The city of Ludestre was often called the jewel of the Estellan empire. After all, what other city could boast as many wonders of civilization? From the Estellan National Museum which held relics and statues acquired from every corner of the globe to the Palace of Longspindle in which the ancient art of democracy is practiced by the High and Low Houses of Parliament; from the white marble of the Royal Bank of Ludestre and the Courts of Imperial Law to the ancient stone walls of the Academia Magnolis; from the towering crenellated spires of Ninesaints Cathedral to the spacious grounds and impressive structure of Riddington Castle, the seat of Queen Annabell and therefore the building that could, quite without exaggeration, be called the center of the Estellan Empire itself. It was said that a seasoned traveller could spend nine weeks in Ludestre and not uncover even a fraction of its majesty, and that one could spend nine lifetimes within its walls without learning all its secrets.
Indeed, all of that was quite true for many of the older districts that had been built to the northwest of the River Temsas. The further East one went in the city (and subsequently the further downstream), however, the more that the cost of that civilization could be seen. In order for the engine of empire to prosper, refined products had to be manufactured and traded with the outer reaches of the empire and the rest of the world. Factories were built all over Estelar, but many of the largest were built within Ludestre itself. As the city outgrew the ancient walls, more factories were built downriver, first harnessing the power of the river itself and later the newfound powers of coal and steam. More factories meant more docks on the waterfront, more workers from the countryside to run the machines, more cheap housing put up quickly for those workers; which in turn led to more crime and, subsequently, more punishment.
It was in the thick of this industrial labyrinth that Albert Finnegan, Esquire, made his living. The fourth son of an already poor Baron, he had been lucky enough to Bloom and attend the Academy, but not lucky enough to develop any real magical talent. Instead, he had turned his attention to law, where he found employment as a defense attorney, which was still a relatively new position in the Estellan legal system. As a green lawyer, he’d found himself stuck mainly with the unprofitable cases of laborers and commoners, but he didn’t mind it much. They tended to be more understanding and more grateful than the few merchants and lesser nobles he had represented.
He himself lived about fifteen minutes to the southwest of his office, in a small townhouse that he rented with three other impoverished gentlemen lawyers. The walk over was a daily reminder of the difference between his own life and that of his clients, as well as a daily lesson in gratitude. Even if he was considered impoverished by noble standards, he saw the threadbare stained clothes of the factory workers and the hungry eyes of the urchins who ran through the streets. Many of his fellow nobles would have felt unsafe walking through the area, but he had helped enough of the foremen and workers escape from criminal charges that most people left him unchallenged.
A group of workers emerged from the smog in front of him; even at nine in the morning, the sun had yet to burn off the morning mist, and the smoke starting to vent from the factory chimneys didn’t help. “G’day, Master Finn,” one of the workers called out as he walked past waving a callused hand. The nickname had used to bother Albert, until he had realized that most meant it more as a sign of respect and recognition. Now he just let it be.
“Good day, Wallace,” Albert replied, tipping his hat in recognition. “Stay out of trouble, man. Wouldn’t want to see you in my office again.” That had been a memorable case--a local grocer had charged the man with stealing five onions, worth around two shill seven pawning. The prosecutor had pushed for five years of penitentiary work, one for each onion taken. Fortunately Wallace had a solid alibi, and in the end the prosecutor hadn’t been able to make the charges stick.
Wallace laughed, loud and deep. “I’d rather not be there m’self, Master Finn.” He waved again, then he was off toward the textile mill where he worked. Albert gave a slight nod in return as the man disappeared into the fog with the other laborers, becoming just another indistinct shape in the clouds. The better districts had wards and streetlights to mitigate the presence of the smoke, but here on Driar-lane there was little money for such luxuries.
Albert soon found himself at his place of work as well, although it was quite different from a factory. He had rented out an office on the third floor of one of the more respectable tenements on the street, but that was like talking about the cleanest chunk of coal in the boiler room. He had chosen it to be closer to his clients, which had worked well, although it did mean that he was far less likely to gain more illustrious work any time soon; which in turn meant he was unlikely to see any changes in fortune in the near future. At times that bothered him, but he also knew that for many of his cases he was the client’s last hope, and most of the time that was enough.
As expected, his secretary Margaret had already entered the office and begun boiling water on the coaltop stove. He thought about upbraiding her for unlocking the office without him present, but he knew it would be pointless. Albert had given her the key a few months back with the strict instructions that she ought to only use it for emergencies, and ever since then she had made it a point of pride to beat him to the office and prepare tea for him when he arrived. Still, he didn’t mind it much. Margaret’s had been one of his first cases as a defense lawyer, and he had helped to acquit her after she had been charged with her husband’s murder. Albert himself didn’t know if she had done it or not, but after reviewing the evidence he had decided that either way she didn’t deserve to be charged. He’d ended up hiring her after they won the case out of a mixture of sympathy and a desperate need for a competent assistant.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You alright, Margaret?” he called out as he entered. “And is Emmet still recovering well?”
Margaret turned away from the stove as he entered and gave him a cheerful smile. At thirty three years old she was a shy of a decade older than Albert, but she looked closer in age to his own mother. “I’m doing just fine, Master Finn. And my boy’s on the mend. I imagine he’s learned his lesson about playing outside in the rain; although I suppose it’s just as likely he’ll be out doing the same fool thing next month, and then we’ll have a scare all over again. Just you wait until you have your own, Master Finn, and then you’ll see what a hardship it is to be a parent. Ah, well, as the priests are always saying, we all have our own trials and tribulations, and there’s no sense in wishing they were lessened.”
She spoke in a lilting ramble that he associated with people from Northern Rissex. All the while, she was busy preparing the tea, placing the black tea leaves into the pot to steep and then pouring it through a strainer into a cup. She continued to tell him about her morning as he took off his coat and sat at the desk, sorting through the documents that he had left out on the desk and trying to figure out how to best spend the day. He kept half his attention on Margaret, listening as she talked about raising her three kids and the ongoing disagreement with one of her neighbors over the name of a stray cat. Occasionally she would come to a pause and he would indicate his agreement, which would invariably set her off once more.
“...so of course, Mrs. Woodren claimed that she fed the poor dear first, and that she should get first right on the name. Which would be fair enough, except she had to go and call him Whiskers, which is just such a name, wouldn’t you agree, Master Finn?”
Albert was reading over a transcript of witness testimony, a newsboy who claimed he had seen the defendant take a bribe. “Indeed,” he murmured. The boy was remarkably well-spoken, and he had a sinking feeling that this case might not be winnable. Still, he had to do his best; the saints knew that the prosecutors would.
“Quite! And any sensible person could see that as well. So I tell Mrs. Woodren, mayhap his name is Whiskers when you see him, but my children know that his name is Baudron, and that’s all there is to it. Well, she did not like that one bit, I tell you! And that woman can talk your ear off, you know…”
Despite his best efforts, it was still quite apparent that the office had originally been intended as a domicile. There was a desk with several papers from recent cases and a chair set out in front for the clients to sit on, but to the side there was still the stove and washbasin that had been there when he arrived. It was a regrettable look to be sure, but the ability to have a nice cup of tea whenever he wanted it outweighed his meager attempts to look professional, and at present he was very grateful for that decision.
Once the leaves had been steeped well past the point of good taste, Margaret poured it into a cup and added three cubes of sugar, just as he liked, and then set it down in front of him. Albert drained nearly half of it in one pull, wincing slightly as it burned his tongue. Margaret clucked at him and shook her head in disapproval, which he ignored.
“Any mail today, then?” He was hoping that there wasn’t; mail almost always meant either an assignment to a new case that nobody else wanted, or else it was a creditor that was coming with a bill.
“A few letters, Master Finn.” She retrieved four envelopes from a table by the door and set them in front of the tea cup. He grimaced and then began to slice them open with his silver letter opener, a gift from a friend at school.
The first three were what he expected; the first two were from two of the lower courts, the Court of Larceny and the Court of Fraud respectively, informing him of two defendants who were currently without council. He set those aside; later he’d have to see if there was time in his schedule to take their case. The third was from his bank, reminding him that he had to repay the loan he’d taken out to purchase the desk he was currently sitting at. It had been expensive, but he just hadn’t felt like a proper lawyer without a good writing space. Now that he was finally footing the bill, however, he couldn’t help but feel some regret. However, that was also a problem that he could postpone until the afternoon.
The last one caught his attention mainly because of the fine paper that had been used for both the envelope and the letter inside. His breath caught as he opened it and saw the neat and refined handwriting, instantly recognizable and achingly familiar. Memories emerged, unprompted, of late nights studying in the library and a dance at the festival. He read it once, and then immediately read it two more times for good measure.
“Margaret,” he said at last. “Have I ever told you about my friend Mary?”