The Ships of Merior by Janny Wurts Page B

presence.’
    The alderman’s fishy eyes completed their inventory of glittering silk and cut topaz. ‘Is this true?’
    Halliron swept to his feet. In a voice burred rough by his cough, but modulated to lyrical acidity, he said, ‘What’s true is that no man alive owns the sum Jaelot’s court of
justice
sees fit to demand.’ The barbed threat of satire behind his inflection rang without echo into silence.
    The Lord Mayor fluttered a hand in capitulation. ‘Well then. We’ll mediate the sentence, naturally. Since my lady was the party offended, it’s fitting that she gain compensation. The spoiled moulding cost four hundred royals, true-silver. The carter’s list of damages will be compiled and paid off to the penny. The city’s fine I will waive on this condition: that Halliron Masterbard entertain my lady’s guests at the feast upon mid-summer solstice.’ A glistening, toothy smile parted the mayor’s lips. ‘License to practise your art, if you will, before this city’s finest. If your playing matches your reputation, no doubt, folk of pedigree will shower their gold at your feet. You might even earn a tidy profit.’
    Medlir’s lightning surge to arise was stopped by a feather touch from the bard.
    From the floor, Dakar gagged in strangled outrage. ‘That’s rank insult.’
    The secretaries’ nibs scraped through a poisonous silence. Halliron, white hair thrown back, light eyes fixed on a point midway between ceiling groins and dais, said nothing. Medlir’s poised stillness showed tension more appropriate to a swordsman than a singer, while the halberdiers who were not one whit ceremonial shifted their balance to readiness.
    Strangely desperate, Dakar said, Don’t answer. I don’t require it.’
    What bargains you strike between yourselves are entirely your personal affair.’ The mayor parked his hands amid the foamy lace of his waistcoat. ‘The city’s terms will stand: either pay the fine or render performance, with enforced restriction to remain inside city walls until the terms of the sentence are met. You have seven days in which to give your decision.’
    At the edge of the candle’s pooled light, the judiciary’s smirk flashed like the teeth of a feeding shark. ‘Set the record.’ His attention brushed Halliron, then bent dismissively to share his amusement with the alderman. ‘It’s a convenient arrangement, since the offender’s stint at forced labour will expire near the same date.’ To the bard, he added gently, ‘Of course you could decline the option. Your companion would then languish in prison till he dies, or his debt to Jaelot is paid.’
    On the dais, a striker flared in a scribe’s veined hand. The scent of heated wax curled through the smell of roses, the tang of stale citrus and the unwashed heat of despair that clung to the prisoners uneasily awaiting their turn at trial. The secretaries raised sharp knives and busily resharpened their pens, while the alderman brandished the city seal and impressed Jaelot’s lions on four documents.
    ‘Case dismissed,’ intoned the judiciary.
    The carter pressed forward to cite his damages, whilebefore the marble dais, the men at arms hoisted Dakar upright by his manacles and towed his bulk from the hall. Stumbling and wordless, the insouciance of yesterday bled out of him, he never once turned his head in appeal; while Halliron and Medlir made swift departure through the crooked stair that led upward into the daylight.
    Later, in a dingy garret room where winter winds tore at loose slates, and draughts flowed and creaked through the gaps in warped shutters, Medlir sat over a mug of spiced wine, his flattened hands tapping a jig tune on the chipped and dingy porcelain. ‘Will you let him off?’
    ‘Was there ever any question?’ Four hundred and sixty royals of their store of coin had already been dispatched to the lumber mill and the wheelwright’s coffers. Halliron sat on the pallet opposite, swathed in quilts and coach