and forced the rehearsed words up my throat.
“As heir to Thaddace of Mewe,” I said, “High Lord Judge of Aritsar, I invoke my right to preside over this hearing. Who brings a case before this court?”
“I do,” said Olugbade, also as rehearsed. He sat on a throne behind me, so I was spared seeing the pleasure on his face. “I, Olugbade, King of Oluwan and Oba of Aritsar, accuse Lady X, a Swana woman, of treason against the empire.”
More whispers, then booing and jeering, as from the entrance guards marched a figure in chains down the Imperial Hall. They had cleaned her up, I noticed, which on their part was a foolish mistake. Even in a threadbare wrapper, hair matted about her head, The Lady was stunning. Her posture was perfect, muscles taut beneath her weather-scarred skin. Chains clanked as the guards shoved her, forcing her shackled legs to buckle and kneel a few hundred feet from my dais. But she held herself erect, like a warrior—or an empress.
“The accused is before you, High Judge Apparent,” Olugbade intoned, barely containing the smugness in his voice. “You have reviewed the evidence. The punishment for treason is death. Shall you accept this case for your ruling?”
I stood, as he expected me to, and assessed the The Lady. She ignored my gaze, expression as blank and cold as her bust in the Bhekina House study. I heard Dayo shift in his seat next to me, and remembered my grim promise.
“No,” I replied to the emperor’s question. “I will hear another case today.”
The crowd hummed with surprise. Before Olugbade or Thaddace could interfere, I announced hastily, “According to the ancient rites set in place by Enoba the Perfect, a High Judge Apparent may hear any case that she sees fit. I remind the court that the First Ruling, once passed, is irreversible. Who else brings a case before me?”
“I do,” cried a voice from the entrance. Amid a cacophony of murmurs, Keeya the merchant marched into the hall, brandishing her new son, barely three months old. Captain Bunmi and her Imperial Guard cohort, whom I had asked to protect Keeya on her journey to court, escorted the mother and child.
She stopped at the dais beside The Lady, who turned her eyes on me with brilliant curiosity. Keeya bobbed a curtsy, her waist-length cornrowed braids sweeping the floor. She held herself with dignity before the twenty-four looming thrones, though her voice shook as she said, “Please hear my case, High Judge Apparent.”
I gave her a smile of encouragement. “Whom do you accuse?”
Keeya took a deep breath, then pointed at Thaddace where he sat, speechless, on his throne. “His Anointed Honor, High Lord Judge Thaddace of Mewe.”
More gasps, and an enraged scoff from Olugbade. I held up a hand for the crowd’s silence. “With what do you charge him?”
Keeya held up the baby in her arms. “Causing discord between a husband and wife,” she said. “I want to give our son a Swana name: Bopelo. It has been in my family for generations, and I dishonor my ancestors by failing to pass on their legacy. But my husband disagrees. He fears that unless our newborn son has an empire name, he will never become a successful merchant. Anointed Honor Thaddace’s Unity Edict has caused all of this. If he had not requested that Arits give up realm names, I would not be fighting with my husband—and my son would have a name besides Baby.”
Shocked silence. Then the crowd began to buzz with laughter. It was ludicrous for a commoner to charge a High Lord Judge with causing her marital disputes. But according to the scrolls I had dug up in the Imperial Library … it was perfectly legal.
“I accept your case,” I said. “At this point in a ruling, a High Judge is supposed to ask for evidence. But I don’t need to. The evidence is all over Aritsar.” I turned my face up to the tiers of commoners and nobility, returning their wide-eyed stares. The crowds were grouped by realm, a semicircle of nations around the room.
I pointed through the hall’s towering arched windows, where bonfire clouds still stained the horizon. “The sky is burning with your stories,” I said. “The lives of your ancestors, the legacy of your children, vanished in smoke. Does unity cause strife between wives and husbands? Does it make an old woman weep in the streets? Does it make generals take up arms against their own people?”
Uneasy murmurs. I addressed