War in Tethyr

24

"You have held this captive in secret from the city council," Duke Hembreon said. "This is illegal. You will surrender her to me forthwith, in the council's name."

Zaranda had clad herself in a white smock that one of the duke's escorts had thrown at her. It was already much worse for wear, and she hadn't taken a dozen steps in it. It took all her willpower to keep from simply letting herself hang in the grip of the two Zazesspurian city policemen who stood flanking her. She forced her-self to stand upright, albeit swaying like a sapling in a squall, and listened to the white-haired duke and Shaveli debate her fate.

The Sword-Master tipped back his head and brayed laughter through his nose.

"It's time to decide, old man," he said in a challenging voice, hand on rapier hilt. The two blue-and-bronzes behind him wore unhappy looks beneath their morions.

"Decide what?" the duke demanded, visibly bristling at the other's impertinence. His escorts, in the blackenameled boiled-leather helmets and cuirasses of the constabulary, glared at the civic guardsmen with frank hostility. The police had no love for these Johnny-come-lately paramilitaries.

"Whether you're serious about the getting and keeping of power. Here's an enemy to the state, an obstacle to your plans as well as ours. We had the situation under control. Why interfere?''

"The rule of law is paramount, and must be maintained."

"Law?" The swordsman flicked dismissive fingers. "What is law? A means to an end. Law's a fine tool; power's better. But to use the power, one must have the will."

"Power without law is corrupt, and soon turns to evil," the duke said acerbically. "Sooner, rather than later, for the application of will."

"Words," Shaveli said. He gestured around the torch-lit corridor. "Around you is stone." He slapped his rapier hilt. "And steel. Here are facts. Pit your words against them: which prevails?"

"The will of the council that your master has petitioned to make him master first of Zazesspur, and then of all Tethyr, will prevail," the duke said. "For that is the law."

Shaveli laughed again. "So now the law is to be your will?"

"It is given to the council to make the laws. Do you defy us? I think your lord will little thank you for your contumacy."

The Sword-Master swept off his plumed hat and bowed low. "No contumacy, Your Grace; take your prisoner, and greatly may you enjoy the use of her." The duke stiffened. "I crave only that you answer me a question philosophical: each day a dozen factions strive to pull you, your council, and my lord baron down. Will your laws suffice to stay them?"

"They must," Duke Hembreon said stiffly, and nodded for his men to go.

The morning sunlight stung Zaranda's cheeks like salt sea spray on an open cut, and made her eyes water. It was glorious all the same. She drank deeply of the breeze that molded the smock to her rangy form, and savored every nuance of it, the rotting fish and garbage and soot no less than the ocean smell and the spring-green grass without the walls. She even relished the freedom of a walk across the plaza, illusion though it was.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, voice hoarse from screaming.

To city hall," the duke said. "You shall be decently housed and treated, though a prisoner you must remain."

Passersby stopped to stare at the spectacle of a striking woman being led across the square in manacles, then hurried on their way. Zazesspurians were acquiring the reflexes needed to survive under tyranny, it appeared. "And why must I remain a captive?" she asked. "What laws have I broken?"

The duke's blue eyes looked elsewhere than at her. "It is not for me to say. A bill of particulars shall be read to you when you face the judgment of the council."

"So that's the way of it." Zaranda laughed. "And how did you come to learn I was Faneuil's secret captive?"

"Information was confidentially lodged with the council to this effect."

"Ah, so much goes on in Zazesspur these days that won't stand the light of day."

She shook her head. Her long dark hair, unbound, whipped in the wind like a cavalry pennon. "My erstwhile host the Sword-Master questioned your commitment to power. I have to wonder about your devotion to this rule of law you speak so much about. And I've a philosophical question of my own: if you lack the force of will to use and indeed abuse power, and at the same time, lack the will to adhere unswervingly to the law you pay lip service to-what then?"

But the duke had no more words to say to her, and so she passed into the ornate, archaic city hall, and back once again into servitude.

The great council hall of Zazesspur was a vast cathedral space, with a black and white parquetry floor, a pointed vault high overhead, and windows running clerestory beneath it down either side of the chamber. Beneath the windows, even above the two large doors of beaten bronze that gave onto the hall, ran rows of benches to seat such onlookers as the council saw fit to admit. Today they were thronged. Zaranda's appearance before the city council-not her trial, as the crier made abundantly, indeed redundantly clear-was the social event of the season.

The council members had all brought claques selected from among them retinues, which made for interesting and clashing blocks of color in the stands. Lords Faunce and Inselm Hhune, former councilors, were on hand, as were the syndics who ruled the guilds of Zazesspur, sweltering in fur-trimmed robes. Earl Ravenak and a noisy, aromatic contingent of Hairheads occupied a sort of island near the exit, none of their fellow spectators caring to get too close to them. On the other end of the hall and social scale, Armenides the Compassionate sat beaming benignly, surrounded by the white-robed scions of Zazesspur's most pretentious families. Finally, a number of common citizens had been let in to watch the awful majesty of the nascent state vindicate itself. Evidently awed by the grandeur of occasion and surroundings, they were subdued by Zazesspurian standards, their jostling and chatter a low commotion, like a stiff breeze in the green-budding branches outside.

A long table occupied a low dais that ran from wall to wall at the head of the hall. Behind it sat the twelve members of the council: Deymos, Hafzul Gorbon, and Marquis Enzo; Anakul, serenely smiling in his robes of black and red and his black silken cowl fitted close to his round head and drawn to a peak between his brows; Malhalvadon Stringfellow, afidget in his chair like a barely continent child; Strombolio, in red and yellow; Jinjivar the Sorcerer-tall, gaunt, and splendid in a pale-blue and purple turban so extravagantly round as to make him resemble an attenuated mushroom; Torvid, Naumos, and Lady Korun; Baron Zam, looking sour; Duke Hembreon, looking even graver than usual, possibly preoccupied by the fact that his daughter Tatrina was nowhere to be seen in the placidly smiling All-Friends contingent. Their seating was controlled by a rigid and deliberately arcane rotation schedule.

At the table's right end stood Baron Faneuil Hardisty. He was simply dressed in green, gold, and brown; his closest approach to ostentation was the silver chaplet he wore around prematurely graying tem-pies, significant of his recent acclamation as lord of the city. Like the late kings of Tethyr, he had no right to sit at the council table, and his very presence was of questionable legality. It seemed to symbolize the radical traditionalist thrust of his program: things will be as theу once were, only different.

At the table's left end the crier stood forward. He wore a tabard sporting the traditional device of lion, gules, rampant on field of gold. No one knew why this was traditional, inasmuch as Zazesspur's emblem was a blue cockatrice on a light-green field. No one knew where that came from, either, cockatrices being exceedingly rare in Tethyr, even since the monarchy's collapse. Some savants theorized that was the reason for the symbol's adoption, that the appearance of such a rarity as a cockatrice in Zazesspur might have been deemed worthy of commemoration. Actually, nobody cared anymore.

"Oyez, oyez! " the crier cried. "Gentles of Zazesspur, attend! The city council is now in session: let all observe the gravest punctilio!"

The groundlings cranked their hubbub down a notch. Despite the crier's most ferocious glare they refused to subside further. After an exasperated moment, he puffed himself up and blared, "The prisoner,

Zaranda Star, may approach the council." Zaranda marched in, flanked by a squad of city po-lice in shiny black carapaces. She wore a fresh white gown. Her hands were manacled before her by discreet steel.

The crowd stirred. The Hairheads jeered and shook their fists. The policemen escorted her to the council table and withdrew to the sidelines.

The crier struck the floor three times with the head high ceremonial mace he carried. "Spectators must re-main silent, or be thrust forth!"

The Marquise Enzo leaned forward. He had a bald-ing head, fuzzy eyebrows, and spectacles perched before perpetually blinking eyes. He occupied the table's mid-die seat, and was consequently chairman for the day.

"Zaranda Star," he said, steepling fingers before his small chin, "you have much to answer for."

"Of what do I stand accused?" she asked. Her voice, though calm, filled the hall.

"Nothing, nothing. Did you not hear? You're not on trial."

"Then what am I doing here?"

"Answering questions, only."

She held up fettered hands.

"Your status remains in doubt," Baron Zam said waspishly. "Your creation of your own private army is notorious."

"And keeping me in irons will prevent me from threatening you with this supposed army?" she asked. Some of the audience laughed.

Jinjivar the Sorcerer leaned forward. His turban wobbled alarmingly, threatening to overbalance him. "Is it true," he asked, "that upon being taken into the custody of Duke Hembreon, you gave your parole to em-ploy no magic in any attempt to escape or otherwise alter the circumstances of your captivity?"

"I did."

"And do you now reaffirm the oaths you swore to that effect?"

"I do. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"So now," the marquis said, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance at the others' horning in, "account for yourself."

She shook back her hair and laughed. The hall fell silent. "That's rather a broad assignment. Would you care to be more specific?"

Burly, black-bearded Hafzul Gorbon slammed a palm on the tabletop. "Impertinence!" He glared around at his fellows. "What more do we have to hear? Let's have her head off and go back to our affairs."

Ravenak's contingent cheered. "I see why I'm not on trial," Zaranda said. "I appear already to have been found guilty and sentenced to death, besides."

Hembreon leaned forward. "Zaranda Star, no decision has been made by this council regarding you. I give you my word."

"Very well," she said. "You want an account of what I've been doing. You shall have it. Many say that Tethyr needs a strong central government. That may be so; certainly the land has fallen on hard times since the monarchy fell.

"Few will deny that the justification for a government's existence is to protect the persons and property of its citizens. Yet when I returned to Tethyr a year ago I found no shortage of governments. Rather I found them everywhere. But I found precious little protection. Rather, as often as not, the self-proclaimed governments were the most rapacious predators."

Malhalvadon Stringfellow jumped up onto his chair. "Must we sit and listen to these slanders?"

"You're welcome to stand," said Anakul in his unctuous voice. "But, pray, be quiet. It is the deponent's time to speak. You'll only protract matters needlessly if you continue to disrupt these proceedings."

Grumbling, the halfling sat back down and Zaranda continued. "My caravan was illegally impounded when I attempted to bring it into Zazesspur. I was left nearly destitute. Under such circumstances, if one doesn't wish to become a beggar or go into crime or government, one must find a service that people need and supply it."

She turned to the colorful multitudes ranked around the huge hall.

"I must insist that the defen-that is, the deponent-face the council-" Enzo said.

Zaranda ignored him. "The people of Tethyr had neither safety nor security. Rivers and roads were blockaded as effectively as by an invading army. I could not set matters right myself; I had no army sufficient to such a task, nor means of raising one. Nor am I sure that way is best, for had I the force to impose order, would I not also possess the means of imposing in other ways, as the robbers who call themselves nobles do?"

"What is all this?" Baron Zam demanded. "What of your sedition? What of your raising the countryside in rebellion?"

"Sedition against whom?" Zaranda asked. "Rebellion against whom? Not the 'duly constituted government' of Tethyr-because it neglects to exist.

"All I have done is attempt to provide the people with the means of defending themselves. That's the only way I know to achieve real security. Seldom in my life have I known safety that I did not provide myself. Who, after all, will care for you better than you уоurselves?"

She turned back to face the council and raised bound hands. "The people of Tethyr have responded. Many of them, it seemed, desired what I and my associates had to offer. There is no 'private army.' There is only a small cadre, my friends and employees, far too minute to threaten a mighty walled city such as Zazesspur. And there are common folk in the farms and villages and out upon the roads, well trained, armed, and organized to protect themselves, but lacking the means to sustain an aggressive campaign.

"And there you have it, Lady Korun, gentlemen. The entirety of my plan, and of my intentions: to help the people of Tethyr free themselves from fear."

Shouts and applause burst from the crowd. Hisses and angry shouts answered from council claques and Hairheads. The crier pounded the butt of his mace on the floor and screamed for order until his face went red.

Baron Hardisty stepped forward, clapping his hands. The din subsided, until the only sound to be heard in all the hall was the soft fall of his slippered feet and his solitary applause.

"Very impressive, Countess Morninggold. Your passion is quite commendable. And also sad-inasmuch as it demonstrates that you have become a tool of the forces of anarchy that have so blighted our land. You speak of the impossibility of treason against the nonexistent government of Tethyr, and certainly this is true. But in spreading arms and broadcasting resistance among the populace, you seriously impede the establishment of such just and necessary government, and so, in a real sense, betray the people of Tethyr, whom you claim to help."

"Order and government are not one and the same," Zaranda said.

"You will address the lord of the city as 'my lord,' " Enzo instructed.

Hardisty waved a hand, dispensing of formality.

"The Countess Morninggold has told of the patchwork of governments, self-proclaimed nobles, she encountered on her return to Tethyr. Does this not eloquently bespeak the need for the reunification of the country, under a central government strong enough to suppress such petty tyrannies?"

That provoked dark looks and mutters from the council table, since those self-proclaimed nobles had been comfortable sources of income for no few of the people who sat at it.

"I don't doubt a central government could suppress petty tyrannies," Zaranda replied. "But would that necessarily be an improvement? With all respect, isn't it as likely to produce one big tyranny?"

"Zaranda, Zaranda." Hardisty shook his head sadly. "Such cynicism ill becomes you. I wonder if your soul is altogether free of the taint of evil."

"In my life, I have done much that I regret," Zaranda said, "but little I'm ashamed of. Can everyone present claim as much?"

"Insolence!" hissed Baron Zam. "Intolerable."

"Let's put an end to this farce," demanded Hafzul Gorbon, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull's.

"I'm inclined to agree," said Lady Korun, sprawled at apparent ease in her chair. "Clearly the woman's a subversive. Do we really need to hear more of her babbling?"

"Ladies and gentlemen of the council, of Zazesspur-of all of Tethyr," Hardisty said, turning to address the onlookers, "hear me. Our land has come to a fork in its road. Before you lie two paths: my way, which leads through monarchy to order; hers, which leads to anarchy and ultimately dissolution. The time has come to choose. I trust in you-in all of you-to choose wisely. I believe you will turn away from the false promises of 'freedom' that the countess and her ilk hold out, and give yourselves into the care of those who have your interests at heart, and know how best to serve those interests."

"Those who trade freedom for security in the end get neither," Zaranda said ringingly. "Who honors promises made to slaves?"

Armenides rose from the midst of his white-robed acolytes. "Sir Chairman, if I might address the council?"

The Marquis Enzo glanced at Hardisty. "Very well, Your Eminence."

"The countess speaks with the voice of the past. We speak with the voice of the future. What need have the people of Tethyr for arms or the skill of arms? Such can only increase the burden on their souls. I beg of you, good sirs and ladies, disarm these poor people she has deluded before they do harm to others or themselves."

"Listen to what he's saying!" Zaranda challenged the crowd. "What does this government intend for Tethyr that it need fear a people enabled to defend themselves?"

Enzo pounded the table and shouted for order. The crier grew almost apoplectic. City policemen seized Zaranda by the arms and hustled her from the hall.

"What are they planning to do," she cried, "that they know you'll resist if you can?"

The great bronze doors slammed shut on her words.