Justice and Utu (3 page)

 

Mat was still awake when his dad got back from the funeral. Riki had gone home. He had allowed himself to hope, just a little, that Mum might have come back too, that by some miracle his parents might have patched things up. But after the shock of the courier's message he supposed that was pretty unlikely.

Two months ago, Aotearoa had reached out to him for the third time, dragging him into a conflict between the dead Puarata's surviving warlock disciples. They had been seeking Puarata's secret lair, the place which had provided him with the overwhelming mystic powers that had permitted him to dominate Aotearoa and even manipulate the real world for centuries. Te Iho — The Heart: any warlock who gained dominion over it would become as powerful as Puarata had been.

Donna Kyle was one of those warlocks, and Mat's most dreaded enemy; a woman who had been Puarata's lover and would-be heir. But in the final conflict between the warlocks, confronted by the prospect of being forced to serve her hated father, Asher Grieve, she had capitulated, enabling Asher to be captured. This had not gained her clemency, however: she had been sent north to face a trial for witchcraft and myriad other crimes, with the prospect of public execution. And now Tama Douglas, defence lawyer, had been asked to represent her.

Mat didn't know what to hope for. The look on Donna's face as she had surrendered still haunted him. He had pitied her then. But she had been the right hand of Puarata for half a century. Who knew what crimes she had committed? He'd been told that, in Aotearoa, Governor Grey had sworn to see her hang. Maybe it was what she deserved.

Tama poured himself a Scotch and slumped into a lounge chair opposite Mat. ‘Hey,' he said tiredly.

‘Hey, Dad. How'd it go?'

‘Well, that old bugger Belsworth is buried. I guess I'll miss him.'

‘What're you going to do about the letter, Dad?'

‘I dunno.' Tama pulled the letter out of his breast pocket and unravelled it, then passed it to Mat. ‘Here, tell me what you think.'

Mat smoothed open the letter, and read it carefully.

Mat hadn't known Donna Kyle was ‘Edith Madonna'. At another time he might have laughed. ‘Two hundred sovereigns?' he asked.

Tama sipped his whisky and winced a little. ‘Sounds like peanuts. It'll probably vanish like the fairy gold in Colleen's Irish tales.' He gave a wry smile. ‘That'd make her laugh.'

‘I guess Mum isn't too happy about this?'

Tama barked out a short, bitter laugh. ‘That's an under-statement. She told me if I do it, then don't expect to ever speak to her again.'

Mat swallowed. ‘So you won't do it, right?'

And let the governor hang Donna Kyle, who saved us all.

Tama didn't speak for a moment, and when he did, he answered with a question of his own. ‘I guess Kyle asked for me because of you?'

It wasn't something Mat wanted to think about. ‘I s'pose.' He had not told either parent much about what had happened at Te Iho.

‘Why would she ask for me?' Tama persisted. ‘If anything, I'd have thought she would want me well out of it, after what she's done to you before.'

Mat bit his lip. ‘Uh, she probably thinks I'll persuade you to try and save her. In Rotorua, back in September, she … uh … could have won. But she threw away the chance deliberately.'

Tama raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would she do that?'

‘She hates her father, and she knew that winning was going to hand all the power to him. And … I think — I'm not sure — that she was sick of it all.'

Tama's eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Sick of it all?'

‘Yeah. The killing and lying and all that shit.'

‘But, from what you've told me of her, she doesn't seem the surrendering type.'

‘She did, though. Wiri said he'd speak for her,' Mat added glumly. Dad sounded interested, which would be just like him. Tell him he couldn't do something, and he redoubled his efforts. It was a family trait.

Tama pursed his lips, fingers tapping on the whisky tumbler. ‘Wiri said that? His opinions matter in Aotearoa.' He was silent for a long time. Mat was scared to move in case his dad asked him any more questions.

Don't do this, Dad …

Eventually Tama stood up, in one abrupt motion. ‘You go to bed, Mat. I'll see you in the morning. I just have to check up a few things online.'

 

Next morning, Mat crept downstairs at seven. He had an exam that afternoon: History, which was fast becoming his most useful subject; the most relevant to Aotearoa, anyway. His dad was still at the computer, smoking (he'd supposedly given up), with the empty whisky tumbler beside him. He had bags under his eyes. When he saw Mat, he yawned. ‘What are you doing awake, son?'

‘It's morning, Dad! What are
you
doing still up?'

Tama blinked at his watch. ‘It is? Good grief!' He stubbed out the cigarette, and yawned again. ‘So, how much do you think 200 sovereigns comes to, Mat?'

Mat shrugged. ‘Dunno. It's old-time money, so it might be hard to cash.'

Tama shook his head. ‘No, there's a market, through
collectors. Face value is the gold price plus a bit for rarity. I've done the maths. Mat, the fee of 200 sovereigns comes to nearly $100,000! That's several times my normal fee. It's enough to wipe the rest of the mortgage. It's ridiculous money.'

Mat groaned to himself.
No Dad, no!
‘Like you said, it'll probably just vanish. Some stuff doesn't translate from Aotearoa very well.'
Not that I think gold is one of those things
. ‘There are other lawyers, Dad.'

‘Wiri will testify. I've asked him about it. I called him after you went to bed.' Tama fixed Mat with a look. ‘You'll have to take the stand as well.'

Mat gulped. ‘No!'

‘Certainly. You were a witness at the crucial moment, when she reneged on her old life and came back to the light. Wiri told me all about it. Your testimony and his might prevent her from being hung. You'd be crucial.'

‘But … I hate her! I can't stand her! She deserves to die!'

There, I've said it.

But do I believe it?

‘Mat, she might be guilty, but deserving of death? Most civilized countries don't have the death penalty anymore. The real victory will be having her sentence reduced, and I think we can certainly argue she deserves that. You must testify.'

‘Dad, you can't do this! Mum will kill you! You'll never get back together with her if you do it!' Mat sucked in his breath, suddenly scared he'd said too much, that Dad would fly into one of his famous rages. But he couldn't unsay it now.

Tama took a long time to reply, and when he did, his voice
was sad but determined. ‘I don't think that'll happen anyway, Mat. Too much has happened. And in the meantime it seems to me that you owe Donna Kyle a debt. We all do. Wiri said as much, and he was no more willing to speak well of her than you are. I will represent her, and do my best. Even if it does mean going to Aotearoa and dealing with worse than Ranginui Puarata.'

Mat opened his mouth to argue the point, then closed it again. Dad had made up his mind. He never changed it afterwards. Not if all the judges and lawyers in Creation argued against him. ‘Dad, Governor Grey has sworn to hang her.'

Tama nodded, seemingly energized rather than deterred by the warning. ‘I can use that fact to create a moral imperative towards clemency.'

‘Mum won't let me go! And I'll be at school!'

‘You will take the stand if summonsed, son. It's the law!' He invoked the word ‘law' the way a priest would say ‘Bible'.

If reason doesn't work, try obstinacy
.

‘No! I won't! I'm a minor and you can't make me!'

 

The note was pushed under his bedroom door half an hour later.

Mat stared at the letter, and then checked the calendar on the wall. The Green Day concert was 17 February. If the case took more than a week, he would miss the concert — it was the final insult. He pulled his door open and hollered down the hall: ‘You can't summons me, Dad! I'm your son!!!'

His words echoed down an empty corridor.

‘You'll make me miss the concert! You can't do this!'

No reply. He slammed his door and threw himself on the bed, trembling in rage and frustration.

A
UCKLAND
, F
EBRUARY

O
bserve. Do not intervene. Report to me.'

It seemed simple enough. Mat slouched along amidst the press of people streaming towards Mt Smart Stadium, with Ngatoro's instructions, delivered by cellphone a quarter of an hour ago, echoing through his mind. Sunshine blazed through the vanishing cloud, and the air was steamy from the evaporating puddles. It had rained all morning but was clearing now. Dad had given him tickets to the Warriors' pre-season rugby league game to try to mollify him. Mat wasn't really a league fan, but it seemed churlish to refuse. It was only a warm-up, so the seating was ‘first in, first served'. Yet, despite it not being a competitive fixture, there were still several thousand people pouring into the ground, all buzzing about the new season. He couldn't care less, but Ngatoro's terse call had changed that. When centuries-old semi-mythical wizards give you an order, you obey.

It was the second Sunday in February, he was in Auckland,
and it was the day before the trial began. Mat's seventeenth birthday had come and gone, and so had Christmas. Tama Douglas had been shuttling between Auckland and Napier for the past four months, preparing for Donna Kyle's trial whilst keeping up his other cases. In Auckland there had been people from Aotearoa who had taken him to Akarana to interview the imprisoned Donna Kyle. Mat didn't like the way Dad talked about Donna.
A formidable woman
, he would say, with far too much admiration.

It had been the most wretched Christmas ever. Cassandra had visited for only a couple of days, as her father was taking her to Hawaii at short notice — her dad was a computer guy with heaps of money but no organizational skills. Riki had ended up spending most of his time in Gisborne instead of Napier, and Damien had gone up there with him. And then, before Mat knew it, the holidays were over, and Riki was back, glowing because Cassandra and he were now an item. It seemed like everyone in the world had a girlfriend except Mat. Even though he knew Cass and he had little in common, Mat had been pinning a few hopes on her. After what they'd shared, Mat had thought she and he might get together, but apparently she fancied Riki. He was still hurting a little over it, despite never having really been her boyfriend as such.

And of course Mum and Dad weren't talking, and he and Dad weren't really speaking either, so all in all it was dire. Even training with Jones (who was on the mend after his near death in September) in Taupo hadn't cheered him up. Dad had obtained permission to pull him out of school for the trial, telling the principal nothing about the true circumstances, of
course. They flew up to Auckland on a Friday and checked into hotel apartments on Customs Street. Now Tama was off in Akarana again.

‘Mat!'

He turned, a slow smile spreading over his face. Damien Meilinck was leaning against a pillar outside the stadium gates. Damien was in Auckland for his fencing tournament, so they'd made plans to meet up. Mat hoped to get out and see some of Damien's bouts when he wasn't required at court. And Dad had promised that if the trial was over quickly he'd get Mat a flight to Wellington in time for the Green Day concert.

‘Hiya, Damien!' Mat ran an eye over his friend, who was a foot taller than him, with shaggy ginger hair and a freckly pale face. Damien was putting on muscle about the shoulders and chest from all the fencing and a bit of weight training. He no longer looked like a strong wind would see him blown out to sea. And his taste in clothing was becoming more flamboyant: today he was clad in a tie-dyed purple T-shirt with an American Indian chief on the front, and a patchwork jacket that went past his knees. ‘You been buying at the op shop?'

Damien struck a pose. ‘You like? It goes with my new philosophy on life: all things to the max! Speaking of which, let's go get some rations.' He thrust a programme into Mat's hands. ‘Check out the cover, man! It's your old flame!'

Mat looked at the glossy magazine front, and sucked in his breath. Indeed, his very-short-term girlfriend Lena was on the cover, wearing a bikini and draped over the muscled frame of one of the Warriors players. His Lena, the girl he'd met and
kissed in Gisborne just over a year ago, and not seen since. The girl who'd become a taniwha. Only part-time, though: she looked all woman on the programme cover. He whistled softly. She looked …
gorgeous
… made-up, toned, her long, blonde hair a mane of silken beauty. No wonder the Warriors player with her looked
so bloody smug
.

‘Wow!' was all he could think of to say.

‘Wowzer indeed!' Damien commented. ‘Apparently she's in the Warriors cheerleader squad this year. Freakin' hot, yeah? You still got her number? Gonna give her a call?'

‘No way.'

‘Aw, come on! She liked you!'

‘She sold me down the river, nearly got me killed, turned into a sea-monster, and told me never to contact her again — as I recall.'

‘Yeah, but apart from that … You should let bygones be bygones, man. Anyway, she's probably eaten all her friends by now, so she might be lonely.'

Mat brandished the programme. ‘Does she look lonely?'

‘No,' Damien grinned. ‘She looks hungry.'

‘Another reason not to call her. And speaking of hungry …' Mat led Damien firmly towards the food stalls.

They bought some hyper-expensive and very average fish and chips and a cola each, then found some seats in the North Stand, just below a huge group of Samoans who were singing and dancing to entertain themselves, Island melodies flooding down the banks of seats in waves. The Warriors drummers were setting up behind the dead-ball line, and the PA was making team announcements.

‘Hey, congrats on the Merit pass for your NCEA, by the
way,' Damien said. ‘Good work.'

Mat ducked his head. ‘Thanks. You, too.' Damien had only got Achieved, but he didn't seem to care. ‘Apparently I was considered for Head Boy,' Mat added, ‘but this guy Mike Tollison got it, which was fair enough, seeing as he actually wanted it whereas I didn't.'

‘What, you got nominated for Head Boy on the strength of a Merit pass? Your school must be rubbish!' Damien pulled a mocking face.

‘No, you dork! I got nominated because the teachers thought I had … I dunno, whatever they look for in Head Boys. Heaps of guys got Excellence passes from Boys High, man, don't you worry.'

‘Your dad was Head Boy in his day, wasn't he?'

‘Yeah. He said I shoulda tried harder for it.' Mat grimaced. It had been just another of the arguments that had marred the summer break. He leafed through the programme in a desultory fashion, in case there were more pictures of Lena. Then he stopped, and stared.

‘What you looking at?' Damien asked, peering over his shoulder. Mat showed Damien, whose eyes widened. ‘Is that …?'

‘It must be. Jeez, no wonder Ngatoro said to keep my eyes open here.' The article was a one-page piece on a prospective new major investor in the Warriors, a property developer known as Sebastian Venn, a name Mat and Damien both knew. The article described Venn as an American entrepreneur of immense wealth who lived in Remuera. There was even a photograph, of a portly man with thinning pale hair and a deep tan. For all the world he looked the quintessential
international man of money. The article about his potential investment in the Warriors was written up as the forerunner to great things.

But Mat and Damien knew another story: Sebastian Venn had been one of Puarata's disciples. After Puarata's death, Venn had used his business skills to seize the vast wealth of Puarata's real-world empire, whilst capturing his power bases in Aotearoa. He had fought off the challenges of John Bryce, Donna Kyle and others to consolidate himself as the prime magus of Aotearoa, at least in the North Island. He'd been unaware of the showdown in Rotorua at Te Iho, in which the death or capture of several rivals cleared his path to dominance further. He was now the greatest threat to peace in Aotearoa, and evidently so confident he felt he could emerge from the shadows in the real world, too.

Damien whistled softly. ‘Jeez, man. I wonder if he's here, in the stadium.'

Mat glanced up towards the executive boxes. ‘If he is here, he'll be up there, in the “gods”.'

‘We should go and warn the owners that he's a crook.'

‘I'd love to. But Ngatoro said I should just observe.'

That stopped Damien in his tracks. Mat talking to legendary tohungas still took a little getting used to for everyone around him. ‘So! You watch much league?'

Mat shook his head. ‘Not really.' He knew the Warriors played in the Australian league competition, and had the reputation for being brilliant but inconsistent, capable of beating or losing to anyone. ‘You?'

‘Yeah, it's a cool game. I reckon the Warriors are in for a good season.'

The PA system blared as the teams emerged, and the crowd — possibly as many as ten thousand — rose and cheered. The stadium was a great arena, but it seemed a little ghostly when only a quarter full. The sounds echoed off the roofing and swirled about them. Mat and Damien munched chips and watched as the game kicked off. The visiting Australian team were the Sydney Roosters. Neither team began with much urgency, except when one particular Warriors player got the ball — and the intensity would lift from both sides.

‘Who's our number 4?' Mat asked, taking an interest despite himself. The young Warriors player had a spiky haircut with spiral patterns shaved in, and was built like a tree, lean and straight and muscular, but swift and sharp too. He was clearly at least part-Maori, and his golden limbs were heavily tattooed. When he ran, he invariably beat his man. He was already bloodied by some ‘afters' with the Australians, who seemed to be singling him out.

‘That's the new guy,' Damien replied, ‘Byron Kikitoa. They reckon he's going to be the next Sonny Bill Williams.' Damien frowned a little. ‘Last year he put one of the Roosters' junior players out for life — broken neck. The judiciary decided it was accidental, but the Aussies believe it was deliberate. I reckon they're all after his head today.'

Mat leant forward. It seemed that Byron Kikitoa was using the aggression of the Australians against them, drawing them out of position, then popping a pass. It resulted in a Warriors try. As the home crowd celebrated, the duped tackler threw a punch at Kikitoa. Kikitoa ducked effortlessly, and laughed in his opponent's face before joining the mêlée of celebrating
players. There was something intensely dislikeable about the young man's demeanour.

‘What a pass, man!' Damien enthused beside him, oblivious to Mat's reaction. Then he pointed towards the sidelines. ‘Hey, look!'

The try had brought the cheerleaders out again. Mat and Damien had missed their pre-game routine, so it was the first chance they'd had to spot Lena. Mat let out his breath as he saw her, clad in a skimpy skirt and a bodice of sequinned silver and black, dancing and twirling, blonde hair swirling. Cheers echoed through the ground and the music from the PA thundered.

‘LENA!!!!' shouted Damien, leaping to his feet and waving. ‘OVER HERE!!!'

The girl's head flicked about and she seemed to see them, then spun away in time to the routine. She didn't look their way again, except for a brief glance back as she regained her seat.

‘She saw us, man!' Damien crowed.

‘Yeah,' Mat agreed glumly. He opened the match programme. It told him that Byron Kikitoa was only eighteen, but he'd been the star of the Junior Warriors' last few games after appearing from nowhere. He was regarded as a future superstar. But even the programme admitted to a dark side, noting the way opposition players always seemed aggravated by his ‘attitude'. One team-mate was quoted as saying, ‘Byron, he's a killah, bro.' In the context of the story, it sounded light-hearted, but it made Mat wonder.

The next time Kikitoa got the ball he allowed the tackler to get him, but left his knee just ever so slightly high so that
it caught the tackler in the chest and left him winded and clutching his ribs painfully. Kikitoa snickered as he backed away. The referee strode up, seemingly about to reprimand him, then stopped, the warning left unsaid. Something unseen passed between them that made Mat's skin prickle.

He's using makutu.

By half-time Mat had seen three more subtle acts that
might
have been the use of magic on an opponent or official. Mat spent the half-time deep in thought while Damien went for more food and drink. The cheerleaders were out again, but he ignored them determinedly.

‘So, what do you reckon?' Damien yelled above the PA as he returned with a burger each. ‘Byron's cool, eh?'

‘I reckon he's a filthy cheat,' Mat growled below Damien's hearing.

The game resumed, and the Warriors conceded a try when someone dropped a high ball. For a while afterwards the Roosters pinned them back, until Byron Kikitoa took a pass and set off on a weaving run from beneath his own posts, breaking out alone, chipping the ball over the converging defenders and then being tackled without the ball. The ref blew for a penalty, as Kikitoa came up pushing and shoving, dodging a punch and jeering at the tackler, as if egging him on.

Which was exactly what he was doing, Mat realized. It was all happening close to their position, and he saw it all. The big rugged-looking Australian's face contorted in fury, and he threw a senseless punch. The blow caught Byron Kikitoa in the face, but Mat felt a small wave of power ripple out from the young Warrior, a cushioning of the blow. He still fell
theatrically, and the referee came straight in with a red card for the Australian. Kikitoa got up smirking.

The bastard played with that Aussie's mind … He's using magic to augment his game, right in front of the whole world, and no-one realizes …