The young man staggered; he cried desperately: “I appeal.”
“A captain’s judge on his own ship. I reject your appeal. Take him
away.”
Said the man in grey; “A moment, Ser Captain. This is not good law for
the dominion of Mancherei, in whose authority you now stand. We have one
judge that stands above every mortal protestation, that is, the God of
love, whose law was set forward by our Prophet.”
The captain snarled, black and sour; “This is my ship. I order you to
leave it.”
The man in the grey jacket had a thin, ascetic face. One eyebrow jagged
upward; “This is our port. I order you to leave it without discharging a
single item of your cargo.”
“You dare not. Our Queen—”
“Has no rule in Mancherei. That was tried out at the time of the
Tritulaccan war. Young ser, what is the ground of your appeal to our
law?”
(The Blue Star was cold as cold on Rodvard’s heart, but there seemed a
bright shimmer like a haze in the eyes that met his, and not a thought
could he make out through it.) He said; “Because the captain of this
ship would be both jury and accuser.”
“He lies,” growled Betzensteg. “My underofficer is the accuser, for that
this man refused to repair a drop-gear.”
“That is a question of fact, to be decided by a court which can gain
nothing from the decision,” said the man in grey, calmly. He swung to
Rodvard. “Young man, do you place yourself in the justice of Mancherei,
to accept the rule and decision of its authority?”
“Oh, yes,” cried Rodvard (willing to do anything to escape the terror of
that baneful optic).
The man in grey produced a small paper scroll and touched Rodvard
lightly on the arm. “Then I do declare you under the law of the Prophet
of Mancherei; and you, Ser Captain, will interfere at your gravest
peril. Young man, take your place in my boat.”