City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(3)
However, whenever a WR case does go to trial, it’s almost always a conviction. In fact, Mulaghesh believes she has acquitted only three people in her two decades as polis governor. And we convict almost every case, she thinks, because the law requires us to prosecute them for living their way of life.
She clears her throat. “The prosecution has finished its case. You may now make your rebuttal, Mr. Yaroslav.”
“But … But this isn’t fair!” says Yaroslav. “Why do you get to bandy about our sigils, our holy signs, but we can’t?”
“The polis governor’s quarters”—Jindash waves a hand at the walls—“are technically Saypuri soil. We are not under the jurisdiction of the Worldly Regulations, which apply only to the Continent.”
“That’s … That’s ridiculous! No, it’s not just ridiculous, it’s … it’s heretical!” He stands to his feet.
The courtroom is dead silent. Everyone stares at Yaroslav.
Oh, excellent, thinks Mulaghesh. We have another protest.
“You have no right to do these things to us,” says Yaroslav. “You strip our buildings of their holy art, loot and pillage our libraries, arrest people for mentioning a name. …”
“We are not here,” says Jindash, “to debate the law, or history.”
“But we are! The Worldly Regulations deny us our history! I … I have never been able to see that sign you showed me, the sign of, of …”
“Of your Divinity,” says Jindash. “Ahanas.”
Mulaghesh can see two City Fathers of Bulikov—their version of elected councilmen—staring at Jindash with cold rage.
“Yes!” says Yaroslav. “I was never allowed such a thing! And she was our god! Ours!”
The crowd looks back at the court guards, expecting them to charge forward and hack down Yaroslav where he stands.
“This is not exactly a rebuttal, is it?” asks Troonyi.
“And you … you let that man”—Yaroslav points a finger at Dr. Efrem Pangyui’s empty seat—“come in to our country, and read all of our histories, all of our stories, all of our legends that we ourselves do not know! That we ourselves are not allowed to know!”
Mulaghesh winces. She knew this would come up eventually.
Mulaghesh is sensitive to the fact that, in the full scope of history, Saypur’s global hegemony is minutes old. For many hundreds of years before the Great War, Saypur was the Continent’s colony—established and enforced, naturally, by the Continent’s Divinities—and few have forgotten this in Bulikov: why else would the City Fathers call the current arrangement “the masters serving the servants”? In private only, of course.
So it was a show of enormous negligence and stupidity on the part of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to ignore these tensions and allow the esteemed Dr. Pangyui to travel here, to Bulikov, to study all the history of the Continent: history that the Continentals are legally prevented from studying themselves. Mulaghesh warned the Ministry it’d wreak havoc in Bulikov, and as she predicted, Dr. Pangyui’s time in Bulikov has not exemplified the mission of peace and understanding he supposedly arrived under: she has had to deal with protests, threats, and once, assault, when someone threw a stone at Dr. Pangyui but accidentally struck a police officer on the chin.
“That man,” says Yaroslav, still pointing at the empty chair, “is an insult to Bulikov and the entire Continent! That man is … is the manifestation of the utter contempt Saypur holds for the Continent!”
“Oh, now,” says Troonyi, “that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
“He gets to read the things no one else can read!” says Yaroslav. “He gets to read things written by our fathers, our grandfathers!”
“He is allowed to do so,” says Jindash, “by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His mission here is of an ambassadorial nature. And this is not part of your tria—”
“Just because you won the War doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like!” says Yaroslav. “And just because we lost it doesn’t mean you can strip us of everything we value!”
“You tell them, Vasily!” shouts someone at the back of the room.
Mulaghesh taps her gavel against her desk; immediately, the room falls silent.
“Would I be correct in thinking, Mr. Yaroslav,” she says wearily, “that your rebuttal is finished?”
“I … I reject the legitimacy of this court!” he says hoarsely.
“Duly noted. Chief Diplomat Troonyi—your verdict?”
“Oh, guilty,” says Troonyi. “Very much guilty. Incredibly guilty.”
Eyes in the room shift to Mulaghesh. Yaroslav is shaking his head, mouthing no at her.
I need a smoke, thinks Mulaghesh.
“Mr. Yaroslav,” she says. “If you had pleaded no contest when initially charged with the infraction, your fine would have been more lenient. However, against the recommendation of this court—and against my personal advice—you chose instead to bring it to trial. I believe you can understand that the evidence Prosecutor Jindash has brought against you is highly incriminating. As Prosecutor Jindash said, we do not debate history here: we merely deal with its effects. As such, it is with regret that I am forced to—”