The single eye looked on Rodvard (and it said one thing only—“Death.”)
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.”