Book 2, Chapter 16: Rivals
Clara stood up, refusing to be lectured from above. Warren was still staring through the window, avoiding her gaze.
“Let me make sure I understand,” she said. “We’ve just discovered something monstrous buried under the surface of our case, which our client may actually have intended to expose, and your idea is that I should go look at carpets instead because you have decided that it’s too dangerous.”
He sighed as if he were dealing with a petulant child. “I would simply prefer you to remain alive.”
“Then we agree, because so would I. But you have no standing to decide these things for me, Righton.”
“No standing?” He turned to face her. “Casewell, I am heir to a duchy. Generations of my forebears have served Arcadia with blood and sweat. You are a commoner with no house, no land, no protection beyond the goodwill of people like me. So yes, I have standing, and you would do well to listen to your betters and—”
He stopped, looking down at his hand on the windowsill.
Clara said nothing.
“That was correct. Every word I just said is true,” he said slowly, as if arguing with himself. “So why do I feel like this?”
Because there’s someone buried under you that knows a different world.
She wondered what would happen if she said that out loud. Would the memory wipe effect happen? She wanted to say it. But he was an Albion, with a lifetime of memories in this world and a family history of loyalty to the Church. This wasn’t something she could just dump on him like this. Assuming the universe would even let him hear her.
“I can’t deny that you have rank and that I’m a commoner.” Though I wish I could, sometimes. “But as you so succinctly put it, I’m in no one’s service, and I have no formal ties to any noble house—whether it’s House von Rhenia or House Albion. I will make my own decisions. If my choices put me in danger, that’s just something I’ll have to deal with.”
“But why? Why do you insist on putting yourself in jeopardy? Not just now, but before, too. Even with all my warnings, you still went to the capital alone that day.”
She thought of several ways to respond to that, most of them unpleasant. This was becoming very clichéd, and ‘overbearing male lead’ was not a trope she appreciated.
“Because facing danger is part of standing up for what you believe in. I’m not asking you to agree with my choice, only to accept that it’s mine to make. Or are you one of those nobles who prefer to lock away those they find ‘interesting’ inside a gilded cage and deny them their life?”
Warren flinched. “That’s not—that’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it? Because you’ve been strange for weeks, and I’ve given you space, and the space hasn’t fixed whatever this is. So, out with it.”
He was quiet long enough that she thought he might retreat into one of his clipped non-answers.
“We almost lost you,” he finally said. “When Leofric’s magic took hold. I kept thinking… You weren’t moving, and the duchess wouldn’t tell me what the dark magic was, only that it was bad. And I stood there, useless, and I thought you were going to die in front of me.”
“As you can see, I’m still here, Righton.”
He furrowed his brow and adjusted his cuffs. “You don’t understand. When I pictured it—your death—there was a feeling of wrongness so total I can’t properly describe it. It’s all exceedingly vexing, and frankly, I have since been attempting to identify the defect within me and correct it posthaste. But so far, I have failed, so I’d rather not repeat that experience.”
Clara looked at his weary eyes, and she saw herself.
How lonely would she feel right now, if Leofric’s monster had killed Warren? Killed the only other person who really knew who she was, beyond this world?
“I can empathize with why you’re acting this way,” she said, letting the edge fall out of her voice. “But concern doesn’t entitle you to control my life.”
He said nothing. She put her hand on his shoulder.
“Righton, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll fight for what I believe in, yes, but I’ve learned my lesson from Leofric. I actually agree with you, in part—I shouldn’t have gone to Elysia alone back then. And I won’t make that mistake again. You’re right when you say my lack of rank makes me more vulnerable, and I take that into account in the decisions I make. I asked Lord Conrad to accompany me today, right? I also have Lady Iris to support me, and Professor Morris, and Emma. I’ve even got a well-meaning but occasionally unbearable prosecutor hovering at my shoulder every time I lean over a railing. I’d say I’m fairly well covered, so you can ease up on the worrying.”
He closed his eyes and thought for a long moment. “It is good to see that you recognize your previous folly, at least. As for the current situation… you’ve proven annoyingly stubborn.”
“I categorically deny any claims of fitting that description,” Clara said.
There was a low chuckle, then a stretch of silence.
He looked out the window again, then back at her. “I still think your risk calculus is flawed, and your decision is reckless. It would be best to allow me to be the face of the defense, even if we use your ideas. There is no need to expose yourself recklessly.”
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“Your objection is noted.”
He nodded slowly. “With that said, I accept that the choice is yours.”
“Good,” she said. “Thank you. I guess this is the part where I admit that you have a certain sophistication when it comes to tailoring arguments for nobles that I could stand to learn from. A bit.”
“Naturally. And to address your earlier allegations.” Warren narrowed his eyes. “Hovering? Me? That is preposterous and utterly unsubstantiated. I would never denigrate myself in such—” He cleared his throat and stopped, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Good to see you arguing again.” She smirked. “I don’t want you walking on eggshells because you’re worried about me, Righton.”
He scoffed. “Are you telling me you miss being insulted, Casewell?”
“I’m telling you there’s a fine line between confidence and condescension, and lately you’ve been wandering over to the wrong side of it.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t mind the arrogance or the banter. I’ll take your insufferable self-assurance any day over someone who folds into apologies the second anyone looks at them sideways. What I won’t accept is being patronized. I want to be treated with the respect a rival deserves.”
“A rival,” he repeated. That was when his old smile surfaced, faint but decidedly sly. “Very well. In that case, I won’t stop you from blundering into your outrageous theories tomorrow, if that is your wish. Stepping in to save you from yourself when you get too detached from reality shall be an interesting intellectual exercise for me.”
Clara laughed, and Warren did too.
Then she reached into her satchel and pulled out the ledger Pedro had given her. “Speaking of the trial, now that you’re not being an asshole anymore, there’s something you should know.”
The morning of the second day was even hotter than the first, and Clara lamented the lack of cooling crystals in the Basilica Adalet. By the time she and Warren took their places on the left-hand divan, Justan was already in the accuser’s enclosure, immaculate in fresh purple-and-red. His posture was serious, with his back straightened and his eyes focused, but he did not look nervous.
The clerk struck the floor three times, the gallery hushed, and Princess Mikhaila entered, the green robe still trailing behind her. She climbed onto the divan, arranged her tiara and veil, and looked straight at Justan.
“The Sultan-Basileus’s court is now in session,” she announced, with more confidence than the day before. “Prince Justan, has the accusation found Prince Sellem?”
“It has, esteemed kadi.” Justan rose and bowed. “Prince Sellem waits outside, and shall present himself to your court at your word.”
“Then let him appear.”
The bearded clerk slammed his staff. “The kadi calls Prince Sellem, son of the imperial blood, raised at the side of the janissary, learned in administration, to offer his testimony!”
Sellem strode through the doors with his chin raised. His purple robe touched the floor, and his turban was larger than Justan’s, with a red feather attached to the top. There was a curl of distaste at the corner of his lips, as if he’d been forced to do something beneath his station by coming here. He flicked his gaze to Justan, then Clara and Warren, then finally the dais.
When he reached the center of the room, he did not prostrate himself, or even bow.
“Mikhaila,” he said.
Absolute silence. Justan winced, and Clara exchanged a glance with Warren.
Oh, this is going to be good.
The clerk spoke up, “You shall address the kadi as—”
“I know perfectly well how one addresses a kadi.” Sellem waved dismissively at the clerk. “But a kadi is a magistrate of standing, proven by service to the Empire. My sister is a child, playing at robes because Father wished to keep her occupied. Prince Justan may be inclined to humor her, but do not expect me to go along with it. She ought to go back to playing with her cats, rather than deal with matters of state.”
Mikhaila’s shoulders shrank, but she did not cower. “You sent a man to lie to me.”
“And? When the matter is beneath the attention of the blood, we delegate,” said Sellem. “A spice trader’s poisoning is an issue for merchants and magistrates, not for one such as I.”
“Are you rejecting the court’s authority?” Mikhaila narrowed her eyes.
“What authority? What you call a court, I call a farce.”
“Farce?” came a deep voice from above.
Sellem immediately prostrated himself. All the soldiers knelt at once, and Justan and Mikhaila both bowed deeply.
Then Warren did the same, and pulled on Clara’s sleeve. She followed. There were noises as the gallery shifted, presumably for similar reasons.
The voice had come from high on the wall, from a place Clara had assumed was just a decorative grille. A long panel of carved wood, set into the stone above and behind the kadi’s dais.
“Up,” said the voice. “All of you but Sellem.” Given the reverence it clearly commanded, there was only one person the voice could belong to.
The whole hall rose in a single rustle of cloth. Only Sellem remained pressed to the floor, his turban askew, his hands flat against the carpet.
Now that she was permitted to look up, Clara fixed her gaze on the high panel. She could see nothing through it, which she suspected was the point. The whole place had been designed so that you could feel the Sultan-Basileus without ever seeing him. Which meant that he could choose, at his leisure, whether to observe his court, and everyone else would have his shadow over them even if he wasn’t there.
A whole new meaning to ‘may his shadow ever lengthen’. Had he been watching the whole time? Oh Goddess, did he see me make that pun yesterday?
Sweat trickled down her forehead, and not just from the heat.
“Sellem.”
“Your Imperial Majesty.” Sellem’s reply was muffled by the carpet. “Father, I did not know you were—if I had been aware you graced the court with your—”
“You did not know I was present, and so you behaved as you behave when I am absent.” A pause, unhurried and oppressive. “A man’s conduct when he believes himself unobserved is a mirror to the truth within.”
Sellem said nothing, his shoulders trembling.
“You called my court a farce,” the Sultan-Basileus continued. “Tell me, Sellem. Who placed those robes upon your sister?”
“…You did, Father.”
“I did. So when you name her a farce, whose authority do you mock?” The voice never sharpened, and somehow that made it worse than any shout. “You were raised among the janissaries so that you might learn the meaning of servitude—not to me, but to the Empire. Mikhaila has already understood this, at her age, and yet you appear to have failed to grasp it despite having had so much longer to study. Or perhaps you once knew it, but have simply grown complacent with age.”
Clara glanced at Mikhaila and Justan as their father spoke. They had both gone rigid, their eyes fixed on the upper panel and their heads still inclined slightly downward.
They’re all scared of him.
“I, I am deeply ashamed. One thousand apologies to you, Father, and to the esteemed kadi and her court.” Sellem pressed his forehead deeper into the carpet.
“Continue the proceedings,” said the Sultan-Basileus.
The clerk slammed his staff down five times. “And so says Konstantinos Murad, seventh of his name, Sultan-Basileus of the Byzottoman Empire, master of Istantinople, father of the blood.”
Warren leaned in closer to Clara. “At the risk of repeating myself, I may have underestimated just how delicate this trial would be. I trust you understand the implications of His Imperial Majesty’s presence.”
Clara nodded.
The Sultan-Basileus was an absolute, autocratic ruler with near-complete authority over the Empire. He did not share power with a parliament, nor did he have to answer to a pope—there was a Matriarch, but the government could choose when to call on her.
Whatever came next would be a test of their finesse.