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THE COURT HOUSE BRINGS back bad memories. It has been rebuilt since Sultan Simson pulled down the old one, but it’s still on the same site, built to the same specifications. The only difference is the fact that the sentencing block is still clean. There are no bloodstains, no lingering smell of blood or urine or vomit. I don’t want to be the first to stain the bench.
No one is dying today, no matter what he says.
I sit on the throne where Aunt Layla once sat. Uncle Jeffett takes my former seat, the smaller throne on my right. He gives me a warning look. I force myself not to react as they bring in Han and lock him into the accused’s cage. I’m grateful that they haven’t brought anyone else in the troupe into it. Han doesn’t look up, standing unnaturally stiff.
The hall starts to fill. The people trickle in, looking up at the ceiling to assure themselves that it won’t cave on them. There are no curious gaggles as there used to be, no family groups attending together as if this were an exciting spectacle, entertainment for the day—yet it’s the largest crowd a trial has drawn ever since the Court House was reopened. It’s barely a week after the gruesome murder of Bayangan’s most revered couple, and the person on trial for their murders is one of the most sought-after performers amongst the Tawanan troupes. Of course they’ve come.
When it doesn’t seem like anyone else is coming, Uncle Jeffett gestures for me to start. Aunt Layla loved the drama of the court, using it as a stage to influence the opinions of the people. I hate it, so the actual presentation of the trial has been handed back to the Temenggung, under his purview as the Chief of Security, while I pronounce the final judgement and sentencing. In the past two years, without an officially appointed Temenggung, Ayah normally appointed a Captain to lead the prosecution, but as Uncle Jeffett had personally taken up this investigation, he’s also insisted on leading the trial today.
I flip through the documents in my hand. Huh.
“Han Jebat, you stand accused of treason against the throne and of spying for the Mahan Sultan. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Han looks startled for a moment, then relief spreads across his face. “Not guilty,” he rasps.
“What proof have you to defend your claim?”
Uncle Jeffett shifts in his seat.
“I am an honest man, earning an honest living, Tuanku. I have nothing else with which to defend myself.”
“We have witnesses that say otherwise,” Uncle Jeffett says.
“Let’s hear them, then,” I say.
The first witness is Ayah’s next-door neighbour, a little old lady who spends long hours on her porch drinking tea. She declares she saw Han enter Ayah’s house that night.
“It’s his dressing,” she says, when questioned about how she could recognise him in the dim light. “He has that flowing jubah that the dancers use—such a lovely one at that, with the flowers. The same one he was wearing here at the castle during his performance! But what does this have to do with treason? I thought this trial was for Tun Garett’s murder, Temenggung Jeffett? That was what you questioned us for, wasn’t it?”
The watching crowd murmur in confusion.
“It’s related,” Uncle Jeffett says curtly. “We have been unable to tie the murder to this man, despite his presence in Garett’s house.”
“Oh, I see.” She looks uncertain.
“Now, you mentioned you heard them fighting.”
The old woman nods. “Oh, so loud they were about it too, especially that late at night.”
“Are you able to identify the speakers?”
She pauses. “One was Tun Garett, I’m sure. I can recognise his voice anywhere.”
“What about the other one? Did it sound like the accused?” Uncle Jeffett turns to Han and asks him to say something.
“What do you want me to say? I have given you everything I know,” Han replies.
Uncle Jeffett asks the witness, “Is his voice similar to the one you heard that night?”
The witness hesitates, scrunching up her face. “I cannot quite tell...”
A brief look of frustration crosses Uncle Jeffett’s face. “What were they fighting about?”
“I really can’t say.” The woman shakes her head. “It woke me up twice because they were so loud, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Even if I did, I doubt I could remember it after a week!”
Uncle Jeffett thanks her and calls the next witness, a young man. I recognise him as Ayah’s neighbour in the house opposite. We’d exchanged pleasantries a few times in the past.
He fidgets as Uncle Jeffett repeats the questions.
“My friends and I—we went stayed in town for drinks after leaving the festival, so I came back pretty late. Most revellers had gone home by then, but I saw someone lurking in the bushes. Didn’t get a good look at his face because I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I just went home. Maybe I should have chased him off...recognise him? Probably not. He was in some kind of loose jubah, I suppose, but I don’t remember if it was floral or not. Sorry.”
He hesitates and looks at me when he’s asked about the argument. “Yes, I remember what it was about, though I didn’t catch the whole thing. They quietened down towards the end—as if they realised that they were being too loud.” He grips the bar in front of him. “Um, begging your pardon, Tuanku, but they were arguing about you.”
Han looks as startled as I feel.
“About me?” I ask.
“Yes, Tuanku. They were fighting about whether you would agree to some policy or other. Tun Garett seemed to think you wouldn’t. The other person was quite adamant that you could be persuaded.”
“What was the policy about?”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t really listening in the beginning, only caught my attention when I heard your name. That’s the bit that stuck out to me, Tuanku. I wondered why he didn’t just approach you, seeing you are friends with that Mahan ruler anyway. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop!”
Uncle Jeffett asks, “Would you be able to recognise the voice of the person arguing with Garett? Does it sound like the accused?”
The man looks unhappy. “I can’t quite tell, with him being as hoarse as he is now, but I suppose the timbre of it is quite similar? I can’t say for sure.”
Uncle Jeffett nods. “I suppose an actor would be skilled at disguising his voice.”
“People sound different when they’re angry or shouting,” the witness blunders on, “My Ibu—”
“Thank you, that’s enough for now,” Uncle Jeffett interrupts.
The witness hurries off the stand.
“As we have shown, the accused went to Garett’s house late at night with the intention of corrupting him. He brought Garett letters from the Sultan of Maha with the intent of coercing him into implementing some policy that would act against the interests of the throne, something they knew Raja Yosett would be against. They ended up fighting over it. Whether or not the accused murdered Garett and Marla because of their disagreement remains to be seen. I hope to be able to find more evidence to prove his involvement.” He looks at me, as if awaiting my judgement.
I pick my words carefully. “All you have brought to this trial is the fact that Han—the accused—or someone dressed in a floral ‘dancer’s’ jubah visited Garett on the night of the murder.”
“We also have a witness that overheard their argument, proving that he was planning treason against the throne.”
“An argument about some undefined policy with no conclusive proof that it was the accused who was involved—neither of them could identify his voice.”
Uncle Jeffett’s mouth sets in a thin, hard line.
“I do not find this conclusive, Temenggung. There is a link, yes, but it is tenuous.” I don’t know how far I can push this. “Do you have anything else?”
“Che Azman,” he calls.
Azman hurries up to the witness stand, his face red.
My throat is suddenly dry. My heart sinks when I remember I haven’t burnt the letters yet. They’re still in my office, that both Uncle Jeffett and Azman have access to. For all I know, Uncle Jeffett probably even still has the keys to the desk.
“Tell us what you found in Garett’s study.” Uncle Jeffett looks straight into my eyes as he speaks.
I stare right back at him, although my heart is hammering. You said you weren’t going to bring Ayah into this.
“Yes, Temenggung,” Azman stammers. “There were letters. From the Mahan Sultan.”
“What were the letters about?”
He looks flustered, glancing at me for help. I can’t do anything but gesture for him to continue.
O Kudus, what do I do?
“I didn’t read them, Temenggung, I just skimmed through, but they seemed to be about Mahan and Bayangan policies.”
“Were there any dates on them?”
Azman frowns in thought. “Approximately two weeks back, though I’d have to look again to be certain. It was recent.”
“Would you know how he got them?”
“Me? I wouldn’t know.”
“Who brings letters from Maha to Bayangan?” Uncle Jeffett’s questions are rapid-fire, sharp. It unsettles Azman.
“The troupes, Temenggung. Various troupes, and some dedicated messengers. They carry letters to towns along their route, both in Bayangan and throughout Terang.”
“When did Han’s troupe arrive in Bayangan?”
“A few days before the Festival.” Azman counts out the days, muttering under his breath, and concludes, “About ten or eleven days ago.”
“How long does it take to travel between Bayangan and Maha? You used to travel a lot for your duties, didn’t you?”
Azman gulps. “Half a day’s ride to the port, another few hours on a fast boat to get to the Mahan port. Getting into the city proper wouldn’t take more than an hour if you have transportation waiting for you.”
“And if you’re on foot with a group? Say of fifteen people? Like a dance troupe?” A smile carves itself on Uncle Jeffett’s face.
Sweat drips down the back of my robes.
Han has his eyes closed, as if he is praying. His fingers haven’t twitched all this while. Three of them are broken and untreated, sticking out at weird angles.
No deaths today, I remind myself, no matter what he says. The Raja alone can pronounce a death sentence. Not the Temenggung.
Azman’s voice comes out like a croak. “A day by slow boat across the straits. At an easy pace, depending if they stop to perform on the way, it might take two days to get into the city.”
“So a letter directly from Sultan Mikal would have been written two weeks ago and, if hand-delivered by a troupe—oh, by the troupe leader, I mean. They wouldn't entrust important letters to simply any troupe member, would they? Not if it was from the Sultan of Maha himself—well, this letter would have been delivered by the accused.”
“I cannot think of any other person who could have delivered it,” Azman admits. He stiffens, looking even more military than usual. “There aren’t any other Mahan troupes in the city who arrived within the same time frame.”
Uncle Jeffett nods sagely, then pivots to face me. “You yourself received a letter from Mikal through the accused, did you not?”
“I—yes.”
“So, you know he carries letters between our two kingdoms.”
“What are you trying to say?”
Uncle Jeffett’s smile is wide and smug as he says, “The accused brought over treasonous letters from our enemy and sought to gain Garett’s favour. When Garett refused, they had an argument that was overheard by the neighbours. Is that proof enough for you, my Raja?”
“You still haven’t proved treason or that it was him. And carrying letters doesn’t mean he knows what they carry.” I turn to Han. “Do you read the letters you carry?”
“No, Tuanku,” he says. “I do not open any of the letters. I deliver them with the seals intact, as you can attest.”
“And yet you knew what was said in Mikal’s letter to Garett,” Uncle Jeffett accuses. “Somehow, you had enough information to discuss this policy that Tuanku would be against with Garett and try to convince him to implement it. Does that mean you read this private letter? Or does that mean you are not just a troupe leader? You rank high enough with the Sultan of Maha that not only do you carry private letters about policy, but you are briefed about them as well.”
“No, I—”
Uncle Jeffett pivots on his heels to face me and flings out his hand, pointing an accusing finger at Han.
“I submit he is a spy! These things stand against him, and I summarise:
“First, Han Jebat delivered private letters from the Sultan of Maha regarding Bayangan policy. Che Azman Tuah has seen these letters and confirms both these points. Han was the only one who could have brought the latest letter in.
“Second, under questioning—which you were witness to, Tuanku—Han admitted that he argued with Garett about a request that Sultan Mikal had made. The request, and I’m reading from the same reports you hold, was to do with stationing a paderi in Bayangan—a highly controversial policy. One that should not be discussed with a foreign monarch, especially one who is our avowed enemy!”
The crowd gasps. I wince as the murmurs start, voices starting to rise.
“We do not know if the argument he had is the same one that our witnesses overheard. However, there is no denying that he delivered those letters and discussed policies with the attempt of trying to use Garett to undermine your authority. This is in itself aiding and abetting treason, if it is not a direct act of treason!”
Uncle Jeffett has me cornered. There is nothing I can say, nor argue against that, not without seeming to favour Han. Not when those incriminating letters are still in my office, and he knows it. Not when Han has admitted to their argument and it is all laid out in Uncle Jeffett’s report.
You should have destroyed those letters like he told you to, you idiot. You got yourself into this mess.
I plaster what I hope is a grateful smile on my face. “Thank you, Temenggung. For the crime of aiding treason against Bayangan, Han Jebat is exiled from Bayangan and charged not to return on pain of immediate execution. He will be escorted to the port and put on the first boat out.”
I stalk out of the Court House, not waiting to see if the soldiers are carrying out my orders, not daring to look Han in the face.
I’m sorry. I’ve done my best.
A glance at Uncle Jeffett shows clearly that neither of us are satisfied.