Aliyah
Her head swum. It felt like being inside the sugar-daemon’s lair again, a suffocating fishbowl clamped down over her head. The lukewarm air of the trial room couldn’t quite seem to fill her lungs.
“Wh-what?” she stammered, voice cracking.
She could feel the blood draining from her face. Trembling, too—almost hollow with hunger and exhaustion now, weak and crumbly on the inside like an over-baked butter cookie; hells, what she wouldn’t do for a platter of biscuits right now. Whatever vestiges of inner strength she had left—already sapped by the back-and-forth dance of questioning—was scooped out of her guts by the adjudicator’s statement. She wanted to keel over and fall asleep right there and then, to wake up in a nest of soft, warm sheets and to realise that it had all been a bad dream.
“Thirty lashes of the whip,” the adjudicator repeated evenly. “To be carried out at the earliest convenience and under supervision by a qualified Healer.”
Whipping.
It wasn’t the worst thing they could do, not by far. She’d worried over the executioner, of course, but she hadn’t truly feared it. Worrying was not the same as fearing; she’d had years of experience grappling with the snares of her own anxieties. Beneath the suffocating blanket of what-ifs she had known, on a certain level, that they would not kill her for this.
She had clung to the assumption that her plausible lies would shield her from excess harm, that Taif and Osorin and Shahriyar's statements had worked in her favour, that they would merely force her to work unpleasant jobs unpaid for many months. The worst-case scenario, she’d thought, was that they would bleed her dry of all her coin. She had not considered that the adjudicator would prescribe physical violence. Already, freshly-ignited fears crowded into her head: shredded flesh and rivulets of yet more blood. Was it better than being locked away as months or years of her useless youth slipped by?
She was so entangled in her own whirlpool of fears that she didn’t notice the Magician-delegate speaking until he stepped out in front of her to face the adjudicator. “—neglected to consider my statement as delegate,” he was saying.
“The Magicians sent you rather late into the proceedings,” the adjudicator said, peering down at them. “It is most unusual.”
The Magician bowed shallowly, one arm hooked behind his back. “Regardless, I am here.”
The adjudicator gave the Magician a long, hard look. “Very well. Magician Cardainne, was it? Make your statement.”
“We the Magicians are ideologically opposed to corporal punishment,” Cardainne said, his shoulders straightening as he clasped his hands behind his back. “As the designated delegate, I recommend an alternate correctional method.”
“The Librarians have requested that the offender be whipped,” the adjudicator replied. Aliyah’s heart sank. “An adjudicator complies with the wishes of the injured party.”
“I have funds earmarked for damages inflicted upon the Library.”
Cardainne spoke as if it were an ordinary thing, but murmurs rippled through the four Librarians present. Aliyah’s mind whirled. Funds? From where? And why? The jump from coaxing words to offers of hard coin was a sizeable one; she grappled with the rising bubble of hope forming inside her chest. The adjudicator held up a hand and the mutterings faded into silence.
“She is a common maidservant,” the adjudicator murmured.
Aliyah bristled internally—yes, that was right. A common maidservant. Not worth the bribery. Another part of her mind whispered: but the coin—where from? And why?
“Indeed,” Cardainne said as he fished a folded parchment from the depths of his robes and passed it up to the adjudicator. The adjudicator adjusted his spectacles over and took it. Aliyah’s breath caught in her chest as he unfolded the note.
“…It is not the usual sum,” the adjudicator said after a pause.
“We the Magicians do not sponsor the release of this particular offender. The sum is sourced from an independent body.”
“This is highly unusual. And altogether inadequate.”
Aliyah’s chest tightened. So this was it, then. Salvation dangling right in front of her before it was swiftly yanked away, all because the greed of one old adjudicator was not satisfied.
“As per my initial statement, the sum is for the Library,” Cardainne spoke up again. His voice had taken on an edge. “If you would pass the document to the Librarians, perhaps they may be persuaded to ease their demands of the offender.”
The adjudicator pursed his lips and held the note down to his side. Librarian Taif considered the paper for several moments before passing it over to Errai, who glanced at it, scowled, and passed it back.
“Do the Librarian delegates see value in this offering?” The adjudicator asked as the note made its way past him again, to Orosin and Shahriyar.
Errai snorted. “No. This is a most unseemly—”
“Yes,” said Taif, cutting him off. There was a note of self-satisfaction in her voice; Aliyah doubted the woman had any real sympathy for her so much as the wish to be contrary to Errai. Still, she would take it.
“Yes,” said Orosin after a pronounced pause.
Shahriyar hesitated as his gaze flicked from his peers to the adjudicator and then to Aliyah herself.
“…yes,” he finally said.
Was that pity she heard in the voices of the last two? Well, they had seen her bleeding out on their Library floor. Perhaps her suffering had been useful, for once.
“The majority agrees. Librarian Taif, if you could fetch a Chief Librarian,” the adjudicator said. Frost tinged the edges of his steady voice. “Magician Cardainne, if you would escort the offender back into the waiting hall and supervise her until we reconvene.”
Taif nodded sharply before stepping down from behind her desk to sweep past them; the door blew open of its own accord to let her through.
Magician Cardainne turned and clicked his fingers. Aliyah flinched as a ball of blue light flared to life around the end of the trailing chain of her handcuffs. Cardainne motioned with his hand as he strode over to the open door; the chain lifted into the air and went taut, pulling her towards his retreating back. She stepped hastily after him to avoid being yanked off her feet, and the door slammed shut behind them with a gust of sky-blue sparks.
Blinking up at the golden expanse of the empty waiting hall, she couldn’t help but feel dizzy and drained as she stumbled over to where Cardainne had seated himself next to the clerk’s desk. He produced a packet of foreign-looking cigarettes from the depths of his robes and lit one with a conjured flicker of white fire. Wisps of blue smoke started wafting from the glowing tip. The smoke was pungent and cloying—also probably horrible for the lungs. At least the unpleasantness took her mind away from how hungry she was.
“Must you?” the clerk grumbled, looking up from his papers.
Cardainne inhaled, coughing a little before bringing the cigarette back to his lips and taking another puff. “Soltani’s got a nettle up his ass today,” he said conversationally as he leaned back and slung an arm around the back of his chair. “Ah, warden duty. How far the mighty have fallen.”
“Again? Now, it couldn’t possibly be because you enjoy acting the irritant.”
“I think he would have beaten me to death with an ink pot long ago if he had possessed the strength for it.” Cardainne exhaled, turning his attention to Aliyah. Her skin prickled with unease. “Here, sit down, won’t you? Don’t try running off, now.”
She shuffled over and sat two seats down from him. Smoke drifted into her face and she turned her head away to cough as discreetly as she could.
Cardainne turned to address the clerk again. “Long week, eh? Plenty of papers and miscreants on your end? Me, I can’t believe the weather we’ve been having lately.”
The clerk sniffed, then turned and coughed into his elbow. “Ilya, your bloody smoke is creating its own Killing Field.”
“You have weak lungs,” Cardainne retorted, and waved the cigarette around for good measure. “We had to set up another god-awful training net this morning, let me tell you. The Weathermancers, they love to bitch and moan and never do their jobs properly. Two hours it took, herding apprentices through drizzle as thick as blood pudding. One of them lost a finger—”
“Please finish your smoke away from me,” the clerk interrupted. “I can’t hear you through all of these clouds.”
“You are being dramatic.”
The clerk snorted and didn’t reply as Cardainne rose to his feet and beckoned to Aliyah. “Come along, then.”
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They walked away from the clerk’s desk—or rather, Cardainne walked and Aliyah stumbled. Her brain felt like a sponge wrung dry, and the smoke was starting to make her eyes itch.
“You know,” Cardainne announced as he sat down once more. “You are a very lucky lady.”
Aliyah slid stiffly into her own seat. “P-pardon?”
“You young ones always think whipping is as far as it goes, eh?” He shook his head. “A maid like you would not normally get off so easily after doing a crime like that. You are very lucky that you answer questions well and that your friend has some hold over my apprentice.”
“My friend?” Her thoughts raced. “Rana?” she blurted out. It wasn’t as if there were many possible candidates to puzzle over.
“That, I cannot say.” Cardainne exhaled a plume of blue smoke. “What I do know is that Karim woke me too early in the morning and pleaded for me to apply as delegate at your trial. Something about his little cousin asking a favour. And I said yes, because he had done well on his last net-cast and because he looked as if he might shit bricks if I said no.”
She swallowed. “Uh. Right. Thank you. For coming here and…um. Is it going to work? Changing their minds, I mean.”
Cardainne flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette and took another drag. “Probably not. It was not an overly large sum. And Soltani, well. He was already paid for. You are new to the court ways, yes? There is a reason for Errai being most displeased.”
An icy fist clenched around her stomach. “Then…”
“You might get whipped less,” Cardainne offered. “Five, ten strokes taken off. It makes a difference, I am told. Really, I doubt it was this particular sum that mattered most—you burglars should realise before you do such things, that the Library is as hungry as ever.”
She couldn’t help it; a wave of crushing dizziness overtook her. Away from the eyes of the adjudicator and the Librarians, she started to hyperventilate. She drew her arms around herself and clenched her teeth. Not now, she thought. Please, not right now. There was no need to have a mental breakdown in the middle of her own criminal sentencing. She could cry once they were done slashing her to ribbons and—
Cardainne frowned down at her. “Cheer up,” he said. “Thirty strokes isn’t that bad. No nerve damage, yes?”
The way he said it—with such nonchalance and guileless insensitivity—forced a hysterical bubble of laughter up her throat. He was a highborn, no matter how he claimed he was here to help; of course he would be characteristically tone-deaf.
‘Hey, hey,” Cardainne said, waving a hand in front of her face. “Stop that. They will think you have gone mad, or are feigning mad, and they don’t like that.”
“I can’t—I can’t…”
“Perhaps you should have thought about that before you committed a crime. Or you could have waited until you had richer friends.”
Tears threatened to blot out her vision. She clenched her teeth and buried her head in her hands just as the main doors to the waiting hall burst open—she flinched and looked up. A man strode through, golden robes billowing in his wake. Librarian Taif followed close at his heels. They marched past without sparing her a glance; the court door slammed shut behind them.
“Ah,” Cardainne exclaimed. “Smart woman. She fetched Giltyrzar and he decides quickly, no hmms and maybes. Won’t be long now. Do cheer up, eh? But not too much.”
Aliyah stared at the carpet and tried to take reasonable breaths without sucking in too much of the blue smoke wreathing the air. Her stomach churned with equal parts hunger and anxiety. Really, she wished for it to be over. She wanted to eat a big bowl of rice with roasted fish and fresh vegetables and then lock herself in her room and sleep for seven years.
“Hoy,” someone called from the far end of the waiting hall. Aliyah’s head snapped up; it was Librarian Taif, holding the door open. “Ilya. We are waiting.”
Cardainne sighed and stubbed out his cigarette on the sleeve of his robe, where it left a ring of ash but no burn-mark. “Come along, maid.”
He made a lazy movement with his hand and once more, she found herself being dragged by the tether on her handcuffs. She walked at an awkwardly fast pace behind him, shoes almost slipping on the carpet. Crossing the length of the hall still felt like it took an eternity. Worse yet was the nausea that bubbled up in her gut when they reached the end.
Inside the trial room, Chief Librarian Giltyrzar loomed. It was not due to his height—he was perhaps only a couple of inches taller than Aliyah herself—but rather, his presence. He stood off to the side and yet, the crackling aura of his magic drew every eye in the room. He was showing off a bit, she realised distantly, by leaving the natural masking of his power askew, but that didn’t change the fact that she could feel the heft of his magic thrumming while several feet away. She shivered. It felt like standing next to a spell about to go off.
“Ilya Cardainne,” Giltyrzar said, drawing the syllables out in a sour fashion. He fixed the Magician with a hard stare. “I did not expect a delegate from your division. Nor do I appreciate being called from my office to resolve the most trivial of details. Has it not been decided?”
Cardainne’s face fixed itself into a rather prim expression. “We the Magicians have a policy of standing against corporal punishment. It is salient to this offender’s case.”
“You wish to avoid corporal punishment?” Giltyrzar asked, curling his lip. “Should we just kill her, then?” He jerked his chin at Aliyah, half-hiding in Cardainne’s shadow.
Her chest seized tight. That was just a fucked-up joke, right? Perhaps Giltyrzar was just so far-removed from reality that this was an everyday sort of statement for him. Magician Cardainne knew how to avoid making things worse for her, right? Right?
Cardainne crossed his arms and straightened his shoulders, standing a little taller. “We the Magicians believe that capital punishment is only necessary in the most extreme of cases. This does not invalidate our stance on corporal punishment, which is never necessary and only serves to be needlessly degrading.”
“I do not see how the dignity of your charges remains uncompromised under other methods of your care. Torture, then?”
Cardainne smiled a tight smile. “Ah, now that is a different thing altogether. We the Magicians would like to remind the jurisdiction of the Higher Library that our presence is firmly centered around the safety of the kingdom, unlike—”
“Enough,” said Adjudicator Soltani. “We are here to reach a verdict. You may continue this discussion at a later time.”
Giltyrzar gave a little shrug. “We will take the sum listed. But she must still answer for her crime. It is no small thing, to breach our walls.”
“How many less?” Cardainne asked.
“Five.”
“She is a simple-minded maid with naive intentions. Fifteen.”
“Regardless of the supposed stupidity of the offender, breaches into the Higher Library pose a risk to the kingdom. Eight.”
“She has learned her lesson from the daemon. And I have seen the sum; it will cover damages and it is not unreasonable. Ten.”
Giltyrzar tilted his head and appeared to think it over for a moment. “Very well. It is decided. Now do not trouble me further.”
Aliyah stood frozen as Giltyrzar left without so much as a spare glance at her. His presence faded as he strode away, then winked out like a dying sun-lamp.
Had that really just happened? A Librarian and a Magician had all but bantered over the quantity of wounds to be inflicted onto her body like they were haggling for fruit at the market. She felt faintly ill.
Adjudicator Soltani heaved a sigh from up on his desk. “As authorised by Chief Librarian Giltyrzar, the offender Scionsong’s sentence has been reduced to twenty lashes of the whip. Dismissed.”
One by one, Cardainne and the Librarians slipped out of the room. The two guards returned, and took her away.
===
The next part, she never did remember too well.
There was a Healer—not one that she recognised—who checked her over to ensure that it wouldn’t kill her. Her hands trembled and she clenched them into the fabric of her skirts to hide them.
The sky was grey, and the air cool but still. A lone skyfish slid along the horizon. She had been taken to an area somewhere by the guardhouse with a thick post embedded into the ground. A pair of guards were present, along with the person with the whip, and a Librarian witness—Osorin had volunteered for the part; it stung with irony, that the one to save her would watch her be injured again, all in the name of due process. There was no other audience and for that, she was oddly grateful. The guards attached rough rope to her shackles and bound her hands to a ring set into the lashing post above her head.
She could not see the person holding the whip. There was only the sound to warn her—a hissing whistle, a crack chased by a stinging pain. The back of her uniform tore. The pain worsened in the next few moments, burning deep.
“One,” someone said.
She was used to this, she told herself. She had suffered much worse. It was nothing compared to what she had accidentally done to herself in the Higher Library. This would not kill her.
The second lash melted her assurances away like candle wax under spellfire.
She had not meant to scream.
Another burst of pain, and yet another; shallow crescent lines opening in her flesh. She could hear someone counting in the mid-distance, slow and easy. How far beneath the skin did the bones of her spine lie? It felt as if the meat of her back was being stripped away, mingling with the blood-soaked fabric of her uniform, cross-hatched, turning to pulp.
She tasted blood-tinged salt in her mouth and tried not to faint. She sagged against the lashing pole as the whip cracked once more, tearing deeper into raw, open wounds. Twenty had never seemed like such a large number until now.
When it was over, they untied her and dragged her back into the warren of guardhouse corridors. Every step felt like a stumble. Someone turned to stare at her bloodied back as she went.
Do not perceive me, she thought in a haze. She wanted to crawl into a cleaning cupboard and hide among cracked buckets, soft sponges, jars of disinfectant, for no light to touch the backs of her eyes—let the dust coat her in a powdery shield, let her be forgotten for years upon years.
Within a windowless room, a Mender splashed a salve over her back. She screamed again at the sting. The Mender merely placed bandages upon her back and informed her to remove them in two days, and to see her division’s own designated Mender if signs of infection arose.
The guards gave her water to drink and a clean smock to wear, neatly folded and plain grey. She peeled off her ruined maidservant’s uniform like an outgrown insect’s casing, a camouflaging husk outlived of its usefulness. She stared at the blood-soaked ribbons of fabric striping up and down the back of the dress—what a damned waste of cheap cotton that was—and tried not to think too hard about what the matching pattern on her back looked like. They had not given her a mirror and most of her did not want to see. Welts, cuts, scars; what did it matter how ugly it was? She was still alive. It was enough. Thoughts of but what have they been saying and will I keep my place at the castle were for later.
They removed her cuffs. One of the guards escorted her back to her room. It must be almost afternoon by now—past lunchtime, if the increasingly bitter gnawing of her stomach was anything to go by. With everyone back at their stations, at least there was almost no one to notice. She walked slowly and shrank away from the few curious glances she got.
She shut the door in the guard’s face, flipping the lock with shaking hands. Then she made four faltering paces before she collapsed half-onto the bed.
She had never thought of this room as home.
This room was four safe walls and a roof over her head and this was what she had earned from being a disappointment of a maid and this was her right as a failed-scion bastard-child. This was the place where she dressed and slept and cried alone in the dark, when her illnesses became too much. But it was never a true sanctuary. It was never really a home.
Right now, though, it was all she had. If this was the pittance of refuge that she got after the nightmare, then she would take it. She would dig herself a foxhole in patched-up linens and the scent of the ruffled lilac in the corner and she would never come out.
Let her rot here. Let her be free of blood gushing from her mouth in a bright, glassy tide. She did not want kind-voiced daemons stalking through her dreams. She did not need accusatory questions thrown in her face, or hawks with stern voices, or blue smoke making her eyes water. She gathered up the memory, the loose ends of the twenty-strokes flaying, and put it into a box and shut the lid and pushed the box deep down and far, far back into a dusty corner of her mind. She crawled the rest of the way onto her bed, every muscle twinging in protest. Then she slept, on her stomach and with her hands buried under the cool side of the pillow.