Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“Make sure my guards are still loyal to me. Can you do that?”

“Of course, Prince Geder,” the priest said, then turned to his initiates and motioned them close. They stood outside while Basrahip went to each of the guards, and then came back. Geder felt more and more self-conscious as the pause grew longer. Daskellin, Flor, Emming, and Mecilli all stood in a clump looking cold and uneasy. At last, Basrahip finished his round and came back to Geder’s side.

“They remain loyal to you,” Basrahip said.

“Good. Thank you,” Geder said quietly. Then, in his full voice, “Captain, disarm these men.”

Ternigan started, his mouth working quietly. Of the others, Daskellin and Flor seemed confused, but not alarmed. Emming appeared to hover on the margin between outrage and fear. And Mecilli … Geder couldn’t tell what was in Mecilli’s expression. Dispproval, perhaps. Or perhaps a kind of cold calculation. The great men of the empire had their swords and daggers taken from them. And then, Ternigan in the lead and the others behind him, they went into the tent. Then four of Geder’s guardsmen, and Geder, and Basrahip last.

When picturing the confrontation, he hadn’t really taken into account the size of Ternigan’s tent and how it related to the number of people who would actually be present. The camp tent was large for a man alone, or even a small group of advisors. With Geder and all of his council and the priests and the guards the proceedings had a vaguely comedic aspect that left him feeling even more ridiculous now than he had outside. Geder felt the rage that had fueled him all the way from Antea begin to falter in these last moments, and he hated it.

“Lord Ternigan? Lord Mecilli? Will you please stand here before me?”

Mecilli stepped forward, and then a heartbeat later, Ternigan followed his lead. Geder nodded and drew the letters from his wallet. Mecilli looked at the pages with curiosity, but Ternigan blanched.

“These little missives,” Geder said, “came into my possession. They purport to be correspondence between the two of you. Mecilli, take this.”

Mecilli accepted the page and read it slowly. After a few moments, his eyebrows rose and his face grew pale and waxen. Behind him, near the farther wall of the tent, Basrahip made his way through the press of men to take a position where Geder could see him.

“Lord Mecilli?” Geder said, letting the syllables roll gently through his mouth, willing himself back to the feelings of anger and righteousness that he’d let slip. “Do you recognize this letter?”

“No, Lord Regent. I have never seen this before.”

The tent was silent for a long moment, and then, to Geder’s surprise and horror, Basrahip nodded. Mecilli was speaking the truth.

“You didn’t write this?”

“No.”

Geder felt a lump growing in his throat. He’d pulled them halfway across the country for almost weeks for nothing. It had been a hoax. They would all go back to Antea with stories of how someone had made a joke of Geder Palliako.

“Did you write something similar to it?”

“No.”

“Are you part of a conspiracy against me?”

“I am not.”

With every reply, Mecilli’s voice grew calmer, firmer, and more certain. And at the tent’s rear wall, Basrahip certified each of them true. The goddess held her hand over Mecilli’s head and exonerated him. The press of bodies and the thickness of twice-breathed air called forth sweat and a lightheadedness that felt like being sick. He’d been tricked. He’d been made fun of. All of the signs and signals between the men had been figments of his fevered imagination. Somewhere, the true author of the letters was laughing.

With a sense of dread, he held out the letter that pretended to come from Ternigan.

“Lord Ternigan, did you write this letter?”

“No, Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, his voice calm and vaguely pitying.

Basrahip shook his head. No. That was not true. Geder took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly. The anger felt like relief. Like being saved.

“Say that again,” Geder said. “Tell me that you didn’t write that letter.”

Ternigan’s eyes fluttered and he glanced at Mecilli.

“I misspoke, Lord Regent. I did write that letter, but not for the reasons it might seem. My intention was to discover whether any such conspiracy actually existed.”

Basrahip scowled, and Geder understood the problem.

“One question at time, Lord Marshal. Did you write this letter?”

“I did.”

“Did you write it in hopes of taking the regency for yourself.”

“No,” Ternigan said. “Never that.”

The faintest ghost of a smile touched the corners of Basrahip’s mouth. He shook his head. No, that was not true. Geder’s anger came back in its full glory now. He smiled.

“Lord Ternigan? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can lie to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Ternigan said, and tried to take a step back, but Daskellin and one of the guardsmen were already in the space. Ternigan turned, looking for a path through the men to the door. Or a wall that could be pushed through. Escape.

“Have you called me a buffoon, my lord?”

“No!” Ternigan cried, but it was beyond all doubt. Geder spat on Ternigan’s feet. Here was the great Lord Ternigan, war hero of Antea, cowering like a child before his angry father. Here was the man who’d thought Geder was laughable and small and stupid enough that he could wrest the throne from him. That the instigator had falsely claimed to be Mecilli didn’t signify. Geder knew the truth of the betrayal from Ternigan’s own living voice. That was more than enough.

“Lord Ternigan,” Geder said. “I am removing you from your position as Lord Marshal of Antea.”

“Y-yes, my lord. As you wish it.”

“Yes,” Geder said. “As I wish it. Lord Daskellin? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

“No, my lord.” It was true.

“My lord Flor? Are you?”

“No.” True.

“Lord Emming? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

“I am not.” True.

Geder cracked his knuckles.

“My lords, I hereby name Lord Ternigan traitor against the Severed Throne and against my person as Lord Regent.”

“No!” Ternigan cried. “You have been misled, Lord Palliako! This is a conspiracy against me !”

“Guards, please escort the traitor outside.”

Ternigan struggled, but he had no weapons and no one to take his side. The guardsmen hauled him roughly out of the tent and sent him sprawling in the mud outside. Geder walked after him, the warmth of certainty and fury making him twice his height. His fists clenched and unclenched. The others came out behind him, one by one, until everyone from the tent stood in a rough circle. The guards hauled Ternigan to his knees.

“I demand a trial,” Ternigan said through a mouthful of mud. “I demand trial by combat. God knows I am innocent.”

“No,” Geder said. “He doesn’t. Captain. Your men should draw blades now.”

The captain gave the order, and the sound of a dozen swords clearing their sheaths filled the air. The sunlight glimmered on bare metal.

“This,” Ternigan said. “This is an injustice.”

“No. It isn’t,” Geder said. And then, “So. Who’s the buffoon now?”

Ternigan died quickly, the last of his blood spilling into the muck outside his tent. Geder watched him die with a sense of growing satisfaction. He wasn’t going to vomit this time. He was going to maintain his dignity. All around him, Lord Ternigan’s men stood slack-jawed and shocked. The wind made a soft whuffling sound like the noise of sails on a ship.

Canl Daskellin was the first to speak.