Falling From the Tree (Darshian Tales #2) Page 25

  Other things bothered him, and try as he might, he could make no sense of them. His mother never asked about his former life at all, and her conversations were either about her husband, or about how glad she was Karik was back in her life. Occasionally she would make dark comments about Arman, which was only to be expected, he supposed. But Karik never felt able to bring up the things that really interested him, or confide in her about the depth of his homesickness, or how he found the Prijian way of life very hard to adjust to. In fact, though it pained him, he really couldn’t bring herself to trust his own mother. Nor, though he tried very hard, could he muster the same depth of affection for her as he could for M...Jena. Jena not being with him caused him deep pain, a real sense of grief, and he hourly missed her and her bright, snappy opinions on the world. But if he were forced to leave his real mother again, he honestly didn’t think he would grieve at all. He would want to grieve, but that wasn’t at all the same thing. He had thought it might change, given time. He was afraid it wouldn’t, and he felt very bad about that.

  He just couldn’t understand why his mother put up with Mekus. The man was everything his parents had said, and incapable of even ordinary politeness. Evening meals were a particular trial, since they were Mekus’s excuse to interrogate Karik about his tutoring, his speech, his past, and Darshian, while making constant jibes about Arman, his adopted parents, and Kei. At times, Karik found himself having to clench his hands into fists on his knees under the table to stop himself throwing something at the man, and he was actually glad of his stammer because it inhibited him from snapping back retorts to the insults. His mother would listen, frown a little, then smile adoringly at both of them. He couldn’t believe she actually thought Mekus was being kind. Maybe she didn’t realise what he was saying, although the tone was pretty unmistakeable. He suspected his mother wasn’t all that bright, and then he was ashamed at the thought. He had no business criticising someone who’d suffered so much.

  Mekus was constantly urging him to speak Prijian, but Karik was wary of his motives, and his despised stutter came in useful again. He made sure to be even less intelligible in Prijian than he was in Darshianese, which made Mekus think he was mentally defective. Since Karik cared nothing for his regard, that was fine. Actually, he had picked up quite a lot of the language after a week—although he was careful to also appear less than apt with the tutor. He was starting to work out just how far he would push the tutor before the man’s temper and Karik’s knuckles could take no more. Despite the tutor’s archaic manner of teaching, he was learning pronunciation and the structure of Prijian. It wasn’t all that hard, just as Risa had said. More usefully, he had found a treasure in the library where the lessons were held—a Darshianese/Prijian dictionary. He was surprised to find that it was written by ‘Karus of Utuk’ and ‘a Darshianese gentleman’—he wondered who that was, and if ‘Karus’ was the same man for whom he’d been named. He’d taken the book back to his room, Mykis telling him that the senator had said he could use such things as would help him advance. Since he wasn’t allowed to leave the house, and roaming the gardens with Mykis at his side wasn’t his idea of fun, he spent much of his free time reading through it and memorising words. He would have been bored to tears without this distraction—as it was, he wondered if Mekus intended to confine him indefinitely without any contact with the outside world.

  Already he was picking up bits of chat between the servants, but any attempt to converse with anyone but the family or Mykis was speedily squashed. In fact, Mykis had got astonishingly angry one morning when he discovered Karik trying to engage the shy maid who’d come to tidy his room in conversation. He’d shoved the girl out of the room, and Karik heard something he feared was a slap before Mykis came back in the room, his colour still high. “Apologies, Tir Retis. Some of the newer staff forget their station.” With a hint they weren’t the only ones.

  “I wuh-was just trying to t-talk, Mykis. Pr-practicing.”

  “Forgive me, Tir Retis, but the senator would not be pleased to have you learning Prijian from the lower orders, nor to have you consorting with the servants. You have a proud rank and heritage. You must behave according to that.”

  Karik had murmured an apology, but inwardly seethed at the snobbery and the man’s violence. He hated Mykis. He was learning he hated a lot of things now in just a few short days in this country. He stopped trying to talk to the maids—he didn’t want to get them hurt. But he hoped Arman, however much he despised the man, would be able to work his release. Two years living like this would be the end of him.

  Voyaging: 15

  Arman was guiltily ashamed to admit it, but he was enjoying himself. Not all of it, he told himself with some relief. Missing Kei was a permanent, dull ache in his chest, and the nights were lonely. The prospect of the public court hearing wasn’t exactly bringing him joy either. But the rest of it....

  One thing he would never admit to Kei was how jealous he was of his family and the way he saw them every year. Every time they returned to Ai-Albon, friends and relatives alike swooped upon Kei, all of them ready to assure him how much their world was brighter for his presence. It wasn’t that Arman wasn’t welcomed for his own sake as well, and not just for bringing Kei with him. But there was something deeply wonderful about the idea of being claimed by people one had known all one’s life, many of whom were blood relatives. People with shared history of every kind. Kin. Something Arman only experienced in a much more limited way on his father and brother’s rare visits to Darshek, and never with the same exuberance. He was never going home when he saw them.

  But here in Utuk, for the first time in his life, Arman had a taste of what Kei took for granted. His niece and nephew were ecstatic to have their uncle’s attention for three whole days, and he found their company surprisingly enjoyable. Of course, it helped they were both old enough to carry out intelligent conversations, and despite his father’s complaints, were not the kind of boisterous, thoughtless children that Arman intensely disliked. His brother beamed at him constantly, so happy to have him close at hand, and they fell into old relaxed ways with each other that Arman thought he had lost when Tijus had married. His father tried unsuccessfully to hide his happiness at seeing all his family together at the one time. It was new and wonderful for all of them, and all the more precious because Arman really would be leaving within days if things went well.

  Arman had explained to his father and brother that he really couldn’t delay his return. He was needed in Darshek, Karik’s parents were desperate to have him home safe, and he missed Kei. They’d listened and understood and had made no demands on him. But under their calm acceptance, he saw what he had never seen in their eyes before—or had missed for not believing it. Yearning, need—wanting to have him near, sadness at his going away. For many years, he had thought he was supernumerary to his family. Over this all too brief interval, he realised just how much he was wanted and loved, and it filled an aching gap in him he had long refused to even acknowledge existed. He’d thought Kei had healed all his stunted emotions. Clearly there was a part of him that still needed healing.

  Still, he had his responsibilities. He had a child to return to his parents, a city that needed his talents, a nation that might be about to offer him its highest post. He’d had years when he could have reached out to his family, and had thrown that chance away. He should be grateful for this short time with them. He was grateful, truly. He just...couldn’t help wishing for a little more, that was all.

  ~~~~~~~~

  The peaceful interlude reached its natural end, and Arman prepared to say goodbye to his family as he readied himself to attend the court hearing. All being well, Karik should be in his custody within a day, and the two of them back on board a Darshek-bound ship shortly after that. The boy would stay at the embassy, it had been decided. His father had suggested Karik could come to the house, but Arman thought his family had been imposed upon enough and had refused the offer, his father gruffly responding that he�
��d only been curious to see the child who was to be officially named his grandson. He was still something of a mystery to Arman at times.

  He decided to retain his Darshianese clothing after all. There was little point in pretending he still considered himself Prijian, and he thought the court might consider he was mocking them. Besides, he loathed dishonesty and it was bad enough that he had already perjured himself in an affidavit, claiming Karik was, so far as he knew, his true son. He intended to keep as much of the details of what he’d been required to swear from Reji and Jena—it hardly seemed fair. It was only because Darshianese law had no force in Kuprij that he was in this ridiculous situation.

  Urso met him outside the courthouse. Vekus was already waiting inside for them. “They have filed no objections or supplementary papers,” he told them. “Unless the crown objects formally, which they still can do, this will be over this morning.”

  “A relief to us all,” Urso said with feeling. “That poor boy. I hate to think what’s being done to him.”

  Arman agreed. He couldn’t see Karik enjoying Mekus’s company, although he wondered what he’d made of Mayl. Arman was slightly curious to know if she had managed to retain any of her youthful attractiveness, and what the true state of her marriage to Mekus was, but only because Kei would want to know. He smiled a little. Kei was terribly nosy sometimes, although he was also the soul of discretion.

  The bailiff came out and called their case. As they sat down on one side of the courtroom, Vekus muttered, “Lawyers for the crown,” nodding at the men arraying themselves on the other side. They looked well-fed and well-heeled, dressed in stiff formal, dark robes. Arman was conscious that he looked rather casual compared with them, but he still had his military bearing, and the arrogance of both army rank and class to stiffen his back and fix his expression into hauteur. The lawyers seemed unmoved by his display of pride. They looked, he thought, insufferably smug.

  The judges came in, and Arman rose as Vekus read out his formal petition. “Come forward, Sei Arman,” one of the judges beckoned.

  Arman did so. “Your honour?”

  “You state in this petition that the child, Retis, now known as Karik, is your son, born of Sei Mayl, now wife of Senator Mekus. You filed a petition for divorce six weeks after his birth. Were the two events connected?”

  “No, your honour.”

  “You had no doubts of the paternity of the child?” Arman shook his head. “Yet, we understand,” the judge said, shuffling his papers, “that you handed the child over to a Darshianese couple not long after you defected to the Darshianese side in the war. For what reason?”

  “Your honour, I was not in a position to raise a child myself at that point, and by the time I might have done, Ka...Retis had formed a bond with his foster parents. I judged it best for his happiness that he remained with them.”

  The judges looked most disgusted at that idea, and a mocking titter ran through the courtroom. Arman became aware that the court’s public gallery had suddenly filled up and he wondered if Mekus was watching from behind him. “Hmmm, not behaviour one would expect from someone of your rank, Sei Arman. However, there is no objection to the petition of paternity by the crown or by Senator Mekus, and so the court finds that Sei Arman is the true father of the child, Retis of Utuk. Leit Rijis, this matter is concluded unless the crown wishes to bring something else to our attention.”

  Arman got a prickle at the back of his neck as he suddenly realised the smugness of the crown lawyers was because they’d pre-arranged something—something he was sure he wouldn’t like at all. Rijis was standing now. “Yes, your honour. We have a petition requesting that custody of the child Retis be awarded to Senator Mekus acting as guardian for Sei Mayl, and in the interests of her father, Senator Jecus. The crown supports the petition. We further petition that the child Retis remains in the wardship of the crown while this is contested.” He handed up a paper to the bench.

  “A petition denying Sei Arman’s rights on what grounds, Leit?”

  “Moral turpitude, abandonment of his heir, and failing to provide his heir with religious and cultural instruction.”

  “Have you copies of the petition? You may serve them now.”

  Arman stood stunned as documents were handed across to Vekus. He should have expected this. Why hadn’t he expected this? “Your honour, they brought no objection—”

  “Silence, Sei Arman! Leit Vekus? You accept service?”

  Vekus bowed. “Yes, your honour. We request two weeks to study the documents and prepare a response.”

  “Two weeks granted. The child Retis, known as Karik, will remain in the wardship of the crown. Apply to the clerk for the hearing date. Bailiff, call the next petitioner.”

  Arman stared at the judges in horror, but Vekus took his arm and made him walk quickly out of the courtroom. Not quickly enough—he saw the sneering audience looking down at him. Senators, senators’ wives—he even recognised senior army officers. Mekus, Arman thought angrily, but Vekus insisted on getting them out of the courtroom. “Two weeks!” Arman snapped at him.

  “And little enough time it is too,” Vekus muttered. “Sei Arman, I need to look at this petition, and then discuss how best to approach it. I have another case to present here. May I call on you and your esteemed father tomorrow morning?”

  “Can’t you speed it up?”

  “Unfortunately no, Sei, and I suggest you reconcile yourself to at least a month’s delay. Such matters are not completed quickly. I promise you I will study this thoroughly and examine the law before I attend you tomorrow. But I have to go, I’m sorry.” He bowed and left quickly. Arman supposed his other client was waiting for him.

  “Pissing Mekus,” Arman muttered through gritted teeth. He heard a woman’s laugh and he whirled to find the wife of one of his father’s former colleagues smirking at him. The gallery had emptied out into the foyer and he was now the subject of over a dozen well-bred, haughty gazes.

  “Was there something you wanted, madam?” he said, taking a step towards her before Urso put a hand on his arm and reminded him where he was.

  “Watch how you talk to my wife, you damnable traitor,” her husband snapped. The last time Arman had seen him had been the palace dinner sixteen years before at which the peace treaty had been discussed. It seemed the senator’s feelings about the matter hadn’t moderated at all. “You’re not with your heathen savages now.” His words made the smirks grow more unpleasant, and laughs were poorly hidden behind aristocratic hands. “No wonder her Serenity thinks you’re unfit to have a child in charge.”

  “She can—” But he was startled into silence as Urso grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  “Arman, shut up and let’s get out of here. They’ve been set to bait you,” he muttered, pushing Arman with a strength belied by his slim frame towards the door. Arman heard the derisory comments following their footsteps.

  “Sorry,” Arman said. He’d been away from Utuk too long. He’d forgotten what pack animals the aristocracy were, and he’d never been particularly good at dealing with the other members of his caste. It was one of the few things he’d really liked about the military, that there were so few noblemen in it, and that his interactions with them had been always defined by his rank and the demands of their particular task, rather than by gossip and politics. He’d always been content to let his father and brother deal with their peers instead.

  Urso didn’t release his grip until they were just inside the doors. “Let me call up the calash. Do you want to go back to your father’s house or the embassy first?”

  “Embassy. I owe it to Jena to report this in person.” Though he certainly wasn’t looking forward to that conversation either. “I’ll come—”

  “No, stay here. And don’t let those people provoke you. She’s looking for an excuse to throw you into the cells, you know that.” No need to say which ‘she’ he meant, and of course, Urso was quite right.

  Arman would have preferred to wait outside, bu
t there was no point in being conspicuous. The nobility in the foyer were still tittering and looking in his direction—he gave them his coolest, most quelling look and it had a slight effect, since a couple of the women and one of the senators turned away. He wondered why Mekus wasn’t here lapping the whole thing up. It was unusually restrained of him.

  Gods. At least two more weeks here—a month or more in fact—and away from Kei. He should have been more careful about regretting not having more time with his family. The Prijian gods would hardly have him in their favour these days, and Akan, god of mischief, would have seen his desire as a wonderful opportunity to punish him for turning his back on them. Kei said the Prijian gods were myths and things didn’t work like that, and mostly Arman agreed with him. Until things like this happened—then he had to wonder.

  Urso really was quick, and Arman followed him down the long courthouse steps to where the calash was waiting.

  “There he be, that’s the traitor!”

  Arman turned. A man with a clenched fist was walking towards them. Arman took Urso’s arm. “We need to hurry,” he said, his military instincts, even blunted by disuse, springing instantly into life. This man wouldn’t be content with merely shouting. Already the guards at the front of the courthouse were moving forward.

  “Hurry, get into the calash.”

  A rock flew past his ear—there had to be more than one man, and as he turned towards the direction from which the rock had come, he saw more people coming from three sides of the square, shouting angrily, calling his name. They were carrying sacks and he knew what must be in them. “Hurry!”

  He dragged Urso down the few remaining steps and then ran for the calash. Suddenly there were people everywhere. The jesigs were rearing as the crowd noise grew—where had they all come from?—and the two soldiers who’d come with Urso struggled to keep them from bolting.