Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“I read a fair number of field reports from all through history,” Geder said, “and they didn’t match my experience.”

Aster glanced over at Basrahip, and the massive priest lifted his eyebrows.

Geder hadn’t known many children. Growing up, he had been the only child in the manor, and the boys and girls of the village had been only occasional companions. But even then, Geder thought that the patterns of age must be invisible to the people suffering them. Aster was his example. It was almost two years now since King Simeon had come and asked Geder to become protector of the prince. Geder could almost think that the boy he sat with now had been there, but that was an illusion. Aster had grown a bit taller, yes, but more than that, he had grown into himself. The planes of his face were still gentle, but not those of a child. Or at least not as often. He had become stronger too, leaner. There were still years before Aster became a man grown and took his crown, but Geder could see glimpses of that man. That king. It left him proud and melancholy both. If he was going to give Aster a world that was truly at peace for the first time since the dragons fell, he wouldn’t be able to rest, and there were days he would have liked nothing better than to sleep late, eat in the library, and nap in the sun. He had known that being Lord Regent would be a sacrifice. Even with all the power and status it gave him, carrying the weight of empire was only supportable because he was doing it for Aster.

That was what he told himself, anyway. He also could admit to himself that there were some parts of wielding power that he would miss, when the time came.

“Lord Palliako?” The old man bowed almost double as he came into the room. Ever since he’d come back after the insurrection with the courage to break from small traditions like letting other people bathe and dress him, Geder had gotten a reputation with the servants of the Kingspire. It made them much more respectful. “The general audience is ready, my lord.”

Geder stood, pulling his robes back into their best trim. Basrahip rose from his seat beside the window and stepped toward him, gentle for so large a man.

“All right, then,” Geder said. “Let’s clean this all up, shall we?”

When he turned toward the door, the servant’s face was pale. Geder glanced behind him, half expecting to see an assassin or a bee. Some sort of danger. There was nothing but the room.

“What? What’s the matter?”

The servant swallowed and coughed.

“Your crown,” Aster said, and Geder’s hand rose to his bare brow. “It’s back here.”

“Thank you,” Geder said, taking the metal circlet and putting it on. “How does it look?”

“Regal,” Aster said.

Geder struck an exaggerated pose. The boy prince laughed and Geder laughed with him.

The general audience was reputed to be one of the great chores of the regency. Over the long months of the winter, requests for audience had built up like water behind a dam: magistrates who wished to escalate their decisions to the highest possible authority, prisoners of the crown who wished to make a case for clemency, and the assorted small business of sitting the Severed Throne. Geder had never done the thing, never even attended one, and he looked forward to the enterprise.

The hall set aside for the general audience stood a hundred yards or so from the base of the Kingspire, and the massive presence of the building looming above gave the event a sense of grandeur that bordered on the ominous. The seat here was the actual Severed Throne, the ancient metal scarred where Bacian Ocur cut it and Annan the Forge made it whole. Or so tradition had it. The truth behind the legend was anybody’s guess.

From his seat, Geder looked out over a sea of faces. Gold and gems glittered from the arms and breasts of the nobles. The merchants wore furs and fine wool. And behind them, kneeling, what serfs, peasants, and prisoners had managed to convince the bureaucrats of the court that their issues merited the Lord Regent’s attention. His personal guard stood at his back, and palace guards lined the processional that led to him. Geder couldn’t help grinning, at least at first. The empire had brought its knottiest puzzles to him for judgment—the terms of land rights, the disposition of slaves, the judgment of crime, and the assessment of punishment. All manner of questions of justice waited for his mind to untangle, and whatever he decided right would become right by the mere act of his decision. In all, it seemed the best entertainment possible.

Only, of course, without Basrahip at his side, it would have been awful.

“Are you ready?” Geder asked.

“Yes, Prince Geder,” replied the priest, bowing. He lumbered down to his place in the closest row of observers, standing to the side, where Geder could see him. Geder felt a moment’s anxiety, worried that Basrahip might move out of earshot or be blocked by someone in the court. And then by the sense of being exposed. He had the sudden, powerful image of hidden archers loosing arrows at him where he sat. He never used to have worries like that. Another legacy of Dawson Kalliam. Eyeing the crowd with a wariness they didn’t deserve, he raised his hand, and the general audience began.

The issues came before him in order of precedence: the nobles first by rank, then the untitled of noble blood, ambassadors and foreign nobles with Antean family, then those without, then the merchant houses with letters of association, then those without, with mere people filling whatever time was left before king or regent grew too weary and postponed the rest until next year. Two illegitimate sons of a minor lord each claimed to have been promised the same dyeyard from their father’s estate. Geder had them both recount their versions of the tale, and then watched for Basrahip’s gentle nod or slight shake of the head. A Jasuru woman presented a contract that bound a local merchant to sell to her at a price lower than the market would otherwise provide him. The merchant swore the document was forged. Basraship’s tiny movements assured him that the document was genuine, but Geder made a show of asking probing questions and examining the document before he ruled, and for the crime of lying to the Lord Regent, he had the merchant taken to the new gaol for a month and his left earlobe cut off. With each issue put before him, Geder became more comfortable in his role as the dispenser of justice and wisdom. By the time they had reached the last of the merchant houses, he hardly needed Basrahip’s advice any longer. For hours, the assembly had watched him cut through lies and misrepresentations, finding the truth with the unerring skill of a hunting dog. He saw fear in the faces of the liars and respect in those whose fortunes he made whole. Really, there was nothing better.

There were some issues that didn’t hinge on deceit, in which the facts were established and uncontested, and only the interpretation of them was in question. He didn’t like those as much, but he gave them his best guess or else put off the decision until he could look into some fine point of history and common practice in more detail. He could see the disappointment in the faces when he said that, but no one objected. He was Lord Regent Geder Palliako. He was the man who had revealed the treachery of Feldin Maas and Asterilhold, waged a war of reunification and defeated a coup in a single year, and saved the empire twice over. He was a hero. Anything he did was right by definition.

The only unexpected event came nearly at the day’s end. The Dartinae man came to the foot of the throne, kneeling in a bow so deep he pressed his knuckles to the floor. He was strong for one of his race, his skin dark from the sun, and his eyes glowed as bright as torches. His tunic was well-worn leather with the sigil of a dragon inked on the chest like a poor man’s coat of arms.