Justice for Master Mirrorman
As transmitted to the author by a Reader of Histories
A Day in the Life of Bailli
Ia Fruyi sighed as they adjusted their militia suit with its baffle pattern.
"The ruffles again?" asked the other bailli.
"Yes, can't believe the council has decided we need to wear these things. Always getting caught on the plates."
"Court officials must present a fashionable cut to impress upon the Middlers that the court is not merely an archaic holdover from Petit Republican times," mock-recited the other.
"Pendu, tone," chuckled Ia, "the house scapebats may be watching."
"Ia, ia, up in the rafters, eyes and ears everywhere. Good thing we're such good, loyal right-swords of the court." snickered Pendu.
"Anyway, the ruffles."
"Oh, right, here ... let me help."
"Hmph. They make me look frothy."
"As is the latest fashion in the coffee shops. Pungent, with a head of froth."
Ia suppressed a laugh.
"So, what's the big Bessler case today? Fancy augment gone wrong? Child born forked?"
"Bessler? What makes you say that?"
"You polished your boots and holster and scabbard with your expensive polish. You only do that when you're hoping to catch a paradise-wallet's eye. Still hoping to retire to some hacienda and get estated."
"Never too late," huffed Ia.
"Well?"
"Eh, I don't know the details. Some rich-name Bessler lady looking to get her rich-wallet Middler trader husbandman out of her life while keeping his wallet."
"Ah, old name and new money."
Ia nodded, "Yeah, old name, new money."
Pendu smirked as he passed the blunt right-sword, "Well, and here I was thinking it was going to be a sharp-sword trial."
"Might still be. Caught an eye of the canon's complain. Heresy and occultery."
Pendu's ears perked up, "Oh? That sounds like they might send out a few billy sticks then, blow some bones, boil some demons."
"If they do, won't be my billy stick. Brr. I've put that up long ago."
"Oh, aye, me too. Live it to the fresh ones. Too long since the decanter, can't quite see them as unfolk enough anymore."
Ia was about to say something else, but closed their mouth instead and gestured vaguely.
"Right!" Pendu jumped, "Your masque."
—//—
Temple of Justice, Soma
The bailli struck the double gong with their blunt right-sword. The two notes, at once sweet yet discordant, vibrated through the whitewashed, white-floored chamber.
The attendants of the court, the scribes, the canonist, the solicitors, the champions, the homunculi, the witnesses, and the watchers, all rose. The rustle of silken billows and patterned ruffle-coats was like a gust of wind through the golden larch forests.
In strode the judge, its robes of red and blue, its face of burnished chrome, all in sharp contrast with the muted pales of the gathered crowd.
“Here is the knife, here is the blade, here is the solution to the knot!” intoned the bailli, stentorian training obvious in their rippling throat.
“May we not be the knot,” answered the assembled.
The solicitors, champions, and homunculi rustled across the interlocking tiles of marble and alabaster to prostrate themselves before the judge, “We have presented the knot, may it be undone!”
The canonist walked forward, elegant and fearless, bearing a lump of flesh on a polished maple block. Setting it down, she said, “here is the sacrifice of the knot, may it sharpen your mind and reveal the right of way.”
She stepped back a pace, and chanted the summary of the case as the judge sat down with steely knives to cut the flesh into strips that fit into its metal mouth slit.
“Judge of our case, lord of our knot,
The dismay you’ve heard, of our complain,
Mastress Mirrormaid of the Lac d’Arxen Viv,
Noble bled, GMO-uplifted, well-to-deign,
Taxed and confirmed by the Course of Honour,
Brought to final despair, yea, her woe:
Vows marital, no fault hers, annulment.
Nix barrister, canonist representant,
Symbolic of the holy circumstance,
And the false husband’s unholy sin.
Heresy and dark arts occult the stain
Upon false Master Mirrorman, born Middler,
A merchant of the Pors Mirelettru.
Proofs presented of presence and absence,
Of marital duties ignored,
Of codominium mismanaged,
Of cultic practices abandoned,
Of forbidden documents and executables,
Of neural pathways modified against the codex,
Of tax corpses stolen from the state,
Of rituals dark and malign studied …
… and performed.”
An audible intake of breath, as the canonist painted a dire picture of the defendant for the chrome-faced judge.
The judge nodded and quietly finished eating the sacrificial flesh. A line of blood marked its reflective chin and dripped onto the white stones.
“The case is eaten! The case is digested!” announced the bailli, clipping his polished boots together. Taking the signal, the prostrate representatives scrambled back and arrayed themselves in their spaces on the floor.
“The scape beast was sweet,” announced the judge in the trained angelic tones of justice, “Its flesh distilled the case. Interesting nuances, challenging proofs, but simple.”
The judge’s eyeless face swept across the assembled attendants.
“The defendant absented himself in flesh and spirit. Even the homunculus is but an empty recorder.”
The defendant homunculus bowed respectfully.
“The records fed to the scape beast were also clear. The Mastress of the Lac etc. has the right of it by 87% of the canons and 82% of the commons. The annulment is granted, the estates are restored to the Mastress as though the wedding were unwitnessed by the All-Witness.”
The judge pauses, as though pondering an odd flavour, “Yet. Judgment contingent on delivery to the Master. We cannot annul the choices of the dead.”
The judge turns gracefully and strode out, like a cross between a mantis and a lion.
The Mastress’s homunculus turned its porcelain face to gaze at the canonist. Its eyes seemed clouded with the unease of the distant spirit behind them.
Her champions and solicitor scraped about her, whispering, “This is well and good! As good as may be expected or demanded. Why, one writ delivered to your false husband and your entire domain is restored. Yes, yes. This is excellent.”
With a change in posture, the homunculus shushed them. As one, they moved aside and made space for the canonist.
She paused for a moment, then offered her hand to the homunculus.
They walked, hand-in-hand to the silent gardens behind the Temple of Justice. The champions followed behind, billy sticks at the ready. Finally came the solicitors in their fashionable billows and fine ruffle-coats, like a flock of nervous parrots.
Under a spreading chestnut tree, hung with silent charms, the homunculus cocked its head at the canonist and presented its hand.
The canonist sighed and unplugged her wrist dropper. Five scarlet drops of blood fell into the white depression in the back of the homunculus’s delicately painted porcelain hand.
The homunculus licked the blood with its cat-like synthetic tongue. It was still for seven long seconds, then looked into the canonist’s eyes and nodded once.
A certain regal bearing went out of the homunculus and it announced, “The Mastress has left. I have been instructed to rate your services as worthy of … five flowers.”
The canonist’s thin lips mimicked a smile. Her eyes did not.
—//—
House Mirror, Lac d’Arxen Viv
The Mastress’s eyes flicked open. She was cold, despite the central heating. Using the para-body coffin always left her feeling cold.
She gripped the sides, hard. Feeling plex and plaz with her strong, rock climber’s hands. Flesh, bone, blood. Not the cerametal and synth-fibre of a homunculus. Back in herself.
She cycled air through her lungs, counted ten deep breaths, and pulled herself smoothly upright.
Her two cats looked at her from the oriel seat.
Javelin, the red one, purred, “Welcome back. You look worried.”
Tokamak, the white one, meowed, “Didn’t get what you wanted?”
The Mastress wiped off the coffin gel and put on her heavy cotton bathrobe. She sighed and looked down at her hems, where humorous cartoon cats and dogs chased animate fruit in circles.
“No … I got what I needed.”
And now, the one link. Here’s more art and an explanation of the background, roundground to this story. A free post on the stratometaship.