Author's Note: I hope all Americans had a happy Independence Day. Sorry about the delay in updating, but Lioness is working as a counselor at a sleep-away camp for rich kids, and so her downtime is severely limited. (Lioness has survived Patriotic Week intact, and she is heading into Athletic Week with more than a little trepidation.)

Disclaimer: All the quotes in Joren's trial are from Tamora Pierce's book. I'm sorry to borrow so heavily from her text in this chapter, although I did try to make Zahir's experience of the trial as unique as possible. Next chapter will contain more original material, though, I assure you, so please be patient with me.

Justice for All

That night, Zahir slept like a baby, which, of course, meant that nightmares plagued him, causing him to awaken, soaked in sweat, at irregular intervals, his dry mouth longing to cry out for the mother he knew had no hope of hearing him leagues away in the desert.

Each of the nightmares involved some variation of Joren falling to a gruesome end. In one, Joren had been soaring alongside Zahir among fluffy white clouds when, suddenly, the clouds bearing Joren turned to ashes, and he plummeted down to the ground so far below.

Zahir's next dream had consisted of him and Joren hiking through a sun-dappled wood together, as they had so many times during camping trips as pages, when Joren stepped into a pit of quicksand to be swallowed entirely before Zahir could even think to move to rescue him.

After that, Zahir was dancing through aquamarine waves in the Emerald Ocean with Joren swimming beneath him like a brother. Then, Joren's feet and arms were trapped in ropes of seaweed. Before Zahir could rip the wretched seaweed off Joren, Joren had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, lost in what had to be miles of black water ending in a watery grave.

Following that horrible dream, his night culminated in the most haunting nightmare of all. This time, Zahir and Joren were locked in the battle against the spidrens with the Own and the other pages again. The whole world was in chaos, burning up in flames, and, this time, it was Joren who slipped. It was Joren who was descended upon by a spidren. It should have been Zahir who saved him, but, again, Zahir's footwork was too cursed slow, and Joren met a gory death in the spidren's pincers and ravenous maw.

Sometimes, as he neared his end, Joren would scream out Zahir's name. Other times, his mouth would open imploringly, but no sound would emerge, as if Joren had forgotten Zahir's name long ago. Sometimes Zahir would move to rescue Joren; other times he would be paralyzed by shock and terror. It never made any difference what he or Joren did. Joren always suffered a dreadful death.

As he awoke from his final nightmare, Zahir yearned to sob his heart out, since it would be less painful to lose his broken heart than to continue living with it as a constant companion. Tears pricked his eyes as he thought bitterly that it would have required a heart of stone, rather than a man's heart, to withstand the horrid realization that love alone was not sufficient for salvation.

Nothing could shatter the soul more effectively than the harsh truth that you could love somebody, but that didn't mean that you could save them from others or from themselves. Sometimes, no matter how much you tried to guide a friend onto a lighter lane, that friend would barrel over you as if you were nothing more than a pebble to be crushed beneath their shoes and dash down the dark, dangerous path they were on.

Still determined to do anything in his power to save Joren, or at least bear witness to the awful end Joren was rushing toward, Zahir shoved himself out of bed. He dressed and groomed himself. Then, his stomach pressing against his lungs in a manner that rendered it impossible to take more than shallow breaths, as if he rather than Joren would soon be on trial, he left the royal quarters and made his way down corridors and winding staircases until he arrived at the courtroom where Joren's trial was scheduled to occur.

When he entered the chamber, he saw Duke Turomot, his scowl as firmly affixed to his lips as ever, behind the magistrate's dais. Glancing around rapidly under the pretext of locating an empty seat in the droves of lords and ladies who were interested in seeing the Stone Mountain heir stand trial for kidnapping a maid, he spotted Mindelan, Mindelan's former maidservant, and Lord Raoul (whom Zahir still couldn't believe had chosen Mindelan as his squire) crammed onto the bench reserved for the wronged party.

Across the aisle from them was Joren's knightmaster. Sir Paxton of Nond looked as haggard as Zahir felt, and, for a second, he had the urge to come over to offer a sympathetic comment to the beaten man. However, remembering that many northern nobles tended to glare at him as if he were a nasty substance attached to the soles of their best dancing shoes when he approached them, he squashed the temptation. Right now, when he was weakened by a night of terrible dreams, he couldn't deal with northern snobbery and prejudice.

Instead, wishing for some reason he didn't comprehend himself to conceal himself from Lord Wyldon, Prince Roald, and Cleon, all of whom he recognized among the crowd, he slipped onto a bench behind a nobleman who was almost wider than Zahir was tall, thinking that the gentleman's bulk would hide him from view.

Staring at the nobleman and the lady next to the lord whom Zahir assumed was the gentleman's wife because it gave him something to do while he waited for the trial to start, Zahir noticed that the nobleman, most unwisely, was garbed in puce that only emphasized his pink skin, increasing his resemblance to a pig in a wig. His bony wife, whose tight corsets made her appear so frail that she was likely to be swept away by any breeze that rippled through the courtroom, only made the lord's rotundity even more comically obvious.

Before Zahir could further mentally critique the noble couple in front of him, Duke Turomot struck a bronze disk with a polished granite ball. His legs and mind numb, Zahir forced himself to rise along with everybody else in the packed chamber and mumble the prayer to Mithros, joining the appeal for the god to preside over the trial to ensure that justice was achieved, even though Zahir thought that all the voices ran together like paint. This made the intention of the prayer indistinguishable to him, and, most likely, to Mithros.

Once the prayer ended, Zahir sat back down along with the rest of the assembly. When the rustling of the ladies rearranging their skirts had subsided, Duke Turomot focused his glower on Mindelan, which Zahir thought was only fair. After all, this trouble could all have been averted if the Girl had understood that she had no business bucking tradition and attempting to become a knight. If she had only known her place, everything wouldn't be a mess right now.

"These proceedings are a matter of law, not of noble privilege," the duke informed Mindelan tersely. "Should you have challenges to issues, make them elsewhere. We—"

Duke Turomot's words were chopped off when one of the guards stationed outside the courtroom threw the doors open, announcing, "His royal majesty, King Jonathan the Fourth. Her royal majesty, Queen Thayet."

Automatically rising to genuflect along with everyone else present as the monarchs glided down the center aisle to the front of the court, Zahir scowled. It was just like the king and queen to show up when their arrival would have the most drama. Neither of them had to concern themselves with punctuality like lesser mortals did. Sovereigns could never be late; whenever they deigned to come was right on time. Rules were for subjects to abide by, not kings and queens.

His glower remained entrenched as he watched King Jonathan and Queen Thayet settle themselves on the two throne-like chairs, which were part of every northern court's furnishings that were situated on the right side of the magistrate's dais. If Zahir's rudimentary knowledge of northern legal customs was accurate, normally these seats were empty and nothing more than reminders of royal dominion.

Only when the monarchs nodded to Duke Turomot did he resume his own seat. As Zahir, along with the rest of the audience, sat down after the duke, he couldn't stop himself from wondering if he should just stand through the whole trial, saving himself all the bother of rising and sitting down every few seconds.

Now that everybody was seated again, Duke Turomot's clerk, whose desk was at the foot of the magistrate's dais, stood. To the sentries guarding the common prisoners' chamber off the side of the courtroom, he ordered, "Admit the convicted commoners."

Within a minute, the sentinels brought out two shackled men. Once the chained men were dragged into court, the clerk read from a sheet of parchment, "Let the record show that the convicted witnesses, Ivath Brand and Urfan Noll, have entered the chamber. In exchange for their testimony, their fifteen-year sentences to the mines will be reduced to ten."

As he listened to the clerk's words, Zahir clenched his fists, telling himself that, no matter how satisfying he would find wrecking the courtroom more skillfully than a rampaging hurrock, he would not do so. He would maintain control, even though the blood was roaring in his veins and pounding against his eardrums. He would remain silent, although he was aching to screech out that what he was hearing wasn't justice.

It wasn't fair, he thought as his jaw tautened, that the men who had kidnapped Mindelan's maid upon Joren's command were to be sentenced to a decade of hard labor when Joren would be let off with a mere fine that would hurt Joren less than a nose bleed.

Only a fool would believe that it was just to severely punish those who followed orders while giving a slap on the wrist to the one who issued those orders. After all, Zahir was willing to bet his favorite possessions that the convicted commoners would never had laid a finger on Mindelan's maidservant if Joren hadn't paid them to do so. It was the epitome of injustice to punish the servant for the crimes of the master. That was why Zahir was so disgusted with Joren for having Mindelan's maid abducted in the first place.

Worse still, Zahir knew that most of those sentenced to hard labor died within their first eight years of mining and clearing roads. In essence, then, the men who had kidnapped Mindelan's maidservant on Joren's orders had been sentenced to an agonizing, protracted death. What they were facing was a crueler execution than hanging, and Zahir wasn't even sure that death was a just punishment for kidnapping. Execution only seemed justified to him in cases of murder, but, then again, murderers like Giovanni Medica and Mahmud were never killed. They were always allowed to live, even though their hands were stained with the blood of countless innocents.

It wasn't fair, but King Jonathan sat back and permitted such injustices to go on all around him. The fact that this latest outrage against any standard of fairness was transpiring in a courtroom only accented exactly what a mockery of justice it was. If only Zahir could learn to look at such events as comedies rather than tragedies, he would be much happier, but he wasn't callous enough to do that. He would continue to allow his heart to be torn asunder by injustice, because, if he didn't, he would become a monster.

"Proceed, Master Hayward." Duke Turomot's crisp voice jolted Zahir out of his furious musings.

"Admit the noble prisoner," the clerk called, and the guards on duty at another side door opened it. Out sauntered Joren, wearing a smug expression that suggested he had just been appointed supreme being of the universe.

He bowed gracefully to the monarchs and Duke Turomot before sliding into the bench reserved for the accused alongside his father's steward and the advocate hired to defend him, even though the worst he faced was a fine. If anyone deserved the finest advocate money could buy, it was the commoners Joren had paid to kidnap Mindelan's maid.

"Ivath Brand and Urfan Noll, do you see the man who paid you two gold nobles to kidnap Lalasa Isran?" demanded the clerk.

Both the convicts, as Zahir had expected, pointed at Joren. The clank of their shackles as they made this gesture only called attention to the fact that Joren wasn't in chains. Arrest would never inconvenience a noble nearly as much as it would a commoner. That was the northern notion of justice.

The Stone Mountain steward got to his feet, saying, "If I may speak, my lord duke." When Duke Turomot nodded his permission, the steward went on, "I am Ebroin of Genlith, steward for his Corus properties to Lord Burchard of Stone Mountain, father of Joren of Stone Mountain. As my lord is in the north and unable to reach the palace at present, I stand in his place. With me is Master Advocate Muirgen of Sigis Hold, licensed to speak in law in Tortall, Tyra, Maren, and Galla. He will serve on Squire Joren's behalf."

"I know Master Advocate Muirgen," answered Duke Turomot, and Zahir pondered whether all magistrates perfected the art of being as verbose as possible so that nobody would ever recognize that justice was never distributed in a courtroom. "He may speak as required."

Ebrion sat, as Advocate Muirgen spread his hands, his flashing, jeweled rings drawing attention to the movement.

"Your Majesties, my lord magistrate, the testimony of convicted men in such matters is a jest," began Advocate Muirgen, already starting to spin a thousand lies to replace the one truth. Twisting the truth seemed to be an invaluable talent in legal proceedings, Zahir noted, as the taste of vinegar flooded his mouth. "They give Squire Joren's name to please the Watch interrogators: they had to offer a truly big fish to justify any change in their sentence. They—"

"Yatter on, you cake-mouthed money britches," snarled Urfan, and Zahir admired the man's courage, since the convicted commoner had spoken the words that were whirling around in Zahir's skull, begging for exit. "We know who paid us." The sentry beside him cuffed his ear, but he persisted despite the blow. "Noble or not—" A second, harder smack quieted him, which was a pity, because, out of all those who had opened their mouths since the outset of the trial, Urfan was Zahir's favorite, although that wasn't saying much given the competition.

Advocate Muirgen looked at the chained men as if they were something distasteful a cat had dragged in. "Need we include the common element?" he asked in the stuffy tone northerners employed when they wished to demonstrate how refined they were, which often made Zahir wish that such individuals had half as much class as they believed they did. True class was what Trevor had possessed. True class never flaunted itself. True class simply was. True class was gracious to everyone, snubbing no one. "They have identified Squire Joren, rightly or wrongly."

Duke Turomot nodded, and the guards escorted the shackled prisoners from the room.

"No evidence connects Squire Joren to this tawdry affair," blustered Advocate Muirgen, and Zahir wondered if the advocate believed that the magistrate's brain was made with enough dung to swallow such a falsehood.

Duke Turomot raised a leather envelope that dripped with wax seals on ribbons, which contained a letter Joren had written to the men hired to kidnap Mindelan's maid.

"I object to the use of law court mages to determine the truth of Squire Joren's testimony," Advocate Muirgen rapped out, and Zahir sneered, thinking how in the space of one breath the man had gone from denying that there was any evidence linking Joren to the abduction of Mindelan's maid to arguing that said evidence was not worthy of the court's consideration. Doubtlessly, the court would soon be treated to a lengthy speech amounting to the very revealing contention that nobody had proved Joren guilty yet. "They would not practice inquiry magic if they were fit to make a decent living—"

Before Advocate Muirgen could go on arguing Joren's innocence by smearing everybody else, Joren cut in.

"Oh, stop this currish babble," he snapped, his cold, clear voice making it obvious that he found his own trial as riveting as a deaf man did an opera. Gazing at Joren with his mouth agog, Zahir thought that his yearmates might have accused him of arrogance, but Joren was a hundred times more complacent than he was. In a thousand years, he would never have the gumption to believe that he was above the law. Even if he couldn't be punished for breaking it, he would still adhere to it, because that was the honorable thing to do, and without honor, his life was meaningless. If only he could get Joren to understand that basic concept, his heart would stop feeling like it was in the ground. "Ebroin and Muirgen have talked at me for days. I'm weary of it."

Glancing boldly up at the duke, Joren stated, "I paid those idiots to steal a wench and stash her on Balor's Needle. I paid a—"

Zahir inwardly applauded his friend for being the only person apart from Urfan to speak the truth since the court had come to order. That fierce courage, wild disregard for the consequences of his behavior, and pride in his actions was so characteristic of the Joren that Zahir had met all those years ago when they had both started out training as pages that he felt hope surge through him. The Joren that he had known for all those years still existed and could still be saved. That pride could somehow be persuaded to see that it had been dishonorable, and that bravery would provide Joren with the strength he would need to repent for his crime. The inherent goodness in him could yet outweigh the bad. Joren might have been perched on the cusp of a precarious ridge, but he didn't have to topple off it head over heels; he could still be convinced to step away from the destruction that awaited him if he moved forward.

Clearly, Advocate Muirgen and the Stone Mountain steward felt differently, for they both darted to Joren, Ebroin of Genlith saying in a rush, "Squire, Master Joren, I beg you, not another word. Think of your family, the smirch to your honor. There are ways to handle—"

Frowning, Zahir observed mentally that Ebroin must be as thick-headed as Vinson, because honor could not be preserved by lying to cover a crime. Honor could only be preserved by confessing to a crime and making restitution for it. Honorable people never lied to maintain their good name; they relied upon their actions to do so.

"For a man who comes from a great family, you talk like a merchant," scoffed Joren, shaking off Ebroin's restraining hand. "My honor? What honor has a nation when a female lives among men and pretends to their profession of arms? What honor is there in forcing a good, brave knight like Wyldon of Cavall, a hero of the realm, to accept this creature into training and allow her to continue?"

His stomach sinking to join his heart in the ground, Zahir thought that the trial, in Joren's perspective, was nothing more than an opportunity to shout out his opinions to a courtroom jammed with nobles.

"I was not forced, Joren," Lord Wyldon declared, as Zahir noted inwardly that it was immensely improbable that Wyldon of Cavall had ever been forced to do anything. Lord Wyldon did not give off the impression of one who was easily bullied. In fact, he probably had been shouting out orders the second he was born. "She earned her right to stay as much as—more than—you lads against odds that might have broken one of you."

"I understand that you are honor bound to say so, my lord," Joren remarked quietly, even though he had to know as well as Zahir did that it would just about kill Lord Wyldon to lie. "The conclusions I draw are my own."

Joren spat on the flagstones before Mindelan and then faced Duke Turomot once again. "I had her coming and going," he commented, the pride he took in stating this making it plain that he felt nothing but admiration for his own genius. "Either she failed in her duty to serve her servant—and I'd have made sure the world knew the wonderful Keladry had shirked her first obligation as a noble—or she'd be so late that she'd have to repeat the whole four years. No one would do that."

Apparently deciding that now was a glorious opportunity to accuse the chief magistrate in the realm of accepting royal bribes, Joren went on, "My lord duke, you and the other examiners made allowance for her, because certain interests in this kingdom mean her to succeed. You allowed her to take the big examinations alone. Of course, she passed." Joren paused long enough to cross his arms over his chest defiantly, as though he were the lone, valiant survivor of a bloody battle. "So, I paid those men. I give you leave to sentence me under the law."

As Zahir thought that Joren's choice to insult the man passing judgment upon him just before requesting that his sentence be passed highlighted just how much contempt Joren held the law in, Duke Turomot leaned forward, looking like a dragon about to breathe a particularly large ball of fire.

"You are fortunate that, by law, a magistrate may not challenge for insult, Joren of Stone Mountain." The duke's tone was sharp enough to cut wood. "I submit you knew that much before you found the courage to say such things of me and my examiners, but Mithros waits in judgment, you arrogant puppy. You may twist our law to suit you, but he weighs your every act and will find you wanting."

Breathing heavily, the magistrate sat back in his chair and gripped his gavel with his gavel with his gnarled fingers. "With regard to your actions, the law is specific. According to The Laws of Tortall, section five, chapter twelve, paragraph two, in the matter of one noble's interference with the body servant of another noble: the offending noble must pay recompense for the loss of the servant for that period of time, in addition to the time which other servants spend in attempting to help or find the servant thus interfered with; the expense of any care of the servant following the interference; all expenses incurred by the noble with regard to court prosecution; and those costs incurred to bring said noble to court. I therefore fine Stone Mountain one hundred gold crowns, fifty of which are to be paid to Squire Keladry of Mindeland, five to the woman Lalasa Isran, and forty-five of which will be paird to this court for its expenses and those of the Watch."

"One hundred gold crowns!" gasped Ebroin of Genlith, as though a fine were a ridiculously harsh penalty for arranging the kidnap of an innocent woman. "The wench was gone not even a full day."

"Silence!" barked Duke Turomot, slamming his gavel on the brass disk. "You lost your right to speak when your master confessed! The Isran woman earns commissions as a dressmaker to ladies, including, at the time of the interference, her royal majesty. I but include due concern for those delayed commissions."

"Stop whining and get them their filthy money," snapped Joren, his disdainful reaction only confirming how little any fine impacted him. "As far as I'm concerned, this country is going to the sewer-mucking merchants."

With that, he strode out of the door by which he had entered.

For a moment, Zahir thought that Duke Turomot, who was rapidly turning the color of an overripe blueberry, would dispatch a guard to drag back his impudent friend. Before the duke could do so, however, Sir Paxton, whose face was gray as clay, got to his feet, stuttering apologetically, "Your Majesties, your grace, Squire Keladry, I beg your pardon for my squire's behavior. I did not know about his crime. Had I known he would act in this fashion, I would have gagged him myself."

Personally, Zahir thought that it still wasn't too late for that approach. If fines didn't make Joren understand how wrong he was, maybe being tied up would. Sometimes only experience could teach important lessons. In the interest of protecting his own skin, Zahir generally opposed violence against stubborn squires, but desperate times sometimes called for desperate measures.

"No noble is responsible for the utterances of other nobles in court, unless there is proof that they are cohorts in the endeavor under study," answered Duke Turomot, holding up a skeletal palm that still trembled with suppressed wrath. "You are a knight of good repute and standing with the Crown, Paxton of Nond. It is known that you persuaded your squire to face this court. No one believes you had knowledge of Squire Joren's behavior. I would suggest, however, that you use the time remaining of his service to school him in humility."

With a bow to the monarchs and the magistrate, Sir Paxton departed through the main door, as the duke directed his attention to Ebroin of Genlith, inquiring, "Your dispositions, sir?"

Ebroin, who had been engaged in an animated discussion with Advocate Muirgen, looked up to respond, "If it please the court, I require three days to raise so great a sum."

"You have until sunset of the first night of Midwinter," barked Duke Turomot. "Each half-day you are late, a third of the sum will be added as penalty, subject to the same division of as the original sum."

"A third!" cried Ebroin, but he bowed his head and decided not to protest any further when the duke glowered at him. "Very well, my lord duke."

At this point, Mindelan stood. "My lord, I would like a question answered, please."

The duke, much to Zahir's satisfaction, transferred his glare to Mindelan. "Speak, Squire Keladry of Mindelan."

"Did I hear right?" Kel asked in a tone of forced composure. "Joren had Lalasa kidnapped, roped, gagged, blindfolded, and dragged here and there in the dark. Then she was left on an open platform where she could have rolled into the opening to the stair and fallen to her death, and all he gets is a fine? For the inconvenience?"

Looking at the girl he had always deemed as insufferably self-righteous, Zahir found that, for once, he agreed with her. A fine wasn't a fair penalty for arranging for a woman to be kidnapped. It seemed like both he and Mindelan had been idealistic imbeciles to think that justice could be found in the courts and that the realm's laws could protect anyone.

"That is the law," replied the duke tightly, so that Mindelan would understand just how much he did not appreciate her questioning him or his precious legal codes. "A maidservant belongs to her mistress. Squire Joren deprived you of her services—I understand she worked at that time on a gown for her majesty—" he glanced at the queen, who inclined her head in confirmation—"and caused disruption to her work later as a result of disordered nerves. I remind you the woman was also granted firve gold crowns in my judgment."

Here, Mindelan's maidservant tugged anxiously on her sleeve. After hissing something to her maid, Mindelan told Duke Turomot, "If he'd kidnapped me, he'd have gotten prison or trial by combat, but for her he tosses a few coins in our laps and goes on his way."

"Your tone borders on the insubordinate," the duke snarled, his eyes as hard and cold as glaciers. "My clerk will send you the law pertinent to cases in which nobles interfere with those of common blood under the protection of other nobles. These laws have been in our codes for centuries, squire, worked out by men far wiser than you. If you have no more questions…"

Mindelan looked like she wanted to debate the point further, but Lord Raoul and her maid managed to yank her back onto the bench as Duke Turomot concluded the trial. When the duke's gavel banging on the brass disk ended the proceedings, Zahir remained in place as the lords and ladies around him rose in a rustle of expensive fabric, because he wanted to speak with his knightmaster at the earliest possible moment. He was simmering with anger at what passed for justice in this kingdom, and he wanted King Jonathan to hear all of his thoughts on just how unfair the Tortallan legal system was sooner rather than later.

Unfortunately, it seemed that he would have to wait to give the king a piece of his mind, because his knightmaster, Queen Thayet, Mindelan, and Lord Raoul were all disappearing into an office off the courtroom. Obviously, Mindelan had decided to ask King Jonathan for a private word, and, sinking further back against his bench, Zahir thought that he wasn't in the mood for a patience test right now.

Trying to relieve some of the frustration welling inside him, he tapped his feet against the floor, deriving some small measure of contentment every time his shoes thudded against the stones.

He was distracted from his assault against the floor when one of the few remaining nobles in the courtrom halted beside him. Looking up to see who would dare bother him when he was in a towering temper, he found himself gazing into Lord Wyldon's stern face.

"My lord?" he asked, taking a stab at sounding dignified, even though he really wanted to strangle all the morons who had ever contributed to Tortall's messed-up legal codes.

"You came to the trial, but you don't look like you were supporting Joren," remarked Lord Wyldon, his tone wearier than Zahir could ever have imagined it could be.

"Despite everything that happened, Joren is still my friend, sir." Bleakly, Zahir shrugged. "I had to come to his trial, even though I despise everything he did that led up to this travesty of justice."

"Naturally." The expression in Lord Wyldon's expression was oddly distant, as if he were remembering something that brought him nothing but melancholy. "From the start of your training, you and Joren stood out like gems in a dung pile. You both were so strong, quick, and agile. I thought you two would be among the best knights that I ever trained. I imagined that I could mould you both into the sort of brave, noble knights the realm needs so much. I thought that I was correct to urge you two to be strong, to be aggressive, and to concentrate on the goal. Now I see that Joren took my advice to heart so much that he had no problem kidnapping a maid in order to prove a political point. You understand how wrong he was, though. That's something, at least."

Zahir pressed his lips together. Before, he hadn't hesitated to blame Wyldon as well as Lord Burchard for Joren's decision to abduct Mindelan's maid, but, now that he saw Wyldon looking so defeated, he couldn't feel any resentment toward the training master. When a giant of his childhood appeared to have abruptly transformed into a pygmy when Zahir was glancing in another direction, he couldn't feel anything except another twinge of despair that another illusion of his youth had been destroyed. It was hard to be outraged at a man who was just doing the best he could and had just admitted that he, like Zahir, could do the wrong thing even while harboring under the delusion that he was acting properly. All any of them could do was try, Zahir concluded grimly, and nobody could accuse Lord Wyldon of not trying hard enough.

"Joren can understand how wrong he was, too, my lord," Zahir insisted after a moment's awkward silence. "He is young. He has plenty of time to change."

"What with the Immortals and the tension with Scanra, you lads don't have nearly the same amount of time to be boys as I did." Dourly, Lord Wyldon shook his head. "Like you, Joren is more of a man than a boy, and, once people reach manhood, they don't change much. They might alter a handful of bad habits or modify a couple of erroneous beliefs, but their core values and behavior is set."

"I can make Joren change, sir." Zahir's chin lifted resolutely. "Joren and I were as much rivals as we were friends, so I don't want anyone thinking that he is stronger than me. I will find a way to save him from himself, even if he doesn't wish to be saved or doesn't think that he needs to be rescued."

"A person's character cannot be changed if they don't consent to its alteration," Lord Wyldon pointed out brusquely. "Boys either grow up well, or they don't. All you can do, Zahir ibn Alhaz, is strive to ensure that you continue to grow up well."

"I fear my own dark side as much as I do Joren's." Annoyed that everyone was writing Joren off as a depraved young man who could not be saved, Zahir folded his arms across his chest. "I wrestle with the same temptations that he does, my lord. I'm not any better than he is."

"You should fear your own dark side," Lord Wyldon educated him tartly. "The strongest people tend to have the mightiest dark side inside them. That is what I've been telling you. You seem to have as much a knack at misinterpreting me as your friend Joren."

Before Zahir could devise a reply to this unsettling pronouncement, Lord Wyldon departed the court room briskly, leaving Zahir alone with his thoughts, which were no better company than the training master had been, while he waited for his knightmaster to emerge from the office.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity or two, Mindelan and Lord Raoul left the office. Zahir leaned even further back on his bench as they passed, but both of them seemed too preoccupied with their own musings to spare him even a glance. Less than a second after Mindelan and her knightmaster had walked by, the king and queen stepped outside of the office, as well.

"Sire, may I talk to you for a moment?" Zahir asked, as King Jonathan and Queen Thayet followed Mindelan and Lord Raoul down the center aisle out of the court room.

"We shouldn't inconvenience others by remaining in this court room longer than necessary, Squire," his knightmaster responded. "Whatever you have to say can wait until we return to our quarters."

"I want to talk to you here and now, Your Majesty, not when and where you decide it's convenient," Zahir growled, his temper flaring. "I want to tell you exactly what I think of the serious miscarriage of justice that I witnessed in the very place where justice was supposed to be meted out, so that you won't have the nerve to act as though it didn't happen."

"If my wife and I intended to pretend that it didn't happen, we wouldn't have attended the trial in the first place, Zahir." King Jonathan's eyes were like ice as they locked on his squire. "By now, I thought that you might comprehend that just because I am king that doesn't mean that I am heartless. Since you don't, I suppose that I have to explain that the reason that my wife and I came to court today was to show that Joren's decision to kidnap Lalasa Isran mattered. We wanted Joren of Stone Mountain to feel the full brunt of our royal disapproval."

"Oh, and the good that did was so minuscule, I doubt there's a scale to measure it on," spat Zahir. "In fact, it was more harmful than helpful, sire. Your appearance here today just showed him that he doesn't have to be scared of royal ire any more than he has to fear legal consequences for having maids kidnapped. Now, in addition to his contempt for the law, he'll have contempt for the Crown. Yes, things certainly are better now that Joren realizes just how much royal approval doesn't impact him."

"Since everyone is dead-set on impressing upon me just how unintimidating I am, perhaps I will just have to lob off a few heads for people to understand that they cross me at their own peril," observed his knightmaster sardonically. "Maybe I'll start by decapitating you, so that everybody sees that I am above such humane impulses as saving my impudent squire's neck."

"There's a hollow threat if I ever heard one, Your Majesty." Utterly unfazed, Zahir snorted. "As you want me to become Voice after you, I am more useful to you alive than dead. That prevents me from being beheaded at your command at the very least."

"You are as adorable as ever, Zahir ibn Alhaz," King Jonathan remarked, all dryness.

"I am a Bazhir warrior." Zahir rolled his eyes. "I aim for fearsome, rather than adorable, sire."

"And what cause are you fighting for currently, Squire?" His knightmaster arched an eyebrow.

"Justice for all, as always, Your Majesty." His temper flaring since he suspected that the king wasn't taking him seriously, Zahir gritted his teeth. "What happened in this courtroom today was a mockery of the idea of justice. A fine isn't a fair punishment for arranging the abduction of an innocent woman, and it's not acceptable that Joren should only have to pay a fine just because he's a noble while the commoners he hired, who would never have touched a hair on the maid's head if Joren hadn't ordered them to, are sentenced to a decade of hard labor. Almost nobody survives more than eight years of hard labor. Basically, the men who did Joren's dirty work have been sentenced to death. I'm not even certain that kidnapping should be a capital offense, since it doesn't seem fair to take someone's life when they didn't kill anyone, but if abducting somebody really does warrant execution, be merciful and hang them. Give them a swift death rather than a long, painful one. After all, justice isn't vengeance."

"The courtroom, Zahir, is a place where legal disputes are resolved, not where justice is always accomplished, as I explained to you before," the king reminded him crisply. "Joren and the convicted commoners were all punished according to the law of the land. If those who are in charge of enforcing the law of the land break it upon their whim, none of us will be safe."

"Laws should reflect justice." Zahir's hands balled into fists as his teeth ground together ever more loudly. "Tortall's don't. That's a bit of a problem from where I'm standing, sire."

"I see you have as much contempt for the law as Joren of Stone Mountain does." King Jonathan shook his head. "Squire, I don't know how you plan to serve this realm as a knight when you don't respect the law of the land even when you don't agree with it."

"I don't have contempt for the law, Your Majesty," retorted Zahir, resisting the temptation to stamp his foot to emphasize his point. "I respect the law so much that I want there to be stricter penalties for disregarding it as casually as though it were nothing more than some silly ought-to suggestions. I love it so much that I want to elevate it so that it really is justice. I want there to be one set of rules for everyone—not separate ones for nobles and commoners, so that nobles can abuse commoners without compunction and commoners can't even look to the courts to protect t the rights that should be theirs. I want the courts to be the one place in the realm where all people can be treated equally, and everybody has a chance to be heard even if they are the village idiot whom no one would ever listen to under any other circumstances. You can call me contemptuous of the law, but I don't think I could esteem it more if I were a magistrate."

"In short, you want what Keladry of Mindelan asked from me." Pensively, the king stroked his beard.

"I suppose that the odds dictate that even someone as stupid as Mindelan can be right once in a blue moon just like a broken clock can be correct twice a day," Zahir commented coldly. "I'll start caring about her opinion when she returns to her home and takes up a proper pursuit like embroidery."

"Perhaps I'll begin taking your opinion with less of a grain of salt when you stop calling for justice in one breath and diminishing the role of women in one breath—"His knightmaster began, but Zahir interjected.

"What you see as diminishing, I see as acknowledging and elevating," mumbled Zahir mutinously. "I certainly couldn't embroider. I'll never understand why some women want to neglect their natural talents in favor of men's. It seems to me that women like that spit on the role of women, not me."

"You maintain good relations with your sister even though she is a Rider," King Jonathan said. "I don't understand why you are so intolerant of Keladry."

"She's insufferably sanctimonious," grunted Zahir.

"People could say the same about you, Squire." The king's lips quirked. "You know, we sometimes hate those who are too much like us because when we look at them, we see a mirror that displays all our flaws in sharp relief."

"Perhaps you dislike Joren because you're similar to him, Your Majesty," snapped Zahir, affronted at being compared to the Lump.

"Maybe." His knightmaster's voice and eyes were infuriatingly level. "Anyway, I shall tell you what I told Keladry of Mindelan. I shall do what I can to change the law dictating the penalty for nobles kidnapping common servants, and other laws like it. However, you must understand that laws are not altered in the blink of an eye at the word of a king or queen. My wife and I must balance opposing forces whenever we propose any change, and that takes time."

"This isn't about change," muttered Zahir, his mouth stiffening. "This is about maintaining traditional ethics in a world where an appalling number of people seem to have no morals whatsoever."

"Well, maintaining traditional ethics in a world where an appalling number of people seem to have no morals whatsoever will still take time." King Jonathan smiled slightly. "I recommend that you be patient, and remember that patience exists to be tested."

"Patience isn't my strong suit, Your Majesty," grumbled Zahir, wondering how a supposedly progressive king couldn't achieve change the one time his squire wished for it.

"All the more reason for you to work on it." His knightmaster's azure eyes were definitely twinkling with amusement now.

"No, all the more reason you should look to others for patience," Zahir countered, wrinkling his nose. "Look to me for displays of outraged indignation, not patience, sire."