Earthborn (Homecoming) (35 page)

“She insults the memory of Mother Rasa, wife of the Hero Volemak, the great Wetchik, father of Nafai and Issib. . . .”

Volemak was also the father of Elemak and Mebbekew, Luet wanted to retort—and Rasa had nothing to do with
their
conception. But of course she held her tongue. That
would
be a scandal, if the daughter of the high priest were to be hustled out of the court for heckling.

“. . . by pretending that she needs more honor than her marriage to Volemak already brought her! And to give her this redundant honor, she takes a male honorific,
ro
, which means ‘great teacher,’ and appends it to a woman’s name! Rasaro’s House, she calls her school! As if Rasa had been a man! What do her students learn just by walking in her door! That there is no difference between men and women!”

To Luet’s—and everyone else’s—shock, Shedemei spoke up, interrupting kRo’s peroration. “I’m new in your country,” she said. “Tell me the female honorific that means ‘great teacher’ and I’ll gladly use that one.”

kRo waited for Pabul to rebuke her.

“It is not the custom for the accused to interrupt the accuser,” said Pabul mildly.

“Not the custom,” said Shedemei. “But not a law, either. And as recently as fifty years ago, in the reign of Motiab, the king’s late grandfather, it was frequently the case that the accused could ask for a clarification of a confusing statement by the accuser.”

“All my speeches are perfectly clear!” kRo answered testily.

“Shedemei calls upon ancient custom,” said Pabul, clearly delighted with her answer. “She asked you a question, kRo, and custom requires you to clarify.”

“There
is
no female honorific meaning ‘great teacher,’ ” said kRo.

“So by what title should I honor a woman who was a great teacher?” asked Shedemei. “In order to avoid causing ignorant children to be confused about the differences between men and women.”

She said this with an ever-so-slightly ironic tone, making it clear that no honorific could possibly cause confusion on such an obvious point. Some in the gallery laughed a little. This was annoying to kRo; it was outrageous of her to have interrupted his carefully memorized speech, forcing him to make up answers on the spot.

With a great show of patient condescension, kRo explained to Shedemei, “Women of greatness can be called
ya
, which means ‘great compassionate one.’ And since she was the wife of the father of the first king, it is not inappropriate to call her
dwa
, the mother of the heir.”

Shedemei listened respectfully, then answered, “So a woman may only be honored for her compassion; all the other honorifics have to do with her husband?”

“That is correct,” said kRo.

“Are you saying, then, that a woman cannot
be
a great teacher? Or that a woman may not be
called
a great teacher?”

“I am saying that because the only honorific for a great teacher is a male honorific, the title ‘great teacher’ cannot be added to a woman’s name without causing an offense against nature,” said kRo.

“But the honorific
ro
comes from the word
uro
which can be equally a male or a female,” said Shedemei.

“But
uro
is not an honorific,” said kRo.

“In all the ancient records, when the custom of honorifics first began, it was the word
uro
that was added to the name. It was only about three hundred years ago that the
u
was dropped and the
ro
began to be added to the end of the name the way it’s done now. I’m sure you looked all this up.”

“Our scholarly witnesses did,” said kRo.

“I’m simply trying to understand why a word that is demonstrably a neutral one, implying either sex, should now be regarded as a word applying to males only,” said Shedemei.

“Let us simplify things for the sake of the accused,” said kRo. “Let us drop the charge of confusion of the sexes. That will spare us the agony of endless argument over the applicability of ancient usages to modern law.”

“So you are saying that you consent to my continuing to call my school ‘Rasaro’s House’?” asked Shedemei. She turned to Pabul. “Is that a binding decision, so I won’t have to fear being brought to trial on this point again?”

“I declare it to be so,” said Pabul.

“Now the situation is clear,” said Shedemei.

The gallery laughed uproariously. Her clarification, of course, had turned into kRo’s humiliating retreat. She had succeeded in deflating him. From now on all his speechifying would be tinged with just the faintest
hue of the ridiculous. He was no longer the terrifying object he had once been.

Akma leaned to Luet and whispered in her ear, “
Someone’s
been teaching her a lot of ancient history.”

“Maybe she learned it on her own,” Luet whispered back.

“Impossible. All the records are in Bego’s library, and she has never been there.” Akma was clearly annoyed.

“Maybe Bego helped her.”

Akma rolled his eyes. Of course it couldn’t have been Bego, he seemed to be saying.

Bego must be of Akma’s party, thought Luet. Or is it the other way around? Could it be that Bego instigated this whole nonsensical business about there being no Keeper at all?

kRo went on, climaxing his arguments by pointing out, just as Akma had anticipated, that all of Shedemei’s violations were clearly premeditated and deliberate, since she had been able to name all the charges against her when Husu brought the book of charges to her door.

At last kRo finished—with much applause and cheering from the gallery, of course. But nothing like the kind of adoration he usually received. Shedemei had really done a job on him, and it was obvious kRo was angry and disappointed.

Pabul smiled, lifted a bark from his table, and began to read. “The court has reached a decision and—”

kRo leapt to his feet. “Perhaps the court has forgotten that it is the custom to hear the accused!” Graciously he bowed toward Shedemei. “Clearly she has studied a great deal and even though her guilt is obvious, we should do her the courtesy of hearing her speech.”

Icily Pabul answered, “I thank the lawyer for the complainants for his courtesy toward the accused, but I also remind him that other lawyers, at least, are not able to read the minds of judges, and therefore it is
customary to listen to the judge before contradicting him.”

“But you were declaring your decision. . . ,” said kRo, his voice trailing off into embarrassment.

“This court has reached a decision and because it is based solely upon the statements of the lawyer for the accusers, the court must ask each of the complainants individually if the speech just given by their lawyer represents their words and intentions as surely as if they had spoken for themselves.”

So he was polling the accusers. This was highly unusual, and it invariably meant that the lawyer had made some gross mistake that would destroy the case he was speaking for. kRo folded himself inside his wings and listened in stoic fury as Pabul queried each accuser individually. Though they obviously had misgivings, kRo had in fact given the speech he had rehearsed for them the day before, and they affirmed that it was as if they had spoken the words themselves.

“Very well,” said Pabul. “At eight different points in this speech, the lawyer for the complainants violated the law forbidding the teaching of doctrines contrary to the doctrines taught by the high priest now in office.”

A loud hum arose from the crowd, and kRo unfolded himself from his wings and fairly launched himself toward the judge’s shadow, stopping just short of the line of darkness in the sand of the courtyard. The judge’s guards immediately stepped forward, weapons ready. But kRo now threw himself backward into the sand, his wings open, his belly exposed, in the ancient angel posture of submission. “I have said nothing but to uphold the law!” he cried, not sounding submissive at all.

“There is not a person in this court who doesn’t know exactly what you and the other accusers are doing, kRo,” said Pabul. “This entire charade was designed as an attack on all the teachings of the man that Motiak has appointed high priest. You are trying to
use the teachings of former high priests, and customs of long standing but no merit, to destroy Akmaro’s effort to unify all the people of the Keeper as brothers and sisters. This court was not deceived. Your speech exposed your malice.”

“The law and long precedent are on our side!” cried kRo, abandoning his submissive posture and rising again to his feet.

“The law affirming the authority of the high priest over all teachings of doctrine concerning the Keeper was established by the voice of the Hero Nafai, the first king of the Nafari, when he established his brother the Hero Oykib as the first high priest. This law has precedence over all other laws dealing with correct teaching. And when Sherem defied this law and opposed Oykib, and then the Keeper struck Sherem dead as he spoke, the king declared that the penalty for defying the teachings of the high priest would from then on be the same death that the Keeper chose for Sherem.”

Akma leaned to Luet and whispered furiously, “How dare Father use those ancient myths to silence his opponents!”

“Father knows nothing about this,” Luet answered. But she did not get her voice low enough, and several around them heard her. Of course they all knew who Akma and Luet were, and they could read the scornful disbelief on Akma’s face as clearly as they heard Luet’s denial that Akmaro had any part in Pabul’s decision. Akmaro would definitely be part of the rumors that would fly after the trial.

“Because this is an ancient offense,” said Pabul, “I declare it to take precedence over the charges against Shedemei, since if her accusers are guilty of the greater crime, they are forbidden to bring accusation against her for a lesser one. I declare that the charges against Shedemei are nullified and may not be brought again by anyone until and unless her accusers are cleared of the charge against them. And I declare that you, kRo, and all the accusers who affirmed that you spoke their
words and intentions are guilty, and I sentence you to death as the law demands.”

“No one has used that law in four hundred years!” cried one of the accusers.

“I don’t want anyone to die,” said Shedemei, clearly dismayed by this turn of events.

“The compassion of the woman Shedemei is commendable but irrelevant,” said Pabul. “I am the accuser of these men, and all these people in the gallery are witnesses. I decree that everyone in the gallery must give his or her name to the guards as you leave, so you can be called as witnesses if, as I expect, there is an appeal to the king. I declare this trial to be over.”

Because they had been sitting at the front, Akma and Luet were among the last to leave. It took nearly an hour, but during that time they studiously did not say a word to each other or to anyone else. They both knew, however, that if Akma had been allowed to testify, the things he said would also have constituted the same offense that now had kRo and his clients under sentence of death.

“What has Pabul done to me!” Motiak roared.

Around him in the small room were gathered Akmaro, Chebeya, and Didul, representing the House of the Kept; and Aronha and Edhadeya, because Aronha was heir and could not be refused access while Edhadeya was, well, Edhadeya, and couldn’t be refused either. They all understood Motiak’s consternation; none of them had an easy answer.

Aronha thought he did, though, and offered it. “Dismiss the charges against Shedemei’s accusers, Father.”

“And allow them to reinstate their charges against Shedemei?” asked Edhadeya.

“Dismiss
all
the charges,” said Aronha with a shrug.

“That is foolish counsel,” said Motiak, “and you know better, Aronha. If I did that, it would have the
effect of repudiating my own high priest and stripping him of authority.”

Aronha said nothing. Everyone there knew that Aronha, like his brothers, like Akmaro’s own son, thought of that as a happy outcome.

“You can’t put them to death,” said Akmaro. “So perhaps Aronha is right.”

“Do I have to listen to nonsense from you, too, Kmadaro?” demanded Motiak. “I suppose I should take this matter officially before my council.”

“That isn’t the way it’s done,” said Aronha. “This is a trial, not a war or a tax. The council has no authority.”

“But the council has the virtue of spreading the responsibility around a little,” said Motiak dryly. “Remember that, Aronha. I have a feeling you’re going to need to do that when you’re king.”

“I hope never to be king, Father,” said Aronha.

“I’m relieved to know that you hope for my immortality. Or is it simply your own death that you expect?” At once Motiak repented of his sarcasm. “Forgive me, Aronha, I’m out of sorts. Having to decide matters of life and death always puts me out of sorts.”

Chebeya raised her hand from the table and spoke softly. “Perhaps you should do as Pabul did. Study the case of Sherem and Oykib.”

“It wasn’t even a court case, strictly speaking,” said Motiak. “I already read it over, and it was more a matter that Sherem kept showing up wherever Oykib was trying to teach, to argue with him. Which, come to think of it, is what these pollen-brained accusers were doing to you, Akmaro.”

“Using Shedemei as a proxy, of course,” said Akmaro.

“It was really just a public argument between Oykib and Sherem. Until Sherem challenged Oykib to give him a sign, and the Keeper of Earth apparently struck Sherem down on the spot, allowing him to live only long enough to recant. But the king—it was Nafai’s grandson by then, Oykib lived to be very old—the
king declared that what the Keeper had done this time, the law would do from then on. Anyone who interfered with the teaching of the high priest would be struck dead as Sherem was. The law was only invoked twice after that, and the last time was four centuries ago.”

“Is that how you intend to govern, Father?” asked Aronha. “Killing those who disagree with your high priest? That sounds rather like what Nuab did to Binaro. Or should I call him Binadi after all, since apparently he also broke this law, interfering with Pabulog’s teachings as Nuak’s high priest.”