Chapter Text
‘Ta-ta, darlings!’ I blow a quick kiss to the three Fists before I leap over the half wall, landing graceful as a gazelle on the other side.
I pause to straighten my cloak, anchoring my hood over my glorious silver curls - a distinguishing feature if ever there was. I’ve avoided the ‘Gate’s laughable excuse for law enforcement for nigh on 22 years now, and today is just another day at the office.
I slow my pace to a casual stroll as I enter the Wide, looking to blend with the market goers, and those professionals from the upper city patronizing the food vendors on their lunch breaks. A meager half-hour to shovel a grilled rothé sandwich into their sad, indentured faces before returning to their professional enclosures to spend several more hours of their lives lining someone else’s pockets. And then they’ll do it again tomorrow.
I am about to drop my hood when I hear a whispered ‘Gotcha!’, and a fat old soldier puts his meaty grip on my shoulder.
‘Shiiiiiiiiit—’ I hiss. Shaking him loose is no difficult task, but where there’s one Fist there is a whole handful. They’re like roaches that way. My best exit is through the gates into the upper city, so that’s the direction I bolt. I take side streets and alleys in my circuitous escape until I no longer hear anything but my own panting. I appear to be escaped, but I am also turned-around. I used to know these streets like the back of my hand, but memories fade, and I now enter the realm of the rich and powerful as sparingly as I can manage.
No one in the upper city would be caught dead doing anything so undignified as running, so the heavy and rapid footfalls I hear approaching are almost certainly Fist. Looking around, I make a split second decision that ruins my day. To say the least.
The courthouse is overly warm and smells like mildewy books and lemon wood oil. I remove my cloak quickly, and stuff it behind a potted tree. A passing clerk regards me curiously as I stand up too suddenly, but I offer him a sly smile, and scan the half-elf top to bottom with an appraising flick of my storm grey eyes and instantly all is forgotten. The shining brass plaque indicating the door as leading to Courtroom B makes an acceptable mirror, and I rearrange the only curl out of place. Otherwise, I’m the picture of upper city sophistication in my raw silk wrap-over tunic and jeweled collar. My boots, unfortunately, look as though I’ve been running through alleyways all morning, which of course I have. But I don’t intend to let anyone lay eyes on me long enough to notice.
Hiding in plain sight - isn’t that the phrase? What better place to evade justice than in a court of law?
I open the door to Courtroom B silently, and slip into an unoccupied bench in the last row. The courtroom is sparsely populated, which is disappointing. I hoped that dismissal might provide the cover I will need to get out of the area. Proceedings are underway, and no one gives me so much as a glance.
This appears to be a criminal trial, and the defendant a young female elf. She sits straight-backed and frightened in an uncomfortable looking chair next to, presumably, her council who looks even more uncomfortable and frightened. The only thing that informs who is defendant and who is defender is the robes. She glances anxiously at the prosecutor as he questions the Fist currently installed on the witness stand. For one terrifying moment, the witness’s eyes sweep the courtroom and land on me, but breeze by just as casually.
I listen half-heartedly to the hearing as there is nothing else to do. I’ve already decided that despite the less than peak escape conditions, I’m still better off in here than out there. The prosecution drones on and on, editorializing more than questioning in my opinion, but that’s a problem for the magistrate. This goes on over an hour, and not once does the prosecutor look at the defendant. It’s typical of the upper class not to even acknowledge those beneath them.
As he goes on I become more interested in the details of the case. I listen actively—something I’m frequently told I should do more of—as I do I become annoyed. Then irritated. Then angry.
‘This is horse-shit!’ I say under my breath. Or, it was meant to be under my breath, but in a courtroom like this—high ceilings, bare walls, wood everything—a pin dropping would have caused the judge to look over. Which is what he did.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I will have the gallery comport themselves correctly, which includes keeping their opinions to themselves. Understood?’
I nod. ‘Except it’s not an opinion, it’s a point of law,’ I mutter, fully expecting him to hear that as well.
‘What is your name, Saer?’ the judge demands.
‘Astarion Ancunín,’ I respond, surprised then annoyed that my first response was to give my actual name. Deference to the authority of this building was beaten into me from a young age and seems to be a bruise not yet healed.
The magistrate raises and eyebrow, his head swivelling toward the prosecuting attorney. ‘Ancunín?’ he repeats, and from behind the large oak desk stands my father. He blinks twice—the only indication at all of recognition.
‘No relation,’ the other Ancunín says, blandly.
‘Well, then Mr. Ancunín, err, new Mr. Ancunín, you have one-hundred words to convince me not to find you in contempt of my court and have you removed to the city jail for the night.’
I take a deep breath, slowly and through my nose so to appear as cooly detached as my no-relation-father does. Why can I not think before opening my smart mouth? Why can’t I use my godsdamned brain? My muscles tense, suppressing the shudder at thoughts I hear in his voice, not my own.
‘The prosecutor has repeatedly indicated a charge of robbery. “The night of the robbery”, “the scene of the robbery”, but Saer, this very witness testifies that no such crime occurred.’
The jurors, crammed into their tiny box of seats begins to murmur amongst themselves, stopping abruptly at the sharp sound of gavel on soundblock.
‘The testimony was that she was apprehended within a private residence that was not her own, and held in her own hand a bag of jewelry belonging to the tenant,’ the judge frowns, but uncertainty flickers behind his half-spectacles.
‘Yes, Saer, and while it was very foolish for this young lady to be caught—’ behind me I hear a snort of soft laughter. ‘—I maintain that no robbery took place.’
The judge opens his mouth to argue, but I’ve found my rhythm now. ‘Manip Thurston here testified that all the lights were out and the doors were locked, as no one was home, did he not?’
‘Yes - that’s why we knew she was trespassin’,’ the Fist blurts, ‘she came in a window.’
‘Be silent!’ the magistrate barks at him, and the Fist recoils as though slapped.
‘Attorney Ancunín here, has been falsely accusing the defendant for over an hour, deliberately poisoning the opinions of these good jurors.’ I turn and give the eight men and women watching from the jurors’ box my winningnest smile, dropping my voice and making slow eye contact with each of them. Every single one of them blushes. ‘I don’t believe for a moment that anyone of his distinguished rank and reputation doesn’t know the requirements of a charge of robbery.’
That was more than one-hundred words, but the magistrate opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, looking very much like a floundering codfish. He looks toward my father. ‘Would you like to respond, Prosecutor Ancunín?’
My father looks murderous, which is not far off the usual sour face I remember. He shakes his head no, his fingers flexing and unflexing into fists he’d no doubt relish reacquainting me with.’
The magistrate swivels back to me. ‘For the record, Mr. Ancunín, please state your understanding of the charge.’
I smirk. The judge doesn’t know the difference it seems. I know my father does.
‘What the defendant did—’ I look at her and she raises a brow, ‘—or did not do, perhaps—’ that gets me a smile, ‘—is at best burglary.’
I suspect that right about now father may finally regret those hours he made me spend in his office. Most minor offences of my childhood were punished this way; he would lay out his ceremonial belt and force me to kneel on it while I read aloud from the enormous tomes that comprised the Criminal Code of Faerûn. The heavy books added weight that only further dug his medals, set into that belt, into my joints. They would grind painfully against bone and cartilage, and frequently the session ended with words like ‘distinction’ and ‘honourable’ imprinted backwards into my flesh. Words from the many awards cast in bronze and presented to a monster who used them to torture me.
‘Semantics!’ my father roars.
‘No, no, no,’ I gesture toward the uniformed man on the stand, his mouth hanging open, ever so helpfully, in a look of pure bewilderment. ‘Manip Thurston testified no one was home.’ I give that a moment to percolate down, just in case someone in the room wanted to exhibit an actual understanding of the law. No one does, so I continue. ‘Section 348, subsection 1 of the Criminal Code clearly specifies that in order for a theft to be a robbery, the victim must be present at the scene. They were not.’
I look again at the defendant and tip my head, considering her carefully, then share a skeptical look with the jury. ‘Robbery is classified as a violent crime.’ Some of the jurors smirk, getting my point. Even if anyone had been home during the theft, the defendant is generously 5 feet tall and 100 pounds. The little sprite-like creature in the defendant’s chair doesn’t look capable of kicking a dog, never mind perpetrating a violent crime. However, her fearsomeness is not the matter at issue. ‘And as a violent crime, it carries minimum sentencing requirements that are orders of magnitude greater than those of a burglary, as I’m certain Attorney Ancunín knows. A minimum of five-years, I believe, yes?’
The defendant blanches at that, and I’m further annoyed at whoever sent this young woman in here, entirely uninformed and unprepared. Justice is a sliding scale, with quality proportional to wealth. That's not surprising to me, but it doesn't make it more palatable ‘The question is why would the prosecution be deliberately and falsely inflating the charges against this woman, in direct opposition to the testimony of their own witness? A woman who is clearly ignorant of her rights, as appears to be her representation. What exactly is going on here that I, minding my own business in the back row, have to be the only voice of advocacy in this supposed court of law??’
I realllllly have to work to suppress a giggle. This is fun.
‘Alright, that’s enough!’ the judge booms, ‘Sit down!’
I open my mouth to object. That performance was stage worthy! The delivery, the inflection, not to mention that I’m fucking correct!!
‘Sit down,’ he repeats, and points to the seat beside the defendant, ‘right there.’
I strain to keep a neutral expression as the judge goes on to admonish my father, using works like unprofessional and embarrassing. He then thanks and dismisses the jurors, and declares a mistrial. I run my hand over the bottom half of my face to hide the grin that will no longer sit quietly behind my teeth.
‘The defendant will be released with time served, and council for the defence will be suspended pending a review of his qualifications and ethics.’ the judge orders. I want to ask why the defence attorney’s ethics are subject to review and not those of the prosecutor, but decide not to press my advantage.
‘Mr. Ancunín,’ the judge points his gavel at me. ‘You will report to the clerk’s office at 8am sharp, tomorrow morning. The court finds itself suddenly short on public defenders.’
‘Oh, I think not, Your Honour.’
‘I wasn’t asking.’ With a single smack of his gavel he rises and leaves the bench.
‘Shiiiiiiiiiit—’ I hiss under my breath.
‘Well that was entertaining!’
I turn to find the defendant’s small hand already extended. ‘Thanks a lot!’
‘Uh, don’t mention it,’ I say, distracted and reeling. I shake her hand, surprised at the hard calluses on such a petite person. Maybe she can do more damage than I led the jury to believe. ‘Miss….?’
She ignores my opening for an introduction, and instead leans in. For a horrifying moment I think she’s going to hug me, instead she lowers her voice and makes me wish that a hug was all this was.
‘Prince Prig won’t like knowing one of her gilts is gone blackbox, I think. ‘Less you’ve a pocket full of bawd to pay for the privilege.’ She steps back, and grins cheerfully at me. There is no sign on her innocent face that reflects what she just said. ‘But us Birds of a Feather, as they say....’ she adds.
Her grin, I see on second glance is mischievous, but not unkind. That was thieves' cant, and she just informed me that not only does she know who I work for, but also what I do for them. And now she also has a name to go with my face.
‘Tweet, tweet, Mr. Ancunín.’ she singsongs, and wiggling her fingers in a wave, skips up the aisle, and out of the courtroom.
Birds of a feather, hmm? Well, at least whatever I am, she’s one too, and that’s a fairly direct reassurance that she’s not going to sing. That’s what I get for judging the book by it’s pretty little cover.
My reeling thoughts are interrupted by a cold and sneering voice behind me.
‘Well, well, well,’ My father’s gaze is cruel, just like the rest of him. ‘That was a mistake. I can have ten guards here with one little cry.’ He adjusts my collar and I smack his hand away, which only makes his grin wider. ‘I think I’ll even collect the bounty, as crass as that is. There must be one—even if the Fist doesn’t know you by your real name.’
‘How cute,’ I drawl, trying to appear unaffected, ‘you’ve been following my career—and here’s me thinking you didn’t care. I’m touched, father.’ I narrow my eyes and take a step nearer. ‘But, you just lied to a judge in a room full of witnesses. I seriously doubt that you’re going to call anyone at all.’
‘You’re no attorney!’ he spits.
I brush non-existent lint from his shoulder and straighten his tie in return. ‘But you don’t know that because you. don’t. know. me.’ I hiss the last, then pat him on the cheek sharply before I turn and walk away, hoping I sound as dangerous as I feel.
‘Shiiiiiiiiit—’ I say to no one as I walk briskly out of the courthouse, only to break into a flat out sprint as soon as I’m down the stairs. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’m going there fast. I’m exposed now, on two sides.
And if that’s not bad enough, apparently I have work in the morning.