The magistrate peered at Sabit and Rayshabu from beneath his bushy, dark eyebrows. The two fugitive women pulled their hoods closer, shying from his inquiring glare.
“Magistrate!” came the voice of one of the quarrelling men—a merchant from the look of him. “All thanks to the divine King that you have finally arrived! This man has a debt to me that he will not pay. I demand justice!”
“Wait here a moment, womenfolk,” said the magistrate in a soft voice that somehow seemed to cut through the incessant din of the marketplace. Turning to the man who had spoken. “What is the trouble now, Bekkai? It has nearly been a full moon’s cycle since you last found yourself in need of the king’s divine justice.”
The merchant bowed respectfully, the fine silk of his robes shimmering white in the morning sunlight. Rings of gold and gems shimmering from every finger. “It pains me to trouble you for the king’s divine justice, wise magistrate. However, I once more find myself beset by a man who refuses to pay his righteous debt.”
“It’s a lie!” cried the other man. Not yet grown into his first beard, the lad had the broad shoulder and stature of youth upon him. He wore only in a tattered tunic—clearly sewn for a boy, but now too small for the broad frame of a man. His heavy limbs shone with sweat. “He offered me three copper gersh to unload his wagon outside the gate and carry eight bushels of fruit all the way here. Now that I done the work, he refuses to pay.”
“That is quite a lot of work for only three copper gersh,” said the magistrate. “Especially when fruits carried by wagon are taxed at the gate, but bushel baskets held in arm suffer no fee. Bekkai, did you hire this man for such work?”
“Aye, your honor,” answered the fruit seller. “But I were a fool to do so. Better it would have been to pay the honorable tax and bring the whole wagonload up than to entrust them to this wicked, greedy boy. He dumped my fruits all over the ground, ruining their fine skins and bruising the tender flesh. He owes me two silver coins for the worthless fruit.”
“I dropped only one bushel out of eight, and only because he jostled my arm at the very last,” the lad said. “The oranges rolled onto his table and are unbruised. He owes me three copper gersh!”
“Two silver coins!” roared the merchant.
“Silence!” The magistrate’s voice cut through the quarreling voices like a sword. “You have each spoken your testimony. Come forward and swear to its truth by whatever god you revere.”
The lad stepped up. With a practiced movement, he bowed his strong back low. He took the magistrate’s right hand in both of his, though his mitts dwarfed the old man’s shriveled palm. Bending, he pressed his forehead to the magistrate’s hand. “I swear upon the blessed Auroch, who holds in its heart those who toil. All I have said is true.”
As the boy stepped back, Bekkai came forward. He carefully took the magistrate’s hand in both of his and raised the old man’s hand to his own forehead. “I swear by the light of the divine king, righteous heir of Teel, founder of our blessed city. The truth of my words may be prosperous for all who heed them.”
When he withdrew his hand, one of his fingers was naked, bands of pale skin marking where he had worn his thick, golden rings.
The magistrate stood straight, adjusting the rod and money purse that hung from his belt. Drawing forth the ceremonial rod, he held it above his head and spoke in a loud voice. “The crime of avoiding the king’s tax is a serious one. So is damaging of another’s property. The law is strict. Young man, you owe the king one copper gersh for each bushel of fruit you carried across the gate. By your own words, that is eight coins. And you owe this honorable merchant two silver qirsh for the fruit you destroyed. Have you the funds?”
The tall lad’s face fell. “I am poor. I have naught but half a gersh. That is why I took the work.” Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.
The magistrate returned the lad’s gaze with one of steel. “Then your life is forfeit. In the name of the divine king, I decree that you shall labor in the king’s service until such time as your fine of seven and one-half bronze gersh be paid, and thence in the service of this merchant, Bekkai, until your debt of two silver quirsh to him be relieved. Such is the word of the law.” The two guards stepped forward to seize the lad.
In the shadows, Sabit tightened her fists around her daggers. “I will show him the ways of justice.”
“No,” Rayshabu whispered. “This happens every day. Thousands labor in slavery an any charge, or no charge at all. If you fight this fight, what will become of the rest of them? Who will save them if you are captured here?”
With jaw clenched tight, Sabit looked from the bailiffs leading the stunned lad away to the magistrate and merchant standing together, sharing a whispered joke. Rayshabu laid her hand on Sabit’s arm. “You promised to get me home. You promised to free all of them.”
Sabit released her grip on the daggers. Turning on her heel, she plunged into the crowd. Rayshabu hurried after her.
Neither one noticed the cloaked figure break from the spectators and follow them into the crush of the marketplace.
— — —
Cover photo by rawpixel.com from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/african-african-american-bangkok-black-1589886/
Wayfarings of Sabit: Allies is copyright (c) 2019 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every Thursday (and the occasional Monday). You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller Find more sword and sorcery fiction at http://ipressgames.com/fiction/.