Guy II: The Hanged Man
It’s a cruel thing to see the sky on a night like tonight.
The stars were clear to see, each a tiny echo of a mighty sun spirit for a faraway world, orders of magnitude beyond the veil of human comprehension.
Guy had never much been one for reading the skies, but in four years he’d exhausted his library thrice over, and nothing but the window ever changed. Of course, there’d been the occasional bribe to procure more entertainment, but such acquisitions had become prohibitively costly, while the stars remained free. That thrice-damned Montaigne ruined any chance to keep myself sane in this ghastly prison.
Ever since the Miroirdeau Affair, Guy’s guards had been replaced to the man, their schedules changed rapidly enough that it was nigh-impossible to build rapport. He’d been denied ink and paper, denied visitation to his wife, denied even the dignity of proper sleep. The clanging opening of the door that had once been a daily check had been made hourly, even in the inhumane hours of the wee morning. The better part of Guy’s furniture had been seized, his bed tossed apart by meaty peasant hands on a daily basis. Even the rugs had been pulled, exposing cold stone to Guy’s newly bare feet. The slightest protest was met with threats to throw him in Fouchand's dungeons, the slightest sudden movement interpreted as a threat and met with a tackle to the floor.
Nor was there any hope of aid from across the Sartaire. Leclaire had officially denounced Guy’s actions as a violation of the Treaty of Charenton and a naked usurpation attempt of the Guerron Duchy, seemingly ignoring that Fernan Montaigne had done the same and her signature had made it official. None of Annette’s letters reached him anymore, if indeed she was still sending them at all, and any hope of alliance with Condillac seemed thoroughly dead and burned.
Like I’m to be, erelong. The perfect plan had turned to ash, and the increased scrutiny made replacing it practically impossible. If Guy ever dared to chance another bribe, it would not be for a mere coq au vin or novel, let alone the trivialities of a literary magazine.
But Pleateia’s Guide to the Southern Sky had already been in his possession, an old gift from Aurelian that had been near the bottom of Guy’s reading backlog. In truth, he probably never would have read it had everything not gone wrong. But, seeing as it had, it was fortunate to possess it, especially considering the fact that the rebels had seized the greater part of his library, allowing him to keep only a single curated bookshelf. Guy hadn’t intended to include it, preferring more lighthearted fare in these dark times, but he’d still found it one morning wedged into the shelf, apparently hidden in plain sight the whole time—that, or one of the rebels had returned it to his bookcase as some kind of jape.
With the equinox marked by the Festival of the Sun two weeks in the past, the entire mythic cycle of origin was visible, but for the obstructions to Guy’s sightline. Out the western-facing window, the first constellation Guy had learned loomed over the water, five stars clumped in a loose grouping that the book claimed was a circle, the hole in the earth spirit from which the first spirits had once emerged, long before humanity had touched the face of Terramonde.
In a straight line across the sky were Dum and Wyll, ostensibly resembling the crystalline cat and caliginous hound that had first sprung forth from Soleil and Khali, opposite but ultimately compatible life for Terramonde that would forever live in the shadow of their patron spirits. In Guy’s opinion, the two of them together halfway resembled Magnifico’s pulsebox, but that was about the closest they came to actually representing anything.
The penultimate of the cycle was called The Exile, at least in the west, representing the entrance of humanity to Terramonde’s surface, cast out of either the bowels of Terramonde or the sky above, depending on the story. It was nine stars in mostly vertical lines, supposedly showing six different people, but in practice it was only really intelligible through context and memorization. The Fox-Queen’s conquest had standardized the scholarship, but apparently, east of Paix Lake, some isolated mountainfolk still clung to an antiquated belief that humans descended directly from the spirits themselves.
The Hanged Man still loomed beneath the horizon, kept just out of view by an insipid patch of flowers clinging to the wall, glistening provocatively in the moonlight. I’m fated to expire before you’ll even begin to wilt. What a sorry achievement, a great Lord of the realm whose tenure compares unfavorably to a transient plant.
Guy couldn’t even take solace in the Hanged Man’s thuddingly obvious parallel to his own situation with it out of sight, nor appreciate seemingly the one constellation in the book that actually resembled the figure it represented, thirteen stars perfectly depicting both the man and the noose.
What does any of it matter, really? It’s nothing but a gaggle of squabbling academics arguing with each other via the slowest medium possible. By the time one published a stirring rebuttal that truly advanced anyone’s understanding of anything, the original author was probably already dead.
But it beats reading Accursed Queen for the five hundredth time. And even that was still better than contemplating how dire his situation was.
With the power she was concealing, Valentine had the means to escape, but that did nothing for Guy unless she stopped to retrieve him on the way, a vanishingly unlikely prospect. Not only was her lack of fondness for him matched only by his own feelings towards her, any pragmatic gain from involving him died along with Guy’s access to his wealth and connections.
Honestly, he was surprised she hadn’t broken through the wall and run towards Torpierre already, but that was probably only because she was waiting to see how his trial turned out. Considering that she would be able to follow the story just as well from afar once free, Guy could only conclude that she wanted to be sure she could see his execution with her own eyes. As if she hadn’t planned to benefit from the scheme just as much as I had. Guy ought to have had her sign the letter alongside him; then he’d have an actual chance at escape.
Before dawn broke, Guy was pulled from his bed and made to dress for his trial, a farce conjured up by Montaigne and his up-jumped mountainfolk to conjure a veil of legitimacy for their actions, as if imprisoning and murdering their liege lord could somehow be considered excusable by merely following a procedure.
Guards he’d never met before tightly bound Guy’s arms behind his back and marched him through the castle, the magnificent Château d’Oran that Guy’s ancestors had erected against the desolate mountainside to defend the Empire from its enemies across the water. Now it was sullied, merely a larger prison whose stain could only be removed through the restoration of justice.
The bindings were only removed once Guy was in the center of the chamber, surrounded by rebels and merchants and peasants united only by their misdirected hate towards him. Four years ago, Guy had stood on this very spot next to Fernan Montaigne, leading him to victory against that murderous curr, Magnifico, and saving his ungrateful cousin from a tragic and unjust death.
Now it was Guy burdened with innocence at this mockery of a trial, while Montaigne sat in Aurelian’s seat, the very spot where a flawed but fundamentally good man had seen the weight of the evidence before him and turned on Uncle Fouchand’s killer, despite the damage it had done to his grip on power. Would Fernan Montaigne be so selflessly circumspect? Considering his conniving deceptions and base conduct at that very trial, it seemed unlikely.
At Guy’s side was the solicitor he’d been allowed, a rebel who’d volunteered to lead his defense despite his opposition to the legitimate government. Guy might have chosen another, but Michel Montaigne had been remarkably convincing in his sincere intentions to represent him fairly when none else would, and none remained in the city of certain loyalty anyway.
“No person ought want for council in a just society, Citoyen Valvert,” he’d said, coming in of his own accord after weeks of futile pleas to old duchy solicitors had come and gone without response, Guy’s letters no doubt intercepted before they could reach them. “There are defenses to the charges laid against you, and I mean to argue them as effusively as a solicitor ever has.”
“Montaigne wants a façade of legitimacy before he hurls me from the mountaintops, nothing more.”
“He is one of the few people left protesting that very thought, Valvert. Fernan believes that the Commune ought to take no lives, no matter the crime. He even talked the CSP down from death for the guards you corrupted, sentencing them rather to seizure of their unjustly acquired wealth and service to the Commune.”
“The boy’s a fool,” Guy had told him upon hearing the news. There’s no use in injuring your enemies enough to anger them without removing them as a threat. Aurelian made the same mistake with Leclaire, though he died before that had time to give him any grief. Coin didn’t buy loyalty, but shared indignity could easily bind people under a common cause. Before, they’d simply taken his money, but now they had reason to rally to his side should he escape.
“Perhaps. He knows the worst of what you’ve done and still he wants to spare you.” Michel pushed his spectacles up, face curling into a frown. “And he begged me not to represent you. I had to resign my position on the CSP to do it. For all that he hopes you live, he still hoped I would step aside rather than grant you the legal protection the Commune owes every citizen when no one else would provide it.”
Michel had walked him through a stirring defense, consulting Guy all the while to verify details as he increasingly opened up, culminating in a closing argument that almost had Guy believe he could win over the rebel tribunal. Almost. Considering how dismal his prospects were today, it was still worth the gamble.
Opposite him was the man they called the Spirit of Death, the architect of all the misery and destruction that had dogged Guy since his letters to Condillac, Paul Armand. Seeing him for the first time, Guy was shocked by how young he looked, practically of age with Montaigne himself. This is the man who rooted out three dozen loyalists from a couple letters and a bag of florins? This child?
“Paul the Wall! Paul the Wall! Paul the Wall!” The chanting from the gallery grew louder as Armand emerged from behind the podium, only to be rapidly silenced upon Fernan Montaigne’s quiet request.
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Montaigne had only grown more wild with time, hair shaggy and beard untrimmed, as if the prospect of a mirror was foreign to him. Layered atop facial features that ranged from plain to reptilian and burning green flames where his eyes were supposed to be, even the robes of a magister did little to elevate his presentation. Yet still the peasants looked upon him with awe, hanging on his every word.
“As First Speaker of the Guerron Commune, before the Guerron Assembly and the people gathered here today, I now call to order the trial of Citoyen Guy Auguste Valvert.” Montaigne paused, the fire in his eyes shrinking down as he feigned remorse. “Citoyen Armand, as the champion of the people, please present your opening argument.”
“With pleasure, First Speaker.” Armand curled his arm into a bow, the hint of a smile on his face. “In a world of unjust men, enemies of the people who truly merit death, Citoyen Guy Valvert stands above all the rest. As far back as his tenure at the Bureau of Land under the false duchy government, Citoyen Valvert neglected his responsibilities, filled offices via nepotism rather than merit, and enriched himself off the backs of the people. When he was given Guerron—given, as if Guerron and all its people were mere property of the Duchy to be traded between cousins—”
Armand paused as the crowd erupted with jeers, continuing on for nearly a minute before Montaigne silenced them again. “Citoyen Valvert’s first official act was to deny all treatment and pensions for the people who’d surrendered their health or their lives to defend us all from Glaciel...”
That’s hardly fair—the first thing I signed was some irrigation agreement to deal with summer snowmelt. Guy remembered primarily because, with an unusual level of care, he’d actually read it, hoping to start his tenure as Lord of Guerron with a wiser ethos. And look where it got me. For all that Armand’s accusations about the time before the revolt were lengthy, the section of his argument regarding the Miroirdeau Affair was nearly as large as the rest combined.
“And once the people rose up against the injustice of Citoyen Valvert, leaving him with his life and lavish accommodations, paid for by the generosity of the people, he committed his final treason. Without the barest glimmer of excuse—no title, no position under any law new or old, having sworn an oath to the people that he would lay down his arms against them and surrender to our custody—Citoyen Valvert plotted an invasion. He conspired with foreign powers to invite an army onto our shores, to slaughter our citizens and steal our land, to force us once more under the oppressive boot of the aristocracy. The only just punishment for these actions is death.” Montaine was faster to silence the cheers to that, at least.
Michel’s speech was milder by comparison, focusing mainly on the exaggerated nature of several of the smaller charges, then making a greater point about the nature of injustice. “Citoyen Valvert was no worse than any Lord before him, no more or less unjust. But they reigned over us through fear, while Valvert relinquished power. He kept to his captivity and obeyed the Commune’s laws for four years without the slightest complaint from his jailors. Only once these letters and gold appeared was he targeted by Citoyen Armand, dubious discoveries with no certain ties to Citoyen Valvert. Armand is well known for his overzealousness, and never seems to find any trouble locating exactly the evidence he needs at the right time. What assured the rest of the Assembly of their authenticity was a private conversation between Valvert, Armand, and Citoyen Fernan Montaigne. This conversation was witnessed by no one else, and Citoyen Montaigne could not remember the exact words that convinced him. The only source of the transcript is Paul Armand himself.”
Most of the rest was similar quibbles, casting doubt over different sources and pieces of evidence without making any kind of case for Guy’s obvious moral legitimacy in ruling the Duchy’s subjects. It rankles to leave my greatest point unsaid.
The witnesses for the prosecution came and went, some more convincing than others. Michel’s questioning served to make several look extremely unreliable, but almost all of them spoke in lockstep with Armand to throw the tar of guilt against the rightful Lord of Guerron. And as damaging as Armand’s witnesses were, Guy’s own slate was sorry enough that it almost looked worse.
Michel had asked if his wife could be persuaded to speak for his character, if nothing else, but even that she would not do. Several others, aides and functionaries from the bureaus, agreed only in exchange for payment, which Michel flatly refused to facilitate. The most he could muster were a few old drinking buddies and a friend of Michel’s named Maxime, who testified only to the damage and corruption that would result from execution as a punishment. He seemed correct enough about Condorcet, and at least had the self awareness to recognize the similarities in his own despotic council, but he made no mention of Guy whatsoever; hardly a stirring defense.
All that remained were his direct responses to the charges laid against him.
“Citoyen Valvert, how do you answer the charge of graft?”
“I committed none.” Guy strained to keep his tone polite, his words inoffensive to the rebel regime. “My role prior to the establishment of the Commune does not qualify as a legitimate office. I served honorably in my role as Lord of Guerron without using any powers of the office to illegitimately enrich myself.” Primarily because it was wholly legitimate before you lot came in and declared it otherwise.
“How do you answer the charge of perversion of justice in the unjust persecution of Phillipe Montrouge?”
Guy bit his tongue, remembering the words Michel had given him. “The charges against Phillippe Montrouge were a tragedy, thankfully reversed when the people stormed the castle on the day of his trial. In my position, I could not scrutinize every last case that my ministers conducted. This is their fault.”
“How do you answer the charge of bribery and subversion of eight prison guards, two journalists, and the disgraced Assembly member Gabriel Rochaort?”
That if the bloody Viscount could have managed another week before blustering himself to death, I’d be the one executing you, you vile little worm. “My wealth was indeed depleted by these corrupt individuals, only because they thought to steal it from me while I was helpless. I never had the chance to influence them by it.”
Armand hardly missed a beat, moving on to the next charge, then the next, each harsher than the last, until the full details of the Miroirdeau Affair were dredged up for all to hear. Guy answered with the same lie he’d told Michel. “I have no knowledge of these letters, but disavowed them as soon as I learned of their existence.”
On and on it continued in that vein until at last Montaigne called an end to it, putting Guy’s fate up to a vote of the rebel councils, as if he were a rowdy member of their social club they were debating whether or not to expel. Except, of course, these are peasants. What would be a more suitable metaphor? It was as if they were standing in the barn of their hovel, trading rationales for feeding him to the pigs.
“Citoyen Paul Armand,” Montaigne began, running his fingers across the top of his desk as he read the rolls.
“Abstain, by way of recusal.,” Armand said, giving up his vote in order to prosecute this outrageous violation of justice against his own Lord.
“Citoyenne Liline Avieront.”
“Culpable,” answered a surprisingly fetching young woman with tangled red hair. I’m to be killed by children who can’t groom themselves—even Aurelian had a more dignified end.
“Citoyen Gilbert Barnave.”
“Abstain,” voted a grey haired man, granting Guy his first ray of hope. As far as Michel had explained the rebels’ ridiculous, illegitimate system, they could only rule on his guilt with a majority of votes in favor. While abstentions were not the same as voting him innocent, they still posed an obstacle to their goals of killing him. Perhaps the last one left before my fate is sealed.
Maintaining a pristine appearance was essential—Guy needed every advantage he could get, no matter how trivial—but he still felt sweat drip down his nose as he stirred anxiously in his seat.
“Citoyenne Edith Costeau.”
“Culpable,” the singer answered, apparently forgetting the thousands of florins Guy and his peers had thrown her way across the years, the opportunities she’d been given to attend their parties and play for the Fox-King himself. And why should she, when Fernan Montaigne killed the very concept of gratitude stone dead?
“Citoyenne Céline Duchamps.”
“Abstain.”
After several more rebels made their declarations, the abstentions numbered almost half the votes. Almost, but not enough. Still, there was still a way to win, an ever-narrowing road to victory that remained within sight.
“Citoyen Étienne Lantier.”
“Culpable.”
“Citoyen Séverin Marceau.”
“Culpable.”
“Citoyen Dominic Mesnil—Absent. Citoyenne Eleanor Montaigne.”
Oh I heard about this one. The boy’s mother had followed him into the rebel councils, failing not only her liege lord but also her own son, allowing this madness to continue instead of teaching him respect. “Culpable.”
Fernan Montaigne looked surprised by that, as though he hadn’t thought to discuss this with his own mother before the trial itself. His voice shook as he read the next name. “Citoyen Fernan Montaigne.” He swallowed. “Abstain.”
The moment he voiced his vote, Guy’s heart sank. He wouldn’t bother with that bit of theater if he didn’t know he already had the votes. All that remained was to watch helplessly as the boy’s plot played out its final sequence.
“Citoyen Michel Montaigne.”
“Abstain, by way of recusal.”
Fernan Montaigne frowned more convincingly than he could usually manage despite the fact that none of this could possibly be a surprise. “So recused. Citoyen Laurence Odèle.”
“Culpable.”
Montaigne went through several more ‘culpable’ votes with nary an abstention among them until he reached a name Guy was surprised to hear. “Citoyen Gabriel Rochaort... Absent. Citoyen Gaël Réglàce.”
“Culpable.”
By the time they reached ‘Citoyenne Zhiri’, less than a third of the rebels had abstained on Guy’s behalf, including the recusals, and none had voted in his favor. Having suddenly found a talent for acting, Fernan Montaigne looked almost as ill as Guy felt.
“The Assembly declares Citoyen Valvert... Culpable on the charges of treason, graft, perversion of justice, assault against fellow citizens, inciting corruption, conspiracy to commit treason, and... counter-revolutionary activities. Pursuant to Citoyen Armand’s prosecution, the sentence is death.” Montaigne turned away from the table, his eyes as dim as the last centimeter of a candle. After a deep breath, he rotated back around. “The people have spoken. Twelve hours hence, before the people of Guerron, Citoyen Valvert will suffer the consequences for his crimes.”
Why? Why must it come to this? Fighting back tears, Guy tried to keep his head high as they marched him out, the penultimate time any of these people would ever see him. The peasants can die puffed up and whimpering, but Count Valvert shall face his end with dignity. It was all he had left.
He felt too dead already, not even reacting when he realized they were taking him down into the dungeons.
Guy slept not one minute of the night, staring no longer at the sky but only the cold, dark stones of his windowless cell, every second feeling both a thousand years long and woefully too short. At times he could hardly breathe beneath the crushing weight of his impending death, mortal tendrils wrapped tightly around his neck.
After minutes or hours, he felt a low rumble as the stones opened beneath him, dropping him down into the dark abyss.