Elian’s POV

“Next! Na-eo, son of Merare and Ionea, charged with a count of theft of livestock. The accuser, Taratene, son of Jarone and Senya, will plead his case.”

The crowd shifted, and two men emerged at the front of the throne room, flanked by some of the guards. Both looked rather average for Greshans—stocky in frame, muscular, with long, curly brown hair and rather admirable beards. Scars adorned their arms. Dozens of eyes stared down at them, several scribes poised to document the proceedings. Undaunted by being watched, one of the men stepped forwards—Taratene, apparently—and launched into a prepared speech. The Crown-son rubbed at a temple while lounging upon the throne. A headache was building.

Even to the literate, the Greshan legal system was a mess, mostly patched together from the decrees of previous kings. Certain cases could be presided over by basic scribes and historians, but many of the more complicated cases ended up being the responsibility of the King, anyways. The irony of sitting here wasn’t lost on me, and the events of my meeting with Lordrin played again and again in my head. Accompanying the King in the room were Menone, and his father, Aradenene. Across from them, at the throne’s other side, sat one of the Senior Scribes, sorting a towering stack of tablets from previous trials, carefully keeping it from falling.

Again the King rubbed at his temple and—and the pain in my right arm abruptly flared up, shooting down my arm. I winced, blinking and glancing around.

Was I meant to speak here? No—the accuser was still giving their speech. In vain I tried to focus through the headache, and comprehend just what it was they were arguing. The charge had been presented as a theft case, but certain details of this argument…did not exactly sound like theft. But the man was talking too fast—was he trying to cover something up?

Eventually Taratene’s statement drew to a close. I held up my hand, pausing the trial a moment. “Taratene of Gresha, you charge Na-eo with theft?”

“That is correct, Crown-son.”

“But from what I understand, theft was not the crime committed here. It sounds like the actual theft was that you were conned,” I clarified. “Or perhaps some form of fraud.”

Taratene sniffed. “Con is a form of theft! Good mules, fine mules, the likes of which you’ve never seen and never will again see, and left in their place, low-quality copper—”

A belief in the magic of storytelling was firmly entrenched in Greshan culture, as was the case in many cultures. It showed itself in the strangest of places; for example, a court trial.

“But an exchange was made,” I interrupted, bringing the conversation to heel. “Na-eo did not sneak into your fields and steal your mules—your property.”

“Not—not as such, no. But—”

I looked between the two of them. “Are either of you in possession of your receipts? And was the transaction done in the presence of an approved scribe?”

Taratene sputtered. “I—well—”

“I keep all my receipts in impeccable condition. A point of pride,” said Na-eo.

“Er, Karine, was it?” I addressed one of the scribes. “If you’d please?”

The bronze-haired scribe stepped forward, reviewing the receipts and declaring them to be in order.

“But the quality of the copper! It is a crime! And it’s not the first! I am far from the only one Na-eo has cheated!” retorted Taratene.

I to the throne’s side, another scribe. “The punishment for fraud would be…?”

“Well, there have been approximately 217 cases of fraud in our records—”

“If you could just summarize the most common decrees, please…?”

The scribe squinted down his nose at me. “In nearly all cases, the merchant’s trading license has been revoked,” he sniffed, “and the merchant pays a fine to to the victim. The amount varies from case to case. If it were proper theft, there would be no fine. He would be marked with the thief-brand, and labor under Taratene’s service for a set amount of years, to be determined by the Crown-son.”

Mouth twisted, eyebrow raised. “And what would the punishment for embellishing charges to gain a servant be?”

“There is none—not unless it becomes apparent that evidence had been falsified.”

Something in the stomach twisted. Put it aside, as I began to drift again. My mouth moved on its own. “I see. Someone will retrieve a sample of the copper Na-eo has given Taratenene test its quality. At the same time, Na-eo’s other receipts will be gathered, and a list of all his former clients created. If his stock does not pass muster, he will pay a fine to every single person he has cheated and have his license to trade revoked until he earns it back. Is this acceptable?”

“No! Absolutely not!” shouted Taratenene. “He is cunning, a scoundrel, a thief! He will continue to trick honest men such as I!”

“For a repeat offender such as him, the sentence is rather light, Crown-son,” said Aradenene. “At the very least him with the Thief-Brand as well, as a warning to all who would do business with him.”

“He has lost his license to trade. Who would do business with him like this?”

“Not everyone does things officially, Crown-son.”

“But—it shouldn’t be necessary, the brand seems so…permanent.”

Aradenene’s smile seemed to lose a little of its light. “If it pleases the Crown-son. It is his call.”

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The king shifted in his seat, about to make a decree, then paused, listening to those gathered for a moment. There was no mistake—there were murmurings of dissent.

A moment more of hesitation, and then I he finally said, “Very well. Na-eo, son of Merare and Ionea, has been accused of serial fraud. His punishment is such—he will pay a fine to all he has tricked, have his trader’s license revoked, and be marked with the Thief-Brand. He will not serve any time in service. Hear me, all.”

A tablet passed in front of the king.

“The Crown-son should sign his decree, it is only right,” said the scribe. Instinctively he reached to mark the tablet but then he—I, examined it more closely. Words and characters swum before my eyes. Words and stories in this city were magic, and magic did not agree with me, even if my arm weren’t still throbbing.

And my head still ached.

Fortunately I did not need to think up an excuse. Across the room, one of the healers piped up. “The King’s hand is still recovering, sign it in his stead. There’s a precedent,” she said—Pia, I believed her name was. I deflated in relief as the scribe grumbled in annoyance, but complied.

And so the proceedings went on. Every so often, someone would voice their own thoughts on the proceedings—Pia would press that the king rest for my his health, Aradenene would claim the young Crown-son was being too soft. The king pressed on, relying on those present when reading old decrees and writing new ones, until the pain in my arm became too much to keep ignoring.

Finally, some advisor announced, “That’s enough, that’s enough! Enough court trials for the day—” I shifted in my seat, feeling lighter “—now is the time for the king to hear the concerns of the citizenry!” I sank back again, deflating.

The crowds shifted, as guards allowed new people to shuffle in. Now they laid out their complaints and petty grievances—not too dissimilar from the last few hours actually, only now no laws had been broken and no harsh punishments would be dealt. The last of the grievances, after most of the average cityfolk had departed, turned out to be from Aradenene.

“Before we all disband,” he said, keeping a careful eye upon the glaring Pia, still ready to call for a break, “one final thing that must still be addressed. What is to be done with the Angran prisoners?”

“A simple question,” the said quickly. “Obviously, we free them and return them to their villages. I’m barring the practice of the Rite of Sunset, and therefore there is no reason to keep them within our prisons.”

“Ah.” Aradenene held up a finger. “While I do agree there is little use to keeping them in the cells, I would argue that the Rite of Sunset isn’t the only way to make use of them.”

I The king steepled my fingers, face neutral. “And you would instead propose…?”

“The punishment for a thief is to brand them, and allow them to work off their debt until it has been repaid in full, is it not?” Aradenene scanned the throne room, watching as the heads of the onlookers bobbed in agreement. “The Angrans themselves are truly no more than petty thieves. Raiders and pillagers. Perhaps we don’t need to sacrifice them—but should they not repay their debts to us? It’s a kinder fate all around, one that benefits us all.”

The longer Aradenene spoke, the more those listening seemed to agree. I ground my teeth together.

“Aradenene,” I said, “would you do the work of a mule or ox?”

“I would not. The mules and oxen seem far more suited to such a task,” he replied.

“Then why give the Angrans such a task? They are not livestock,” I said.

“But they are criminals,” he returned. “Criminals who have wronged our people for a terribly long time. Who here has not been hurt by the Angra?”

If there had still been lower-class citizens, farmers, it would have been one thing. While they did cause other collateral damage or even attempt to kidnap people, the main goal of the Angrans during a raid was to steal food. As such, rarely did they target the inner city, and certainly never the temple and palace—instead their goal was invariably the farmlands. The place I had grown up.

Again, at Aradenene’s words, the court nodded and voiced their assent. This court, currently populated by historians, clerks, scribes, priestesses, teachers, politicians. Nobles. People who had spent their entire lives inside the good parts of town, the inner city, assuming they had even left the temple and palace in their entire lives. People with the capability of being picky about what they ate, who could eat things they had never grown or hunted or fished with their own two hands. Who had never had to sell all they grew or caught to mend a hole in their roof, or find new clothes for their youngest.

Certainly they still worked. Important work, even. But they did not know the Angrans, not even as warriors stared down from atop a wall.

Before I’d even met Talon, I knew him.

These people had no idea what they were even talking about.

“The Angrans only steal from us because they live on barren wasteland. If we offer them food, they’ll have no reason to come into conflict with us,” I argued.

“The Angrans live in those lands because they are a cursed and sinful people. And even if they were not, we haven’t the food to share with them, not with the drought,” said Aradenene.

“Then we’ll take food from the Deep Woods. We’ll ask Hallow Zaya to help,” I said.

Aradenene’s expression became tight. “That is a sacred place, King Elian. What right do barbarians have to pillage it? Why should the gods grant them mercy?”

I thought about one ‘barbarian’ who’d been living in the Deep Woods for some years now, who the forest itself seemed quite fond of, if Hallow Zaya’s rootkin were any indication. “Just because it’s a sacred place doesn’t mean one should never enter it. Do we not hold coming-of-age rituals and funeral processions within it? So long as the Angrans treat it with respect, there should be no issue,” I tried to argue. “And if I’m Crown-son, they won’t need to do such a thing for the Angra—they’ll do it for me.”

“Since when are the Angrans capable of treating anything with respect,” shouted out one courtier.

“Well, perhaps if you spoke with them—”

“King Elian. Your mercy is…admirable, but foolish. If you truly wish to do the Angrans a kindness, allowing them to serve will give them the opportunity to earn their food, as well as the respect of those they’ve wronged,” said Aradenene, with something that almost sounded like kindness. Almost.

“They would never agree to such a deal. Not as it stands now,” I said. The king. The king said it. He wiped the sweat from his brow, flicking the hair from his eyes. “Fine. There will be no gifts of food. But the Angrans currently held captive will go free, and that is final.”

Some of those in attendance exchanged looks and muttered amongst themselves, making no effort to quiet their voices. Most of the words were lost in the overlap of voices, but keen ears may have caught something like dogfucker. The king did not seem to hear them. He did not react, did not rise from his throne.

You’d say so much worse if you really knew.

Pia yelled over the crowd. “That’s all for today! The king will be having his rest!” She shot the Crown-son a sharp glare.

He sighed, heavily. Getting Talon out was one thing, particularly after how he’d nearly gotten away the first time, particularly so soon after ‘Crown Ruuthelaine’ appeared to grant me her patronage. But releasing many more was harder to get away with, and with no reappearances from the Crown days later, people became bolder.

I would need to act quickly, before I lost the opportunity altogether.