Chapter 29 #2
He hesitates, then hands me his coin purse. “Straight there and straight back. One hour.”
Not three minutes later, I spy Quin at the open window of his room at the academy, overlooking the market. He’s speaking to someone but I can’t see . . . I look away and refocus.
I find Skriniaris Evander stroking his cat in the sunlight that stretches onto my favourite desk. “Cael! What brings you here?” He looks behind me, as if expecting other company. “You didn’t escape, did you?”
“Would you turn me away if I did?”
He laughs. “Sit. I keep experiencing pins and needles in my feet. What could be causing that?”
I lean in. “Have you given up sweets?”
“Gah!” He wags his finger at me. “You never tell me what I want to hear.”
I grin. “You never listen to what I say.”
I untie Grandfather’s books from my back and peel open the fabric.
Evander scoops Taffy from the table into his arms. “What have you got there?”
“Grandfather’s research.” I look up from the leather-bound books. “You may not agree with it.”
He peers at the title inked onto the outside of the first book. “Wards?”
I nod, swallowing.
He rises and settles Taffy in my arms—the first time he’s ever let me hold her.
He reaches behind a plank of wood on a shelf in the far corner and pulls a book out of its dusty cave.
“When a large donation came to the library last year, I got this and a few others secretly. No book should ever be banned.”
His words spark a warmth in my chest that reminds me of the moments my grandfather patted my shoulder and told me stories of simple herbs making lives better . . . saving lives . . .
I stroke a purring Taffy, each pass of my fingers through her white fluff like the strengthening of an unspoken bond between the three of us.
My fingers pause at a knobble at the base of Taffy’s tail and my voice comes out croaky. “Taffy has an old wound here.”
“Mmm, his majesty found her with a broken tail.”
“His majesty?”
“When he was a young prince.” He grows quiet for a moment, then gives me a wobbly smile. “Constantinos found her, but his father would not let him keep a cat, especially a broken cat. He asked me to take her. That way, he could spend time with her after our lessons.”
I rub behind her ears and smile softly. That’s why he has Generalus for his son. Secretly, he’s a cat person. “Was his father so strict?”
“A complicated man. Perhaps the reason his sons are suffering under their uncle.”
“What do you mean?”
“King Anastasius was the younger son. He took the title of crown prince from his elder brother.”
“Took?”
“He believed his intelligence made him the better choice and set a trap to disgrace him. He wanted to show that in a pinch, his brother would make stupid decisions, corrupt decisions. And he was right.”
“The high duke wants to take back what he thinks should be his.”
“He spent years trying to regain his position, only to have it confirmed time and time again that he’s not fit to be king; he’s short-sighted, stupid.
” Skriniaris Evander sighs. “The high duke is after the throne, but I believe more than that, he wants to prove his father and brother wrong. To prove he’s capable. Smart. Worthy of their love.”
I frown, struggling with a swirl of sympathy.
“It doesn’t help that the only friend the duke had, the only one who gave him any sense of love and worth, was killed by crusaders along with his entire family.”
I let out an anguished breath.
“Do you pity him?” Skriniaris Evander asks softly.
I cast my gaze to the pavilions outside.
“Good. That’s good. No one is born bad in this world.”
“But it can’t forgive his ruthless actions. He’s killed many innocent people.”
“Indeed. But it’s also a lesson in the importance of nurturing—of kindness; of compassion.”
I look at Skriniaris Evander. “Why do I feel there’s more to those words?”
“There is. You have a responsibility to help nurture Constantinos into the king he needs to be for the people.”
“I—I’m a struggling scholar!”
“He is a struggling king.”
“He already has plenty of confidence.”
Skriniaris Evander leans in. “He’s a very good actor.”
“Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t this be something his brother should do? Or his wife?”
“His wife was a political choice, made by his father. His brother, equally, was determined by birth. They will both impact his growth, but you are different. You may have a more profound effect on him than anyone.” He emphasises each word. “He chose you.”
I rock back in my chair; hard wood scrapes along the floor and Taffy jumps off my lap, startled. “I-I think you misunderstand the depth of our relationship.”
Kind eyes crinkle softly at the edges. “I don’t think I do.”
I rearrange grandfather’s books on my back and fluff my cloak for air. It’s been strangely hot since I left the library.
Wrong. Skriniaris Evander is wrong. Quin didn’t choose me—we kept tripping over one another, and have simply learned to live with it.
I shake off the strange conversation and hurry along the cobbled streets of the inner capital. Brazen birds pick at crumbs left on outdoor tables, and a family of mice skitters along the gutter, shooed away by a broom-wielding matron preparing for the lunch crowd.
A young boy of eight or nine rushes past me, grazing my side, his eyes focused ahead, arms cradling a package close to his chest. He zooms around the corner, towards the market. In the distance behind me, heavy, wheezing shouts.
A middle-aged, white-aproned man pauses to puff then bursts once more into a jog.
I’m not keen to interfere without knowing the full story, but I’m able to watch the show since the speedy boy is headed in the same direction. He zigzags through throngs of marketgoers, leaps over a cart of potatoes, and trips over a distinguished-looking man, knocking them both into an ink stand.
People gather in a circle around the pair as they rise from the debris, ink all over them. The stall owner looks on aghast, speechless, as the man orders his aklo to hold the boy while he examines the stains on his elegantly embroidered robe in dismay.
The boy struggles for his freedom, but the aklo is well-practiced and restrains him easily.
I edge into the circle surrounding the scene and halt when I see the man’s face. It’s the judge who sentenced Akilah. The judge who presided so rigidly over the execution that took River’s life. I’ll never forget that face.
“Please, lemme go. Lemme go,” the boy pleads, the package he hugged now dangling from string looped around his finger.
The judge sharpens his gaze on the boy’s dirty face, his patched clothing. “This garment is worth more than a dozen of your lives, runt.”
The boy’s eyes open wide, panic settling into them. “Please, I have to go.”
“You’re not leaving until I’m adequately compensated.”
“I have no—”
“Thief! Hold that boy!” The aproned, now wheezing man barrels through the onlookers into the circle.
“Who are you?” the judge asks sharply.
“I’m from the dispensary two streets back. That boy stole a package of verdeflora.”
“A thief too.” The judge turns to the writhing, crying boy and snatches the package from him, tossing it to the apothecary.
The boy whimpers. “Please. My mama’s sick. She don’t get this—”
“One less beggar.”
My stomach balls into a tight knot. It’s hard to breathe. I recall it all. The judicial courtyard. The desperation. Being at the mercy of this man; the cruel reality that he doesn’t care about fairness.
“Hold on,” the judge says, a tight smile tipping his thin lips. “How could someone like you afford a mage to administer these herbs?” He barks a delighted laugh. “Quite a bit of law-breaking going on today.”
That vitalian, whoever they are, is me six months ago—saving people with spells we’re not allowed to touch.
“Aklo, cut off his hands.”
Aklo shoves the boy onto his knees and knots his wrists together with magic, stretching them out on the dirty stone before him.
I lurch forward and fling myself wide between the aklo and the boy. “Stop.”
Aklo looks to the judge, and the judge turns his sharp gaze on me, nose twitching. “Who are you?”
“I am the mage who agreed to treat this boy’s mother.”
“Arrest him!”
I brandish my soldad. “Qualified.”
The judge stares at my badge, face colouring, eyes narrowing. He huffs. “That still leaves the crime of theft. Of ruining my cloak.”
“Is there a law against ruining your outfit?” I pivot to block Aklo and steady my gaze on the judge. “What about your crime of assumption? The crime of no proper trial? The crime of being unjust?”
The judge laughs and holds a hand up for Aklo to wait. “A mere mage thinks he understands the law better than the head of the capital’s judicial court?”
The surrounding crowd becomes a collective murmur; the boy behind me stifles his sobs, and my rapid pulse rushes in my ears.
“There are intricacies I know nothing of,” I agree.
“However. Civil laws are based on Goffridus Ethics, and Goffridus’s founding principle for judgement is the balance of good and harm.
That means not only looking at the crime itself but taking in the circumstances of that crime.
Who is the victim, what are their costs?
Who is the perpetrator, what is their intent?
The harm caused by a murderer for sweet revenge is far more egregious than an accidental death in pursuit of safety. ”
“There’s more than enough evidence to prove this boy a thief—the shop owner, witnesses, the rare herbs in his hand.
Losing his hands not only fits his crime, but serves to discourage other thieves.
Having safer streets through punishment leads to overall good.
I think you’ll find I’m a mouthpiece for Goffridus. ”
The hilarity.
The judge sneers as I struggle not to laugh.
“I’m—I’m also a mouthpiece for Goffridus.”
“You—”