“How did you … ?” says Yaroslav.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yaroslav,” says Jindash. “I believe I have the floor? Thank you. I will continue. The Worldly Regulations were passed by the Saypuri Parliament in 1650, outlawing any public acknowledgment of the Divine on the Continent, however peripheral. One may no more mutter the name of a Divinity on the Continent than write their name in bright red paint on the side of a mountain. One need only make any acknowledgment—any acknowledgment—of the Divine to be in violation of the Worldly Regulations, and thus incur punishment. The significant financial gain does suggest that Mr. Yaroslav installed the sign with both knowledge and intent—”
“That’s a lie!” cries Yaroslav.
“—of its Divine nature. It does not matter that the Divinity the sigil referenced is dead, and the sigil could not have bestowed any properties on anyone or anything. The acknowledgment is made. As such, Mr. Yaroslav’s actions incur the formal punishment of a fine of”—Jindash consults a note—“fifteen thousand drekels.”
The crowd shifts and mutters until it is a low roar.
Yaroslav sputters. “You can’t … You can’t possibly …”
Jindash retakes his seat at the bench. He gives Mulaghesh a proud smile; Mulaghesh strongly considers smashing it with her fist.
She wishes she could somehow bypass all this pomp and pageantry. Worldly Regulations cases usually only go to court every five months or so: the vast majority of all WR infractions are settled out of court, between Mulaghesh’s office and the defendant. Very, very rarely does anyone feel confident or righteous enough to bring their case to court; and when they do, it’s always a dramatic, ridiculous affair.
Mulaghesh looks out over the packed courthouse; there are people standing at the back, as if this dull municipal trial were grand theater. But they are not here to see the trial, she thinks. She glances down the high court bench to Dr. Efrem Pangyui’s empty chair. They’re here to see the man who’s caused me so many problems. …
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.