NOVEL NEXT Book 2: Chapter 44
A bath, a visit to a barber, and a fruitful meeting with an old cobbler left Oak feeling like a new man. He wandered the narrow streets of Mashkan-shapir in his freshly bought pair of boots, taken aback by the sights and sounds of a living and breathing metropolis. After weeks of marching on the road with the caravan, the sheer throng of people and goods flowing down the cobblestone paths made him dizzy.
Out in the wilderness, a man could forget folk all over Pairi-Daeza lived inside tall walls all their lives, never venturing far from safety and relative comfort.
Ripples of conversation, the beat of hundreds of sandals on polished stone, and a thousand other common and uncommon noises danced into his ears from all around him, mixing into a glorious cacophony of civilization. A merchant shouted at Oak in an unfamiliar tongue, and pointed at packets of cloth laying on a rug behind him. Another grabbed at his sleeve, trying to entice him to buy a bouquet of yellow flowers.
"Only the best flowers for that special lady! Low prices, satisfaction guaranteed!" the short merchant shouted, his oiled mustache flopping in time with his words.
Oak waved off both men hawking their wares and continued on his way, dodging past a group of women in light-blue robes and pink shawls. They had colorful ribbons in their hair and animal masks on their faces. He caught himself staring at a fox-masked lady on the edge of the group, rooted in place by the dream-like sight.
The afternoon sun lit up her sheer robes, giving a tantalizing hint of the curves beneath. She noticed his gaze and did a pirouette, giggling with her friends. He breathed in the scent of roses and oil, feeling not at all like himself.
As a rule, women didn't giggle when Oak stared at them.
A wagon pulled by a team of horses thundered through the chaos, and he stepped aside just in time to not get run over by the cursing driver. When he lifted his gaze, the women were gone, pulled along by the flow of the crowd.
Disappeared into thin air, like fairies from a children's tale at the crack of dawn.
A laugh escaped from Oak's lips and he shook his head, chasing away any lingering disappointment. I saw something beautiful. That is enough. Invigorated by the novelty of everything that surrounded him, Oak went searching for the unfamiliar and the improbable.
For his left hand, he found a pastry stuffed with meat and foreign spices from a tiny boutique, little better than a hole in the brick wall. For his right, he haggled for an amphora of liquor made from strange seeds and grapes from a street stand.
"Two coins, for that small one," Oak said and pointed at an amphora he could easily carry with one hand.
"You try to rob me blind, ruthless giant! Are you a highwayman, or a customer?" The woman asked, batting her long lashes at Oak. Her accent was heavy, but he could understand her common well enough. "No less than four coins, and it is the best deal you will find on this side of the Nin-gublaga!"
The merchant running the stall was a shrewd negotiator.
Despite his best attempts, Oak left the stall behind a few coins poorer and a smile on his face. He was certain that she had swindled him on the price, and did not care a whit. Today was not for worrying or counting coins. He had haggled out of respect, not because four coins would break his finances.
Eating unfamiliar food and drinking unfamiliar spirits, he continued his search for the improbable. With no particular destination in mind, Oak let his feet take him where they thought best. His long legs carried him down dark alleys and winding paths, through bazaars and markets, until Oak found himself at the steps of a busy forum, filled to the brim with people from all walks of life.
The gathered crowd swarmed around a large circle lined with black tiles at the center of the forum, all jockeying for a better view. Oak couldn't relate, since he towered over everyone present.
An old woman dressed in immaculate black robes with white highlights at the cuffs stood at a speaker's box inside the circle, surrounded by clerks and scribes. She had a funny gray hat on her head and held a polished stick of dark wood in her right hand.
She looks like she has an upturned flower vase in place of a hat. Foreigners. Oak took a swig from his amphora and let out a deep sigh, enjoying the fruity taste of the liquor. Despite the strange getup, the woman presented a stern image, staring holes into everyone unfortunate enough to suffer her gaze.
A pair of men stood in front of the speaker's box under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, their backs ramrod straight and hands clasped.
The tall one on the right wore the insignia of some office, a golden plaque hanging from a chain over the chest of his dark-blue robes. His face was gaunt, clean-shaven and lined with the marks of age, but he still sported a full head of dark hair and his gray eyes had the glint of unmistakable cunning to them.
The short one on the left wore a dirty cotton shirt and frayed trousers, both of them simple make. Shackles bound his arms and legs together and a thick chain connected the shackles to each other, making running an impossible task. Dark stubble covered his jaw and his round cheeks, giving him an air of sloppiness, while the man's big nose, low cheekbones and a flat forehead worked terrifically together to make him look simple-minded.
It didn't help matters that his small, rodent-like eyes had the earnest look of a village idiot to them.
A few feet behind the chained man stood three guards in mail hauberks, their eyes never leaving their unbowed charge. They looked much too tense for the occasion, considering the amount of good steel draped around their prisoner.
"What is going on?" Oak asked and poked a fellow onlooker on the shoulder.
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"Hush, the trial is about to start," the rotund fellow replied without a glance in Oak's direction, his attention focused on the coming proceedings.
What the Hell. This might be interesting. Oak shrugged and took another swig of liquor. He could always leave if he got bored.
The judge bashed her stick against the speaker's box, silencing the crowd in an instant. "In the name of Her Majesty Queen Chinwendu, and the venerable House of Omman, I call this trial to order!" she shouted, her voice brimming with the authority of a person used to issuing commands. "Procurator Uzochi, you may begin."
"Ahem, ahem. Thank you, Judge Ejirogene. This simple matter should not take too much of your valuable time." The tall man in finery, Uzochi, bowed his head at the judge and placed a fist over his heart.
"I hope you are right, Procurator. Your office gave me the impression your evidence is ironclad."
"Oh, much better than ironclad, your Excellency," Procurator Uzochi said, rubbing his hands together in glee. "I have a signed confession."
"Indeed?" Judge Ejirogene lifted an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the development. "However did you manage that, Uzochi?"
"The accused was remarkably co-operative, your Excellency."
"Then please proceed with haste, so we can retire for the day, Procurator."
"Of course, your Excellency." Uzochi pulled a long scroll from his robes, rolled it open and began to read from the top down with a pompous voice. "Ahem, ahem. The man in chains before you, Okoro Acheampong, stands accused of being a werewolf. A bloodthirsty beast, hungering for the flesh of men. He has confessed to being one."
A ripple of shock traveled through the crowd swarming around the proceedings, but no one looked too surprised, which Oak found puzzling. As far as I know, werewolves are rare. Maybe the case is famous?
"In addition, Okoro Acheampong stands accused of murdering and eating fifty-seven men, women, and children. He has confessed to doing so." Uzochi wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and soldiered on through the outraged gasps from the crowd. "Mister Acheampong stands accused of desecrating the bodies of his victims and leaving their remains to rot without proper rites or burial. He has confessed to doing so, with pride."
Ah, well, that will certainly turn some heads. A man after my own heart. Okoro himself didn't look bothered by his long list of horrific crimes. The rodent-eyed man stood in the same ramrod straight position with an unbothered look on his earnest face, like he believed with all his heart that justice would prevail and take his side. Utterly mad, of course, but the best people often are.
"Ahem, ahem. As the Procurator of this case, I recommend that Okoro Acheampong be executed by beheading at the Crown's headsman's earliest convenience," Uzochi said and rubbed his hands together, smiling like a cat who just caught a tasty mouse in his jaws. "I end my statement. Glory to Her Majesty Queen Chinwendu, and the venerable House of Omman."
Finished with his accusations, Uzochi walked up to the speaker's box and presented the confession to Judge Ejirogene, who took a brief look at it, before handing it to one of her clerks. The young man bowed low, and dashed back to his tiny desk covered in pens and papers, confession in hand.
Probably going to make copies of it in triplicate. Oak had always held a sort of sick fascination towards bureaucracy. His old man had called ink the heart-blood of empires. Ashmedai's collected writings, Mekubbal Aeshma-Daeva, or the Book of Keys, held two entire chapters on how to rot a bureaucracy from the inside out.
Turn what is most vital into slow, grinding organizational incompetence. Propagate corruption, double-dealing and dishonesty. Encourage incuriosity and apathy. Ferment tribalism between factions to break the formal and informal flow of information. And as a finishing blow, drown the beast under mountains of rules, regulations, and differing practices, until no one, not even the bureaucrats themselves, can tell purpose from foolishness.
When Procurator Uzochi had returned to his former place inside the circle, Judge Ejirogene tapped the top of the speaker's box with her wooden rod, and waved at the accused. "The floor is yours, mister Acheampong. Make it quick."
The short, insignificant looking man cleared his throat and launched into a vigorous speech. "Thank you, your Excellency. Everything Procurator Uzochi claimed is true. I have killed men, women, and children. I have eaten their flesh and defiled their corpses," Okoro Acheampong said, puffing his chest and smiling with that same earnest look on his stupid face. Even his voice left much to be desired. It was nasal and creaky, like a wagon axle unloved by its owner and missing a splash of grease. "Despite these evident truths, I put to you that I am a good werewolf!"
A collective gasp rippled across the gathered crowd in response to the idiot's sheer audacity. Oak blew a mouthful of liquor through his nose, coughing up a storm and desperately trying to keep a howl of laughter inside his belly. Unless Okoro worked some real magic with his words in the next few minutes, he would soon be as dead as a doorknob.
"Please, enlighten us, mister Acheampong," Judge Ejirogene said and furrowed her brow, her expression as cold as a frozen lake in the heart of winter.
"It is quite simple, your Excellency! I only killed those who hail from Borsippa! Not a single son or daughter of Mashkan-shapir has suffered at my hands!" Okoro declared with evident pride, childlike joy dancing on his face. "Every man, woman, and child I have slain came from the bosom of Birs Nimrud!"
Another collective gasp rippled across the crowd of onlookers, this one even louder than the previous one, followed by an avalanche of excited whispers. People stared at their fellows with thoughtful looks on their faces, suddenly unsure of what to make of the man in chains. Someone hollered something. It sounded boisterous, encouraging even.
Amazing. No, beyond amazing. I lack the words to describe this blessed fool. Oak took a swig of liquor and swallowed it down with haste. He didn't want to waste good spirits and there was no telling what madness Okoro might say next.
An air of breathless uncertainty hung over the forum like a stifling blanket.
"Is this true, Procurator Uzochi?" Judge Ejirogene asked, turning his attention back to the gaunt man wearing a plaque of office. She looked intrigued, all traces of her former iciness driven away by Okoro's testimony. "Has this man only killed Borsippan thugs and harlots?"
"Yes, your Excellency. It is true." Uzochi grit his teeth together, looking like he had just smelled something foul.
Okoro cut into the conversation between the Judge and the Procurator, continuing his surprisingly effective defence. "Furthermore, I would argue that the charge of murder is inappropriate. I ask you, your Excellency, are those from Borsippa even really people in the first place?"
A child in the crowd giggled, and the mass of people gathered around the trial broke into surprised, roaring laughter. Oak saw men and women doubled over in their mirth, holding onto each other to keep themselves standing. An old toothless woman fell on her ass a few feet to his right, cackling like a hyena.
"Preposterous!" Uzochi screamed, spittle flying from his thin lips. Oak could see it in the man's nervous, sweaty expression. The conviction had slipped from the Procurator's slimy little fingers. "Your Excellency, I demand you silence the accused at once!"
"Let the man speak, Procurator." Judge Ejirogene leaned forward, her brown eyes gleaming with unguarded interest. "He is making a lot of good points."