Judge (7 page)

 8 

E
la tightened her grip on Tzana and the reins. Pet grumbled, a low echoing threat that vibrated through Ela, and—she was sure—everyone traveling with them. Worse, the warhorse twitched violently, clearly longing to wreak havoc on Ela’s irksome enemy. She smoothed Pet’s massive neck. “Shh. We’re approaching Ytar. I’ll deal with matters there.”

Beka leaned over her destroyer’s war collar, catching Ela’s attention. “Why does he keep making that awful noise?”

“He wants to crush Ruestock.”

“Well . . .” Beka shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

They traded smiles. Riding ahead of them, Jon whistled sharply, signaling their approach to the Tracelands’ most distant western border city, Ytar.

Slivers of memories pierced Ela’s thoughts, causing pain. Her first vision as a prophet had dropped her into Ytar as a helpless witness to its earlier destruction during an attack from the now-vanquished neighboring kingdom of Istgard. She’d seen flames consuming Ytar’s buildings. Citizens screaming, pleading for their lives . . . being hacked to death by Istgardian soldiers. She’d wailed and mourned with Ytar’s people, suffering their terror.

But now Ytar’s white outlines attested to its rapid recovery from death and ashes.

Ela leaned forward, scanning the small city in the afternoon light. Delicate spires of new buildings gleamed above a short white, bulky section of wall, evidently the beginning of a stone shell meant to encircle the city. Clashing styles hinted at recent architectural conflicts. Infinite?

A wisp-like image slid into Ela’s thoughts, making her frown. “Jon?”

He turned, one dark eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

Ela tilted her head toward Ytar. “They’ve been quarreling with Istgard despite the peace treaty.” A treaty Kien had composed while imprisoned in Istgard. “Have you heard any reports?”

“Not until this instant.” Grim-faced, Jon glanced at the city, then back at Ela. “Will we suffer an extended stay here?”

“Yes. Unless we can persuade both sides to see reason—and I don’t feel like being reasonable!” Much as Ela dreaded it, she was needed in Parne. If only Kien were here as a military judge, protecting his treaty.

“I wish Kien were here,” Beka said, so plaintive, so near Ela’s own thoughts that Ela nodded and blinked away frustrated tears.

“First,” Jon spoke as if pondering aloud, “we deal with our living baggage, stash our gear, stable the horses, and eat. Then I’ll investigate and decide if we must intervene.”

The living baggage, Ruestock and his cohorts, were reassuringly meek as Jon’s servants led them into Ytar’s sparse new jail. Jon called the jailer to the prison gate and snapped, “I am Commander Jon Thel, here on official business. I require your full cooperation
and
an interrogation room—as soon as I’ve found quarters and stables for my staff and my family.”

Family? Hmm. Ela almost smiled. Jon had evidently adopted her and Tzana.

The jailer scowled at the destroyers, the Thels’ servants, and Beka, Ela, and Tzana—particularly Tzana—seeming ready to complain. Jon said, “This is Ela Roeh. Prophet of Parne.”

The jailer exhaled, swallowed, and bowed. “Um. We’re honored, Ela of Parne.”

Infinite, she begged in silence, give me wisdom. And patience. Her headache eased. She smiled at the jailor. “Thank you, sir. Your name is . . . ?”

He squared his shoulders as if reporting for duty. “Amak.”

“Thank you, Amak. Unfortunately, I must trouble you further. The former ambassador of Siphra is one of your prisoners, and I’ll need to speak with him as soon as I’ve settled my sister in our quarters. I’d welcome your presence as a witness to our conversation.”

“Of course.” Eyes narrowed with distaste, Amak said, “Former ambassador, eh? He won’t require pampering, will he?”

“None at all. He’s suffered too much pampering already.”

Jon looked over his shoulder at Ela. “General Rol would insist that I also witness your meeting with Ruestock—accompanied by my subordinate-commander.”

“Witnesses will be welcomed,” Ela murmured. Perhaps Ruestock would be more businesslike. Less blatant in flirting with her.

Jailor Amak interposed, “Am I permitted to bring in our local authorities?”

“Yes.” Jon gave the man a glare evidently calculated to impress. “On behalf of the Tracelands, I require their attendance tonight. Send word to Ytar’s council.”

Beka sniffed as they rode away from the jail. “I’m all for seeing Ruestock punished, but if you two are dragging the city’s council into this, then no doubt the meeting will last all night.
I
am bowing out. Tzana and I intend to rest and enjoy our evening.”

A glowing smile lit Tzana’s wearied little face. “Yeah!”

“Cowards,” Jon teased. “Let’s go find some food.”

The meeting hadn’t even begun and already she was tired. Ela shifted the branch between her hands and watched Jon motion his subordinate-commander, Selwin, to sit at the jail’s stark
meeting-room table. Bruised from today’s roadside battle and exuding bothersome self-importance, Selwin swaggered to the table, acting as Jon’s scribe.

Would it be rude of her to verify the subordinate-commander’s discretion? Undoubtedly. Ela bit her lip as Jailor Amak led the rope-bound Lord Ruestock inside. Amak bowed to Ela. “I supposed you wanted to speak with this one before the council arrives.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Ela murmured.

Jon addressed Selwin. “This part of the meeting is unofficial.”

Grimacing, Selwin folded his hands on his traveling desk. “Yes, sir.”

Ruestock sniffed. Disdain dripping from his every word, he said, “Ah, yes. An unofficial meeting. How convenient for you, that you might pretend no knowledge of it later,
good
sirs.” And he uttered a soft curse.

Ela watched Jon’s hands clench into fists. He said, “I remind you that a lady is present. Whatever your opinion of me and my men, you will guard your tongue for her sake.”

“Mmm,” Ruestock agreed. “The lovely prophet. Tragic that I cannot see her—quite unfair.”

To end his complaints, Ela prayed aloud, “Infinite, please restore this man’s sight.”

Ruestock blinked, squinted, then recovered and smiled. “Ah, Ela. What a joy to see you! Pretty as ever.” He swept her with a critical glance. “Despite your dreary attire.”

Before Jon had the chance to lose his temper, Ela warned Ruestock, “The Infinite restored your sight, sir, but that can be reversed.”

“My dear girl, I—”

“I am not your dear girl.”

He affected hurt. “Are you not the least bit flattered by my sincere admiration?”

“No. Your sincerity means nothing.
You
are a sneaking, foul-minded, vicious—”

“Ah,” Ruestock interrupted. “You’re thinking of the past. I assure you, my actions were strictly impersonal. They—”

Despite her resolution to remain calm, Ela cried, “You threatened to kill my sister!”

Jon shifted one hand to his sword. “What? He threatened to kill Tzana?”

Ruestock’s voice pitched higher now, in a genial-sounding protest. “What threat? It was nothing. A bluff against the little Unfortunate to gain your cooperation.”

Ela wanted to strike him. “It was no bluff, sir. Admit the truth.”

Expression hardening, the former nobleman said, “Well, it’s unimportant now. My plans failed and the king is dead. Long live Siphra’s new king, whose supporters confiscated my lands! And, because I’m neither lord nor ambassador, I’m reduced to roadside skirmishes to survive. Moreover, I’m in exile, which is not
entirely
my fault.”

“Implying that I’m partly to blame?” Ela shook her head. “No. Accept responsibility for your actions. You’re no longer an ambassador because you deserved to be ousted.”

“Deserved? How dare—!”

“Control yourself,” Ela warned. “If my destroyer believes I’m in danger, he’ll come after you.” Ruestock looked down, fury visible in the tensed line of his mouth. Ela continued. “Also, I must point out that, prophet or not, if
I
act according to my own will and make such errors in judgment as you’ve done, then the Infinite allows me to suffer the consequences. You are collecting the punishment you’ve earned.”

“And what is my sentence?”

Ela hesitated. Ruestock began to wheedle, “Ela, Ela, you are too merciful and tenderhearted to declare me guilty without proof of any wrongdoing worthy of death.”

He was right, regrettably. She studied the branch. It remained plain uncommunicative vinewood. Sighing, Ela gave up. “When the Ytarians release you, you’ll go home to Siphra.”

“Why? My lands have been confiscated by the new king’s royal council.”

“King Akabe is a reasonable man. Appeal to him for the restoration of your lands.”

“Then what?” Ruestock argued. “He wouldn’t trust me in any official capacity!”

“Trust can be earned, and your reputation can be restored—it’s not too late. Meanwhile, learn to manage your province.”

“Like a common overseer? My dear girl—”

She glared. Oh, he was making forgiveness a serious ordeal!

Ruestock exhaled gustily. “Excuse me. I cannot help myself, seeing your exquisite face.”

Impossible man. Would forgiveness offer him a chance for true understanding of his Creator? Infinite? Silence compelled her toward mercy. “This will be your final reprieve. And before you argue your innocence, remember that men have died because of your schemes.”

“An unjust accusation!”

“Is it? Do you wish me to recite the circumstances?”

Silent and unmistakably hostile, Ruestock shifted his gaze to the roof beams.

Jailor Amak cleared his throat. “Can you prove his guilt?”

Ela shook her head. “The dead weren’t Tracelanders, sir, and I have no proof. The only thing you can punish him for is attempted robbery—yet he is Siphran.”

The jailor and Jon both looked disappointed. A sharp tap on the door caused them to straighten. Members of the city’s council filed in, men and women in long formal robes. As if eager to evade attention, Jailor Amak whisked Ruestock out and quietly closed the door.

Jon nodded to Selwin, who picked up his writing utensil, then Jon addressed the council. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice. The Tracelands appreciates your time. I am Commander Jon Thel, and this is Ela, Prophet of Parne.”

Ela noticed their shifting gazes and stances. Like children
caught in wrongdoing. When Jon eyed her, prompting her silently, Ela asked, “Why are you endangering the Tracelands’ treaty with Istgard by demanding more than the Istgardians can provide? They are restoring your city as agreed. But the wall—which is something Ytar should have built generations ago—did not exist during Istgard’s attack. The Infinite demands an explanation. Why are you causing such trouble now?”

After an uncomfortable silence, a thin, officious councilwoman pursed her lips, then sniffed, “We believe they owe us a wall. We are thinking of our children.”

His tone ice, Jon said, “You’re being greedy. Your country negotiated with its new allies in mutual good faith. You accepted those terms—excellent terms! If you want a wall, you must give up at least half the new buildings. Or would you prefer to return all the money Istgard paid you in restitution?”