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A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows by Poul Anderson. Chapter 17, 18, 19, 20

Ywodh had explained his band’s intent. Word had quickly reached the

Chief Justice. Four hundred zmays would not lightly descend on

Zorkagrad, claiming to represent the whole Obala; they could be trusted

to be mannerly and not take an unreasonable time to make their points;

urged by Kyrwedhin, a majority in the third house of the Skupshtina

endorsed their demand. No guns greeted them, aside from those of the

corporal’s guard at the entrance; and they bore their own arms inside.

Up the stairs–past armored doors that recalled the Troubles–through an

echoful lobby–into a central chamber where the parliament in joint

session waited–Flandry raked his glance around, seeking menaces to his

woman and shelters for her.

The room was a half ellipsoid. At the far-end focus, a dais bore the

Gospodar’s lectern, a long desk, and several occupied chairs. To right

and left, tiers held the seats of members, widely spaced. Skylights cast

fleetingness of weather into steadiness of fluorescents, making the

polished marble floor seem to stir. On gilt mural panels were painted

the saints and heroes of Dennitza. The lawmakers sat according to their

groupings, Lords in rainbow robes, Folk in tunics and trousers or in

gowns, Zmayi in leather and metal. After the outdoors, Flandry breathed

an air which felt curdled by fear and fury.

Banners dipped to an old man in black who sat behind the lectern. Slowly

the fishers advanced, while unseen telescanners watched on behalf of the

world. In the middle of the floor, the ychans halted. Silence

encompassed them. Flandry’s pulse thuttered.

“Zdravo,” said the Chief Justice, and added a courteous Eriau “Hydhref.”

His hand forgot stateliness, plucked at his white beard. “We have …

let you in … for unity’s sake. My understanding is, your delegation

wishes to speak relevantly to the present crisis–a viewpoint which

might else go unheard. You in turn will, will understand why we must

limit your time to fifteen minutes.”

Ywodh bowed, palms downward, tail curved. Straightening, he let his

quarterdeck basso roll. “We thank the assembly. I’ll need less than

that; but I think you’ll then want to give us more.” Flandry’s eyes

picked out Kyrwedhin. Weird, that the sole Dennitzan up there whom he

knew should bear Merseian genes. “Worthies and world,” Ywodh was saying,

“you’ve heard many a tale of late: how the Emperor wants to crush us,

how a new war is nearly on us because of his folly or his scheming to

slough us off, how his agents rightly or wrongly charged the Gospodar’s

niece Kossara Vymezal with treason and–absolutely wrongly–sold her for

a slave, how they’ve taken the Gospodar himself prisoner on the same

excuse, how they must have destroyed the whole homestead of his

brother-in-law the voivode of Dubina Dolyina to grind out any spark of

free spirit, how our last choices left are ruin or revolution–You’ve

heard this.

“I say each piece of it is false.” He flung an arm in signal. With a

showmanship that humans would have had to rehearse, his followers opened

their ranks. “And here to gaff the lies is Kossara Vymezal, sister’s

daughter to Bodin Miyatovich our Gospodar!”

She bounded from among them, across the floor, onto the dais, to take

her place between the antlers of the lectern. A moan lifted out of the

benched humans, as if the fall wind had made entry; the zmayi uttered a

surflike rumble. “What, what, what is this?” quavered the Chief Justice.

Nobody paid him heed. Kossara raised her head and cried forth so the

room rang:

“Hear me, folk! I’m not back from the dead, but I am back from hell, and

I bear witness. The devils are not Terrans but Merseians and their

creatures. My savior was, is, not a Dennitzan but a Terran. Those who

shout, ‘Independence!’ are traitors not to the Empire but to Dennitza.

Their single wish is to set humans at each other’s throats, till the

Roidhun arrives and picks our bones. Hear my story and judge.”

Flandry walked toward her, Chives beside him. He wished it weren’t too

disturbing to run. Nike of Samothrace had not borne a higher or more

defenseless pride than she did. They took stance beneath her, facing the

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