Patchwall 14, CY 593
78—“We’ll always have Wintershiven . . .”
It is much easier to get into the capitol of the Pale than it is to get out, judging by the amount of supplicants forming a quarter-mile queue leading to the city’s gates.
Every so often, a team of horses pulling a cart, or peasant leading a donkey ambles unobstructed out of the city and breezes past the Liberators, provoking a new complaint from Jespo each time. From their spot in line, the gates of Wintershiven are nothing more than grey smudges on the horizon; the city itself is a hill-shaped bubble of low stone buildings radiating outward from a huge pale structure in the city’s center. Despite the overcast day, gaps in the clouds allow streams of light to illuminate the central building.
Heydricus and Lucius discuss tactics in low tones, while Jespo and Prisantha debate scholarly matters. Regda is speaking with other people in line, her easy grin and disarming innocence proving to outweigh her abundance of arms and armor. Gwendolyn has not made the journey, for fear that her presence with the Liberators might make its way back to the wrong ears in Furyondy—surely magical disguises will hold no water in a Wintershiven court. Belvor, C’min and Elenthal were likewise left behind to attend to the resurrection of Calibut.
“See the people four carts up?” Regda asks Heydricus. “They have produce for the market. They said that they haven’t ever seen the lines this bad, and they’re worried their fruit is going to spoil. Can you order the guards up there to hurry up?”
“I’m not the Lord of Wintershiven, Regda,” Heydricus says.
“Oh.” Crestfallen, the broad-shouldered fighter walks back to her new friends.
“They are going to geas us,” Prisantha says. “I was able to determine that much. From what I understand, a heresy trial is a formality in the Pale; it is something of a rare event for us to have been called at all. After all, if we admit to participating in Tau’s fall from faith, we are also guilty.”
“Making a religious choice isn’t a crime,” Heydricus insists.
“It is in the Pale,” Jespo observes.
Regda returns to the group, a melon tucked under her arm. “I didn’t want their fruit to go bad, so I bought it.”
“All of it?” Jespo asks.
“And the cart,” Regda says. “And the donkey. Would you like some melon?”
“That one’s not ripe, dear, put it back,” Jespo says.
The Liberators take Regda’s new cart and lead it slowly toward the gate, distributing fruit to everyone involved, and making friends as they go. Prisantha uses her persistent charm person ability liberally, and after a few minutes, the cart has become the epicenter of a gathering—a pair of song-smiths lead the crowd in traditional Flan sing-alongs, and it isn’t long before a full-fledged party breaks out.
Now, if there is anything more suspicious to bureaucrats than an individual who is unconcerned with details, it is an un-requested, un-approved expression of joie de vivre. That this expression should happen on the very brink of such a solemn event as passing through customs is, of course, twice as troubling. A brace of guardsmen is quickly dispatched to get to the root of whatever heretofore un-encountered social phenomenon has overtaken their intake point, and after a smile and a wink from Prisantha, they are ferrying the Liberators to the Head of the Line.
-----
“Do you have any arcane magic to declare?” The guardsman does not look up from his form. He jerks his thumb toward a long list of proscribed objects tacked onto the wall behind him. The first entry reads (sic), “No arcain magiks allowed insyde the citie for any purpus.”
Jespo shuffles nervously. “I have a few things,” he admits.
Fräs hisses.
“Compared to some,” he clarifies.
Fräs hisses.
“I am the Lord of Tenh,” Heydricus says. “I will not surrender my magic items to my lesser.”
The guardsman regards Heydricus warily. The Liberator’s imperious tone strikes a chord within the man—a chord that hints at the grander harmonies of Obedience, Submission and Conformity that form the basis of his relationship to the divine. Of course, this adventurer is claiming to be Lord of the Pale’s Northern Provinces—land that is administered (remotely, ahem) by Duke Eyeh. He must therefore be mad.
Nonetheless, he does look powerful, and it is only very rarely a poor idea to delegate decisions upwards along the chain-of-command.
“I shall summon a Validitor from the High Magistrate’s office,” he concludes.
“That will be fine,” Heydricus says.
-----
“. . . you will be assigned an assistant for the duration of your stay.” The functionary is suitably high-ranking, just barely courteous, and properly brusque. In fact, it seems like a gesture of respect here in the Pale if your assistant really snaps to it; judging by his efficacy, this particular assistant seems to regard the Liberators with a respect bordering on terror. They are rushed through the streets of the Pale capital so quickly the buildings seem to blur together, and within minutes have been ferried into the Halls of Light; a building large enough to swallow most Tenha communities whole (and still have room for Hommlet as a digestif).
The Liberators are shown to an austere series of rooms, and are introduced to their ‘assistant,’ a burly guardsman wearing the livery of the Church. The man answers questions directly and says, “sir” often. He admits under questioning that his primary duty is to keep the Liberators from breaking any laws during their visit.
Heydricus learns that he and Prisantha were summoned not by an act of the Church, but at the request of Tau’s barrister. The guard points out that while this nearly unheard of, it is not the only unusual element to the case—barristers are rarely willing to represent Heresy plaintiffs, as all accused heretics are guilty by virtue of being accused, and defending a guilty heretic is itself a treasonous act. The guard suggests that there are more expeditious methods of suicide, but (he hints portentously) who can know the minds of gnomes?
Heydricus asks to be taken to this barrister, and after the guard hems and haws about what a Bad Idea it is to leave the Halls of Light the night before a trial, he is forced to admit that there is no law against such a thing. The guardsman sullenly leads the party to a nearby inn, filled near to bursting with half-drunken clerks comparing the week’s papercuts with a warrior’s air.
After a proper meal (the earlier fruit not withstanding, the Liberators have not eaten all day), Heydricus and Prisantha are taken to the second floor, where they rap on the last door on the left. A small, wiry figure answers, his face forming the very caricature of paranoia as his eyes dart from side to side.
“Yes? I mean, no. Whatever it is, no. Who are you?”
“We’re friends of Tau,” Heydricus says, smiling.
The gnome pauses in mid-denial, then brightens. “Come in, come in! Not you, sir, this is privileged conversation.” The gnome brushes the guardsman back into the hallway before slamming the door on his face. The gnome’s small room is a riot of half-opened books, half-empty food platters and half-finished drinks. “I’m ever so glad you came. Frankly, since I hadn’t heard back, I’d assumed you’d not make it.”
“What?” Heydricus scoffs. “We don’t abandon friends.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the gnome says. “In fact, my strategy depends on it. Cocrane’s the name. You must be Heydricus and Prisantha.”
Prisantha inclines her head in acknowledgement. “How did you come to be here, Cocrane? Our assistant suggested that barristers don’t often represent heretics in Wintershiven.”
“Oh, to my knowledge, none ever have,” Cocraine says. “But these sorts of things are my specialty.”
“What sorts of things?” she asks.
“Un-winnable cases,” he beams, waggling his bushy eyebrows. “I take political criminals and snatch them from the teeth of the state. Whichever state it happens to be,” he adds as an afterthought. “It’s a sort of magic I suppose, creating the improbable out of the impossible.”
“And what is your strategy for this case?” Heydricus asks.
“Well, let me answer your question with a question,” the gnome counters. “What would you have done for Tau if I had not been here?”
Heydricus laughs. “We’d have kicked in the door, killed anyone who got in our way, and teleported him the hell out of here.”
Cocrane crosses his arms with a self-satisfied air.
Prisantha gapes. “We’re going to free Tau through force of arms—that is your strategy?”
“And a good one, too, if I do say so myself,” he says. “I will be the first barrister to ever successfully defend a heresy trial in the Pale, I suspect.”
Heydricus beams at the gnome. “I like the way you think. What do you know about the legal systems of reconstructed states?”
-----
“Are you aware that while you stand before this court, you stand before the Light and Truth of Pholtus?”
The magistrates aren’t going to continue until Heydricus says yes. Unfortunately for the preceedings, Heydricus is stuck on the “Truth of Pholtus” part. The Liberators stand in the center of a large, cavernous hall, directly before a circular riser covered with an ancient and carefully preserved cloth-of-gold tarp that faintly crackles with magical emanations. Upon this cloth-of-gold sit a pair of enormous golden lions, both of whom shine in the light streaming into the chamber from the skylight directly above them, and cast off a heavenly nimbus. Astride each lion is a High Magistrate; Sir Amara Pentos, a knight famed for his martial prowess, known as “the Scourge of Unrest,” and Sir Mathor the Elder, called “the Stern” for his penchant of ordering executions when in doubt. Both magistrates are resplendent in their silvered plate armor, and glow like white-hot points of light within the golden warmth of their steed’s radiance.
Behind the magistrates, the hall is bisected by the largest tapestry that any of the Liberators have ever seen. Images of Pholtus and his Nation are rendered in a larger-than-life scale, the whole of the work bespeaking years of toil; a monument to devotion.
In the shadow between the two lions, Tau kneels humbly, the angles of his normally thin and frail form exaggerated by months of imprisonment. As the material witnesses, Heydricus and Prisantha have been called forward. They stand near enough to count the links in Tau’s manacles, while Lucius, Jespo, Regda and Cocrane remain beside the palatial double-doors that give entrance into this sacred fane.
“I will ask again, that the Letter of the Law be satisfied.” Sir Amara is growing angry. Lesser men break beneath his displeasure, but this heretic seems more sturdy than most. Pholtus willing, this fool will draw that sword he keeps fingering. “Are you aware that while you stand before this court, you stand before the Light and Truth of Pholtus?”
Heydricus twitches. “Yeah, I get it,” he mutters.
“Are you aware that you may speak no lies within the presence of this court, punishable by geas?”
“Sure.”
“Do you accept the judgment of this court as final and binding? Do you submit to the Will of Pholtus?”
“You know, while you as-holes sat here congratulating one another and scheduling meetings, the rest of the world was at war.”
“You may answer my question with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“So explain to me why I should submit to the will of diety as cowardly and conniving as Pholtus?”
Sir Amara sits perfectly still. For the first time since the Liberators entered the room, Tau looks up.
“He’s not even a Flan god,” Heydricus continues. “Yet your claim to Tenh is along racial lines? Do you think we are f-cking stupid? Only a moron like Eyeh could possibly cozy up to a bunch of prickly sell-outs like you.”
Sir Mathor the Elder leans across his lion’s mane. His eyes are twin points of inky black threat. “You would do well to hold your tongue, heretic. Your trial will come soon enough.”
Heydricus has had enough. At Prisantha’s direction, a system of signals had been worked out, so that the Liberators could coordinate their assault, and achieve the initiative. They were subtle and inclusive, simple enough to be readily learned, yet complex enough to convey tactical information. Heydricus has forgotten them.
“F-ck your trial, and f-ck Pholtus,” Heydricus growls as he draws his sword. “I’ll give you what we gave your sanctuary on Mount Celestia!”
Recognizing his cue, Lucius shoots Sir Mathor in the throat with an arrow of human slaying (coated with purple worm poison, just in case).
