Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

It was a stacked court. El Murid was down eight votes before a shred of evidence had been presented.

Someone had bandanged Haroun heavily. He had been coached quickly and well. He lied with a straight face and defiantly traded stares with El Murid and Nassef.

Radetic nearly shrieked in protest when the Court voted to deny a request for permission to cross-examine.

A parade of pilgrims testified after Haroun stepped down. Their testimony bore little relation to the truth of what had happened. It seemed, instead, to follow religious predilection. No one mentioned seeing a peashooter or dart.

Radetic already knew this phase of desert justice well. He had reviewed judicial sessions at el Aswad. The disposition of most cases seemed to depend on which adversary could muster the most relatives to lie for him.

Megelin dreaded having to give his own testimony. His conscience had been ragging him mercilessly. He feared he would not be able to lie.

He was spared the final crisis of conscience. Yousif had passed the word. He was not called. He sat restlessly, and seethed. Such a travesty! The outcome was never in doubt. The decision had been made before the judges heard the charges....

What were the charges? Radetic suddenly realized that they had not been formally declared.

They were trying El Murid. Charges did not matter.

El Murid rose. “A petition, my lord judges.”

The chief judge, one of Aboud’s brothers, looked bored. “What is it this time?”

“Permission to call additional witnesses.”

The judge sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his left hand. “This could go on all day.” He was speaking to himself, but half the audience heard him plainly. “Who?”

“My wife.”

“A woman?”

A murmur of amazement ran through the gallery.

“She is the daughter of a chieftain. She is of the el Habib, who are of the same blood as the Quesan.”

“Nevertheless, a woman. And one disowned by her family. Do you mock this Court? Do you compound your crimes by trying to make a farce of the administration of justice? Your request is denied.”

Radetic’s disgust neared the explosive point. And yet... to his amazement, he saw that even the El Murid factionalists in the audience were appalled by their prophet’s suggestion.

Megelin shook his head sadly. There was no hope for these savages.

Fuad pushed a stiffened finger into his ribs. “Keep still, teacher.”

The chief judge rose less than two hours after the trial’s commencement. Without consulting his fellows privately, he announced, “Micah al Rhami. Nassef, once ibn Mustaf el Habib. It is the judgment of this Court that you are guilty. Therefore, this Court of Nine orders that you be banned forever from all Royal lands and protection, all holy places and protection, and from the Grace of God — unless a future Court of Nine shall find cause for commutation or pardon.”

Radetic smiled sardonically. The sentence amounted to political and religious excommunication — with an out. All El Murid had to do was recant.

Had there been any genuine crime the sentence would have been scorned for its mildness. This was a land where they lopped off hands, feet, testicles, ears, and, more often than anything, heads. But the sentence fulfilled the Royal goal. Executed immediately, it would keep El Murid from preaching during Disharhun, to the vast gatherings this year’s High Holy Week had drawn.

Radetic chuckled softly. Someone was scared to death of the boy.

Fuad gouged him again.

“My lords! Why hast thou done this to me?” El Murid asked softly, his head bowed.

He does it well, Radetic thought. The pathos in him. He’ll win converts with that line.

Suddenly, proudly, El Murid stared the chief magistrate in the eye. “Thy servant hears and obeys, O Law. For does not the Lord say, ‘Obey the law, for I am the Law’? At Disharhun’s end El Murid shall disappear into the wilderness.”

Sighs came from the crowd. It looked like the old order had won its victory.

Nassef shot El Murid a look of pure venom.

And why, Radetic asked himself, hadn’t Nassef said a word in their defense? What game was he playing? For that matter, what game was El Murid playing now? He did not seem at all distressed as he laid himself open for further humiliation.

“The Court of Nine orders that the sentence be executed immediately.”

That surprised no one. How else to keep El Murid from speaking?

“One hour from now the King’s sheriffs will receive orders to seize any of the proscribed, or their families, found within any of the restricted domains.”

“That,” Megelin murmured, “is too much.” Fuad jabbed him again.

Seldom was it that a pivoting point of history could be identified at the precise instant of turning. Radetic recognized one here. A band of frightened men had compounded an action of self-defense with one of spite.

They were trying to rob El Murid of a father’s precious opportunity and inalienable right to have his child baptized before the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines, during Disharhun. El Murid had already announced that he would dedicate his daughter to God on Mashad, the last and most important of the High Holy Days.

Radetic need be no necromancer to predict the long-term results. The meekest of the desert-born would have felt compelled to respond.

In later days El Murid’s followers would say that this was the moment when the grim truth of reality finally burst through the curtain of ideals blinding the youth to the hypocrisies of his world.

Radetic suspected that that revelation had come a lot earlier. The youth seemed secretly satisfied with the pronouncement.

Nevertheless, he reddened. The muscles in his neck stood out. “It must be God’s will. May the Lord grant his Disciple an opportunity to return to grace.”

He spoke softly, but his words were a threat, a promise and a declaration of schism. Henceforth the Kingdom of Peace would make war on heretics and the enemies of its future.

Radetic could smell the stink of blood and smoke drifting back across the years. He could not understand how El Murid’s enemies could fail to see what they had done. Old cynic that he was, he studied El Murid intently. Behind the very real anger there was evidence that the youth had expected this.

He did detect a barely restrained glee in Nassef.

El Murid departed Al Rhemish meekly. But Meryem left word that her daughter would bear no name till she received it before the Mrazkim Shrines themselves. Fuad laughed when he heard. “Women making threats?” he demanded. “Camels will fly before she sees Al Rhemish again.”

Yousif was not as sure. Megelin’s naggings were forcing him to think. He did not like the thoughts that came to him.

The rioting started before the dust had settled on El Murid’s backtrail. More than a hundred pilgrims died. Before the end of Disharhun, El Murid’s partisans had defaced the Shrines themselves.

Yousif and Fuad were amazed.

“It’s begun,” Megelin told his employer. “You should have murdered them. Then it would’ve been over this week, and in a year he would have been forgotten.”

Despite his earlier speech about the emotions involved, Yousif seemed stunned by the reaction of the Disciple’s followers. He could not comprehend being so hated by people who did not know him. So the human tragedy goes, men hating without trying to understand, and unable to understand why they are hated.

Later in the week, Radetic cautioned his employer. “There was planning behind this. They anticipated you. Did you happen to notice that neither one of them really tried to defend himself? Especially Nassef? He never said a word through the whole trial. I think you’ve created a couple of martyrs, and I think you did exactly what they wanted you to do.”