces; this time he was viewing people on the same side.

Mark halted in the aisle. The usher glared and raised a hand to protect his nose.

"Who are they?" Mark demanded, nodding toward the Zeniths. "In uniforms."

The usher risked a look. He seemed still to be worried that Mark was going to sneak a hand under his guard. "Ah," the usher said. "Mayor Heinrich Biber wears the dress uniform of the New Paris Civic Watch. And Vice-Protector Berkeley Finch is commander of the Zenith Protective Association, a voluntary assembly of public-spirited citizens."

"The Zenith militia," Mark said bluntly. "And the two men are political rivals."

"I wouldn't be able to speak about politics, I'm sure, sir," the usher said. He started to give Mark a look of snooty superiority-then realized that the last thing he wanted to do was to call renewed attention to his snoot.

The usher cleared his throat. In a careful tone he went on, "I understand that the gentlemen may not be the best of friends, though, that's true. And as for a militia… Protector Giscard has declared any armed body of Zenith citizens to be illegal, so as I understand it the Protective Association cannot be a militia in the normal sense of the term."

Mark bowed in acknowledgment. "Thank you, sir," he said. That seemed to surprise the usher as much as having his nose pinched had. He minced down the aisle toward the defendants' enclosure, looking worried.

Theoretically all spectators were supposed to be in the mezzanine gallery, while seats on the lower level were reserved for those who had official connection with the court or case. The reality seemed to be that the hearing of this action was the social event of the season for Zenith's elite. Folk in gorgeous, garish clothing packed the benches, there to see and be seen.

The visitors' gallery was by contrast only sparsely occupied. Mark saw Amy looking prim by the front railing. To Zenith society, sitting in the gallery meant you weren't of any importance.

Amy didn't care-shouldn't care, anyway-what a bunch of overdressed clowns thought was important. She had a better view from where she was, besides. Mark thought of waving but contented himself with a nod before walking on.

He was becoming uncomfortably aware of his clothes. Mark wore one of the two pairs of coveralls he'd brought on his journey to the frontier. They were neat and clean but absolutely utilitarian, in no way the sort of formal garb he'd worn to court back home.

His idea had been that he didn't want to stand out from his Greenwood fellow-defendants, whom he'd expected would dress in leather and coarse fabrics as they did at home. Boy, had that been a miscalculation.

Yerby's sparkling green coat and a pair of fluorescent peppermint-striped trousers that he must have bought last night in New Paris-and OK, he'd been drunk then but he was presumably sober now and he was wearing them-weren't the most dazzlingly ugly garments among the defendants. The prize went to Dagmar Wately, in a fur ensemble that made her look like a road-kill Frankenstein, pieced together from a number of planets. None of the animals who'd given their all to clothe her were native to Greenwood.

The other five defendants were in lesser degrees of holiday finery. They weren't quite as striking as Yerby and Dagmar, but all told they made the Zeniths in the rest of the courtroom look staid. Mark wouldn't have believed that was possible.

Elector Daniels, acting as chief counsel for the defendants, was within the enclosure with a half-dozen junior legal personnel from both Quelhagen and Zenith. Daniels had dressed in the height of Quelhagen's severe fashion: charcoal gray coat, charcoal gray trousers with a single black stripe on either leg, and a gunmetal gray vest over a white shirt. The elector saw Mark and nodded in approval. A moment before Mark had been embarrassed to appear without formal garments, but Daniels seemed to be pleased that at least one of his clients didn't look like an explosion in a fireworks factory.

Mark entered the enclosure and squirmed to Yerby's side. Yerby clapped his shoulder with numbing cheerfulness. Seconds later, a stentorian bailiff roared, "Court of Common Pleas of the New Paris District is now in session! Judge Reesa Maglaglen presiding!"

Judge Maglaglen, a small woman in scarlet robes, entered from behind the bench and took the middle of the three seats. She'd be sitting alone during this preliminary hearing for the presentation of documentary evidence and motions.

Maglaglen's eyes swept the courtroom, pausing for a moment on the defendants' enclosure. Mark had seen more pleasant expressions on a tangle of razor wire.

"I'll now accept documentary evidence relating to the case of Biber et alia against Wately et alia, an action in ejectment," Maglaglen said. "Counsel for the plaintiffs may come forward."

The procedure was a lot more abrupt than what Mark was used to on Quelhagen, but that didn't mean it was unfair. Or does it? he wondered.

Biber and Finch approached the bench with an usher. The two principals didn't look at one another. The usher between them handed a set of recording chips to the bailiff and said, "Your Honor, the plaintiffs wish to place in evidence true copies of grants made by Protectors LaCoque, Manering, and Giscard during their terms as Protectors of Zenith."

"Accepted for verification by the Public Record Office," Maglaglen said. "Counsel for the defense, if you have any documentary evidence to offer you may come forward."

Elector Daniels stepped forward. Finch smirked at him as the plaintiffs returned to their enclosure. "Your Honor," Daniels said, "the defendants wish to place in evidence true copies of grants validly issued by Protector Greenwood of Hestia."

Daniels held out a chip case. The bailiff ostentatiously refused to accept it.

Judge Maglaglen said, "As the world commonly termed Greenwood was never subject to the control of the Protectors of Hestia, such material has no bearing on the matter at issue. I therefore refuse to accept it. Do the defendants offer any other documentary evidence supporting their right to possession?"

"Your Honor, I protest!" Daniels said. He looked genuinely outraged. "The Protector of Hestia was acting under at least color of the authority of his office in-"

Instead of raising a gavel in the traditional style still followed on Quelhagen, the judge touched a button. A gong rang in the ceiling of the courtroom. When the metallic note had quavered to silence, Maglaglen said, "As defendants offer no evidence to support their claims, I find for plaintiffs."

Her bitter face swept the room. "Plaintiffs' counsel," she continued, "will provide an order for my execution as soon as the plaintiffs' grants have been verified by the relevant authorities."

She rang the gong again.

"What is this?" Yerby Bannock said. He stepped forward.

One of the junior counsel put a hand on his arm. Yerby brushed the man aside like a fly. "What the hell is this?"

"Defendant, you're out of order!" the judge said, her voice rising with each word as if she were reciting a musical scale. Bailiffs and ushers were converging from all points in the courtroom.

Yerby took another step. He missed the enclosure's opening and smashed the rail into shards of plastic with a quick jerk of his arm.

Elector Daniels and the bailiff before the bench stopped in the middle of their strides toward the frontiersman. Judge Maglaglen hunched down, ready to bolt like a fuzzy red bunny. Mark stumbled on the bottom of the barrier's framework as he followed Yerby.

He didn't think about what he was doing. He was afraid to think, and anyway, this didn't seem to be the time for it.

"Oh, don't get your bowels in an uproar!" Yerby said. "I'm not going to hurt any of you delicate flowers."

The frontiersman turned and looked slowly around the whole courtroom. He seemed surprised to see Mark jumping out of the way beside him, but he put his arm around the smaller man. "All right, you lot!" he said. "It may be that on Zenith the sun rises in the west and there's no human justice. But I tell you-"

He turned slowly to face the bench again. The bailiff leaped back so suddenly that he fell over. Daniels had already eased himself toward the aisle, trying not to come too close to Yerby. Even the other Greenwood defendants stood uneasily within the enclosure. Nobody but Mark was within ten feet of the big frontiersman.

"I tell you," Yerby repeated. "If any of you fine folk come to Greenwood, I think you'll learn that the sun there still rises in the usual place."

He spun and marched down the aisle.

"Hey, wait for me, Yerby!" black-bearded Holgar Emmreich cried, scrambling to follow. All the Greenwoods fell in with a haste just this side of panic. What they were probably afraid of was the whole unfamiliar situation, not what the bailiffs or municipal police were going to do because of the outburst. They followed their leader because that was a lot easier than thinking for themselves.

Mark paused where he stood. Thinking wasn't doing him a bit of good. Spectators in dazzling clothes swirled out of the Greenwoods' way, then swirled back, chirping and gabbling. It was like watching a windstorm in a parrot cage.

Amy no longer sat where she had been. Mark thought of searching for her, but the chances were she was coming down to join him. His best choice was to stay put. If they both wandered around in this brilliant chaos, they'd never find each other.

"Mark," said a familiar voice, "your counsel and I have never been formally introduced. Will you do the honors?"

Mark looked at the speaker, a slim, gray-haired man. He wore brown Quelhagen formalwear, so he'd been lost in the clouds of color.

"Hi, Dad," Mark said. He cleared his throat and added, "I didn't expect to see you here."

And boy! was that ever the truth.