Chương 80: Book 2, Chapter 19: The Limits of Their Remit

"Order! I demand order!" Mikhaila's veil slipped sideways as she called for the gallery to calm down.

"Everyone will be quiet, or I'll have to get the bastinado out again!" Even in that childish voice, the threat was effective. Clara watched the kadi settle back confidently onto the divan as the room quieted. The cat that had been running around the room chose that moment to spring into Mikhaila's lap and curl up, as if the dais was obviously the right place for it to relax. She was startled at first, but she didn't push it off.

"Prince Sellem, Brother," she said finally.

"Answer me plainly. Do you know of any wrongdoing committed by Recep Bey? Did you know about the contents of this ledger?" Sellem closed his eyes and took a while to answer, trying to muster whatever drops of dignity he still had.

"Esteemed kadi, I swear before the Goddess—I knew nothing of this. If Recep Bey has indeed soiled his hands, he did so without my knowledge and against my wishes. No administrator can read every line a clerk scratches into every ledger." Ah, so now Recep is just a clerk? Very convenient, Prince Sellem.

"He's your right-hand man," Clara pointed out.

"You told this court all about the strong relationship between you two."

"Can a man not be betrayed by the one he trusts most? Is that not the oldest, most grievous betrayal of all, as taught through Elowen's treachery toward Saintess Irene? If Recep has done what is being implied, then I have been deceived, and I am as wronged as anyone in this hall, if not more so." Mikhaila pursed her lips, considering her brother's words.

"Then it seems simple to me. If the ledger is Recep Bey's, then Recep Bey can tell us what it means, and who knew about it. We should hear from—""There is no need." The grave voice came down from behind the lattice, unhurried and measured, and the entire hall knelt down on instinct. Clara did the same.

"Mikhaila." The Sultan-Basileus let the name rest in the air.

"You have done well to seek the truth. It is the mark of a worthy judge. But a kadi is an officer of the Empire, operating within the limits of their remit. You must know the borders of the matter set before you, lest you wander into a field that is not yours to harvest."

"Yes, Father," said Mikhaila, head bowed.

"There is no formal accusation against Recep Tellyim Bey in this court, nor against your brother Sellem. Whatever rot may live in the treasury's ledgers is a matter for my censors, and I shall attend to it as I please." It was an absolute statement that left no room for questions.

"There is one accusation before you, and one only—that which was brought by your brother Justan, against the foreigner Pedro de Bragança, for the murder of the merchant Anis Clovos. That is the field you asked for, and I gave it to you. Now you must judge it."

"I understand, Father." Mikhaila slowly raised her head, and Clara could have sworn that something flickered behind the girl's careful obedience. Had it been annoyance? Could it be that she wanted to push further so that she could bring down her brother? Clara thought, then immediately doubted herself. No, she's just a child. I'm reading too much into it. The clerk's staff struck five times.

"And so commands Konstantinos Murad, seventh of his name, may his shadow ever lengthen." Mikhaila turned to the accuser's enclosure.

"Prince Justan. The court has heard from your witnesses. We have heard about the dinner, the food, and the poisonous herbs in the hotel room. Do you have anything else to add? Any other proof that the accused killed Anis Clovos? Or do you perhaps wish to invoke the Matriarch?" Justan put his hand on his chin and narrowed his eyes at Clara. She waited. This was the critical juncture—if he had something else in reserve, maybe even another witness, now was when he'd produce it. But Justan finally shook his head.

"No, esteemed kadi. The accusation rests on what has been presented." I suppose he's decided it's not worth pushing further. While he hasn't gotten a conviction to prop up his reputation, he can at least be satisfied that Sellem walks out of here with the slave trade clinging to his name. One fewer rival is a good outcome for him, even if he's also lost some prestige.

"Then I will give my judgement," said the kadi. The hall was so quiet that Clara could hear the hiss of the gas lamps and the distant cry of the seagulls over the strait. Warren's shoulder was a warm, steadying presence beside hers, and they braced themselves for what was coming.

"Pedro Alcântara, the man who is supposed to be Pedro de Bragança, did a great many suspicious things," Mikhaila began.

"He came into the Empire under a different name. He didn't answer when the officers went looking for him. There was a dinner, maybe, and maybe he brought the food. He might be guilty." She lifted her chin.

"But a kadi isn't supposed to think might. Father says judgement is a heavy thing, and you don't drop it on someone unless you are sure." The princess turned directly to Clara.

"And I'm not sure. The only person who saw the dinner hid behind a liar, then got caught up in even more deception. The victim was a slaver, and slavers have lots of enemies, not all of them Arcadian. There are too many other ways it could have happened, and too little reason to trust the facts presented by the accusation." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Mikhaila took a deep breath and waved to the clerk, who struck down his staff in response.

"The court finds the accusation unproven. That is my ruling." Clara exhaled and fell back onto her seat. Thank the Goddess this country doesn't operate on the kind of legal fiction logic that requires you to find the real murderer to get a 'not guilty'. Sometimes, reasonable doubt is all it takes. She glanced at Warren, and they both smiled. Iris von Rhenia did not gloat, for gloating was the refuge of the insecure and the low-born.

She simply happened to be correct, frequently and with very little effort, and occasionally chose to remark upon her correctness, as a kindness to those around her who might otherwise have failed to notice it.

"I told you, Auntie Bel," Iris announced, the very second the embassy doors closed behind them and the marvelous cool of the sitting room's crystals washed over her.

"Did I not say it? That no Byzottoman court, however peculiar their ways, could possibly get the better of my advocate. Did you see how composed she was?" Iris didn't need to mention the rather harrowing stretch after Prince Justan brought up the slave trade, during which she muttered several prayers. History belonged to the composed. Clara sank into a chair, still wearing that wretched suit that she had sweated through twice over.

"Thank you, Lady Iris. Though, if I'm being honest, having the Sultan-Basileus there was nerve-wracking."

"Nonsense—elevated stakes only enhance a performance." That was something Iris had read when preparing her surprise for Class 2-A's play, and she'd decided they were wise words to live by. Auntie Bel chuckled, already holding a glass of wine.

"Little Iris has the right of it. You've achieved something great today." She raised the glass toward Clara.

"I really can't take all the credit," said Clara. She then proceeded to do something Iris found entirely objectionable: she turned, tilted her head toward the Albion lordling, and said, "Warren's support was invaluable. I was only free to pose my theories and their implications because I could trust him to handle the diplomatic framing." Warren Righton, who was standing beside Clara's chair with his hands clasped behind his back, donning his very best insufferable smile, lowered his head.

"You're too generous, Casewell. But it's refreshing to know that you can keep an accurate accounting."

"And it's equally refreshing to see that you still hold such a high opinion of yourself," said Clara.

"You say that as though it were a flaw." And then the two of them looked at one another. It was only a brief exchange, but it had a particular undertone to it. Iris's fan went still in her hand. What is going on. She narrowed her eyes. For this entire trip, these two might as well have been hissing cats around each other—at one point, Iris had seen Clara storm out of the study positively radiating anger, muttering about sticks lodged in places no lady of proper upbringing would lower herself to repeat.

And now Clara was distributing credit to him as though it was only natural, and then they were exchanging looks. Something has happened. Iris did not know what, and that was irritating in itself. She was someone who noticed things, who arranged them to happen just the way they were meant to. For a development like this to have transpired beneath her very nose without her noticing it was nothing short of an affront to her. I shall get to the bottom of it. Discreetly, with the lightest possible touch.

"How lovely," said Iris, in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite.

"The strategic result is commendable," said Lady Luisa, standing by the door.

"With the underground slave trade exposed in open court, before the Sultan-Basileus himself, the Empire will have to do something about it, if only to save face."

"A treaty enforced by embarrassment rather than cannon," mused Auntie Bel, swirling her drink.

"I cannot help but think of Papai—" The door opened. Lord Pedro de Bragança strolled in as though returning from a lovely morning walk. He held a cup of coffee, and his great white beard was immaculate.

"You called for me, daughter?" Auntie Bel shot up before he had taken his second step. There was a flash of silver, a sharp hiss that cut through the air, and the dagger that had been at the duchess's hip a heartbeat earlier was suddenly hurtling toward her father's throat. Clara gasped, and even the Albion lordling flinched. Iris did neither. She had, after all, been raised to maintain her poise, and besides, it was fairly clear how this would end.

The aquamarine on Pedro's finger flared, and the dagger froze in the air just short of his throat before dropping softly to the carpet.

"Your aim has improved, Isabel," said Pedro, taking a sip of his coffee.

"And your manners have not, Papai." Bel flung herself back into her chair.

"You leave me a letter informing me you have gotten yourself accused of murder in a foreign country, making me sail the entire fleet across the Elysian Sea to tidy up after you while you vanish into the city, and then you just waltz here like nothing happened? Do you have any idea how much coal costs these days?"

"As if you weren't planning on billing it to the King."

"That is not the point! What if we couldn't win the trial and we had to attack?" Pedro smiled in response.

"I had every confidence that would not be the case." His deep blue eyes settled upon Warren Righton, then upon Clara, and he bowed.

"Counsel Casewell. Lord Warren. I am in your debt. You untangled the case with more grace than I dared to hope. You have my thanks."

"You know, Lord Pedro," said Clara, "if you'd talked to us instead of just giving us the ledger and disappearing, the case might have been considerably less tangled to start with."

"It might. But then you would not have done it yourselves." He stroked his beard.

"Forgive an old teacher his methods." Hmm. Iris pursed her lips. During the entire trip, she'd been having thoughts on Lord Pedro's conduct, and his current attitude only added to her theories. After some more barbs between Bel and her dear Papai, the group's discussion turned to the tedium of logistics.

Bel wished to plan the fleet's departure and swept Luisa off toward the study, with Conrad following behind; Clara murmured something about getting some rest, and Warren—of course—discovered an urgent reason to leave by the very same door at the very same moment, the two of them vanishing down the corridor. Iris remained precisely where she was, as she had no intention whatsoever of going anywhere.

She called Emma and sent her to check on Clara, both to clear the room and to interrupt whatever was going on between those two. And at last, Iris was alone with Pedro de Bragança. She observed him. He had settled into the chair across from her, refilled his cup from the pot the servants had left behind, and now drank with easy patience.

"You did not leave with the others, Lady Iris."

"Neither did you, Lord Pedro."

"No." His eyes crinkled.

"I had a feeling you wanted to have a word with me." So he had noticed her noticing him. Good. That would save them both a great deal of time.

"Then shall I be candid?" asked Iris.

"By all means. You need not stand on ceremony with me. I have known you since you were but a baby in your mother's arms, and candor is a great economy at my age."

"Very well. In that case…" Iris stood up and stretched out her arm.

"Pedro de Bragança. It was you who wrote this play, wasn't it? You killed Anis Clovos."