It is a truth universally acknowledged that murderers are rarely disposed to give the recipients of their particular attention a heads-up.

Of course, whether Gianna d'Avec, Level 67 , appreciated this discretion - spending her final moments blithely unconcerned about her approaching doom - is somewhat of a moot point. If asked, she would have noted how much she would have appreciated the opportunity to prepare a fucking massive fireball to the face of her assailant.

Moreover, the thing she would have felt caused her the most irritation about the whole murder - other than, you know, dying horribly - would have been that, as the High Priestess of Gravalk, her final official act was to deliver a death sentence on a somewhat undistinguished heretic.

Had she shuffled off this mortal coil - well, shoved rather unceremoniously, it has to be said - following one of the great Holydays, she could have taken her final bow with, if not happiness, then at least grudging acceptance. After all, if Gravalk respected anything, it was a visceral, visual spectacle. The sight of her exsanguinated corpse on - and, indeed, around - the Scarlet Throne would add much to the legend of that particular Fire Demon.

And Gravalk, in all things, was all about the clout.

As it was, her slaughtering, occurring at an inauspicious time following a somewhat controversial ruling in the Middle Court, risked causing her congregation a curious letdown.

Even before factoring in her impending death, as d'Avec took her seat in the centre of a crowded Court Number 1, just fourteen days away from that most zero of zero hours, she was already fizzing with rage for reasons that may (or may not. Resist the temptation to skip to the denouement!) be paving her path to destruction.

Trellen Ulton was brought into the dock in chains. Not that he needed them to keep him restrained. As a Level 13 , he had absolutely no Skills in his armoury - Class-enhanced, privately funded or otherwise - to cause any of the , much less a High Priestess, a moment's concern. Indeed, the only true defence Trellen had to the significant charges against him was the implausibility of someone of his Level being able to commit the crime of which he was accused.

Trellen had served Lord Falyn - the ranking member of the city’s Merchantile Committee - with if not unblemished talent, then at least faintly corroded competence for almost four years before that peer of the realm's death. That the had somehow managed to make only two Levels of progress during this time - and added barely half a dozen Skills to his repertoire - was a matter of much mirth during the trial. were famously slow in moving through their Levels, but no one could resist a smirk or two each time the prosecuting made a sly reference to his lack of oomph.

There was measured, careful development, and, well, there was being a bit shit.

Unfortunately, and keeping to this theme, the way in which Trellen Ulton presented himself to court was hardly calculated to win much sympathy. Those in the huge crowd squeezed into the public gallery - for who doesn't love a bit of aristocrat slaying with the added spice of potential execution? - assumed the had chosen his most respectable robes for the occasion, but his time in the city's dungeons had done little for their sight. Or smell.

Like all of his particular calling, Trellen favoured dark brown robes: his with the bright green trim of Lord Falyn's House on the collars and cuffs. The , a rather sarcastic young woman who seemed confident this case would finally push her across the threshold of Level 35 – and well it might. Her god had whispered in her dreams of the importance of winning judgment in this matter. And the rewards that would come if she did – made repeated, and somewhat wearing, reference to Trellen's robes hiding not just the stain of guilt but the mark of an even less salubrious substance.

The High Priestess had half-smiled the first time - precipitating riotous laughter from a watching crowd that knew which way their bread was buttered. Or, at least, preferred not to be cooked alive for failing to show appropriate respect to the Gravalk’s avatar. However, the gag had somewhat palled by the fifth day of the trial.

The facts of the case were, essentially, not in dispute. On the night of Lord Falyn's murder, the accused was seen to enter his master's chamber in a state of some excitement. Numerous witnesses variously described him as "excited," "angry", and "furious as a badger in a laundry." Much was made by Prosecutor Galbon that if the esteemed judge - and the assembled crowds - knew anything about , it was that they were slow to rage but highly dangerous once that particular downward rolling object achieved terminal velocity.

"Even as weak and slow-witted, a Mage as the accused is sadly more than capable of dispatching a man as old and frail as poor Lord Falyn," as Galbon had put it.

Multiple witnesses came forward, including Trellen's own brother, to testify that the Mage left Falyn's bed chamber less than a quarter of a bell later and headed directly to the stables, where he paid twenty gold pieces for a mediocre horse. It was perhaps not the mark of a master criminal that he informed the that "he needed to get out of here as soon as possible before they caught up with him."

Further damage was caused to the 'not guilty’ plea when it was revealed that the in question - Godfrey Rolt - was in possession of an unusual Skill which allowed him to project his memories for the consideration of an audience. If the written summation of the evidence had made d'Avec suspicious of the Mage, then seeing the scene played out in front of her - Trellen stuttering, white with fear, and, yes, hands covered in blood - was hardly a ringing endorsement of innocence.

Indeed, so damning was Memory Show - even at a Common level - that, at the end of that day's evidence, Gianna had dashed off a hasty memorandum to the city's Mayor suggesting the immediate proscription of that particular talent. No one - least of all the great and the good - needed servants having the ability to showcase entire conversations for an unintended audience. If, at the start of the next day in court, anyone thought there was anything strange about Mr Rolt's bloodless corpse being found in the alley behind his house, no one was suicidal enough to bring it up.

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Thus, when it was time for the defence counsel to rise, it would be fair to say there was some work to be done. A few wags in the viewing gallery were heard to mention that Ortel Maybourne, a pressurised into making a shot at a defence, would be lucky not to join his client on the pyre for the sin of wasting d'Avec's time with his nonsense.

To be fair to him, despite the increasingly frustrated noises coming from the peanut-munching crowds and - worryingly for Maybourne - the judge herself, he pressed forward, painstakingly, with a defence. Such as it was.

Ortel Maybourne, Level 33 and having long given up any thoughts of rising much higher in his profession, was known as a solid member of the Golden Pit, the name for those lawyers who had shown themselves to be capable of unusually effective work. His bright yellow sash was still worn around his waist with something approaching pride, but few could remember the cases that had earned him that honour.

Certainly, it was received opinion that his doomed defence of Trellen Ulton would do very little to remind the public of his alleged historical excellence.

The argument he sought to make was that old faithful, beloved of young boys everywhere: 'It was like that when I got here.' Trellen testified that he opened the door to Falyn's private room to find him savagely slaughtered: his eviscerated torso missing all its limbs, with its head - still bearing the lord's long white beard - placed on a table with an apple in its mouth.

"And why, on discovering your master of so many years slain, did you not alert his household guards?" Ortel's soft voice asked, in a tone of mild rebuke, "I am sure all watching would like that question answered."

Trellen's eyes darted around the court, trying not to read too much into the High Priestess drumming her fingers and blowing smoke rings from her nostrils. It was not exactly out of keeping with his recent run of luck that, when his case finally came to be heard, it was the sevenday that Gianna fucking d'Avec was the presiding judge. Just a week later and Halton Konal - a profoundly cheerful soul who communed with Jantal, a minor god whose sole preoccupation appeared to be the growing of mildly hallucinatory fungi - would have overseen his case.

But those were the breaks, especially if Maybourne's suspicions were correct and the Council’s fingers were pressing down quite heavily on the scales of justice.

"It was obvious I was being set up for his murder. The household guards were in on it. The only chance I had was to escape as soon as possible."

The High Priestess stirred at that. "And do you have any suggestions why Lord Falyn's guards would do such a thing?"

Ortel chose not to react to the rather unhelpful intervention from the bench. He had been planning to build his evidence towards that very question. His hope was that he could create just enough willing suspension of disbelief to, perhaps, earn his client exile rather than summary, rather fiery, justice. However, he was long enough in the tooth to realise Gianna d'Avec would do what Gianna d'Avec would do, and there was very little point getting flambeed for making a deal out of it.

Trellen opened his mouth to hold forth on the epically complex theory he had developed during his incarceration. Fortunately, just before the words came tumbling out, he met Ortel's eyes, and the lawyer was able to shake his head a little. There was offering a defence, and then there was coming across as a raving lunatic. The last thing either of them needed was Trellen sharing his thoughts on who had committed the murder.

"I don't know, my lady."

Ortel coughed discretely to indicate he was keen to continue with his questioning, but d'Avec dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Come now, Mr Ulton. You have had some time to consider the matter. You must have come up with a hypothesis?"

With a sad little sigh, Ortel closed his eyes and sat down. Apparently, this was about to become the Gianna d'Avec show. With such blatant encouragement, there was to be no further success in dissuading his client from indulging in batshit crazy conspiracy theories. "Lord Falyn had asked me to explore records connected to the recent commercial success of several of the other High Houses. It was the opinion of the Merchantile Committee that several trade contracts with the city had been awarded without proper consultation or even without the Mayor being aware. I had a number of interesting leads to share that went to the heart of -"

Whilst it was generally seen as good form to pronounce a sentence of death before carrying it out, all present agreed that the High Priestess was acting entirely within the scope of her power to incinerate Trellen the moment she became convinced of his guilt. It was maybe a touch odd to do so right at the beginning of the defence case, but there was absolutely no one in the court remotely interested in making a deal about it.

Once the screaming had ceased, Ortel's eyes opened - ignoring the pile of ash that was all that remained of his ill-fated client - and sought out Trellen's brother in the viewing gallery.

He was disappointed if he hoped to see anything less than a satisfied smirk on Markian Ulton's face. The two met eyes for a moment, then, with a swirl of immaculately tailored robes and a haze of expensive cologne, that particular up-and-comer - all the more so now his tiresome older brother had . . . melted - was gone. Something told Ortel that there would be few tears shed around the family banqueting table this evening.

There was little left to be said. The High Priestess stood and motioned the forward. As there was something unedifying about seeing one's client being swept into a dustpan, Ortel busied himself with organising the papers on the desk before him. He hadn't had high hopes for the case - especially after he heard d'Avec was pushing to have it assigned to her - but Ortel had enough professional pride remaining to feel a certain heaviness settle in the pit of his stomach.

In the hiatus, d'Avec stood and addressed those in the crowd that remained - no Ultons, Ortel noted. That was an interestingly brave snub to the High Priestess. He did so hope it didn't come back and scorch them - and opened her arms to offer benediction. "The justice of Gravalk, the Great Devourer, is swift and clean. Go forth and share what you have seen this day and spread His word. Let it be known that Gravalk's eye is on all and none. There is no avoiding his glare. So has it always been, so will it be."

"So will it be," muttered the crowd, slightly irritated that a fairly shameless sales pitch had soured their fun. Most in the viewing gallery had their own patron gods, and it was largely seen as gauche to execute and evangelise in the same breath.

The High Priestess nodded in acknowledgement of the words—however grudgingly they were offered—and activated a portal stone to return her to the Third Floor of the Celestial Temple.

As the pillar of flame vanished, no one in the crowd would have suspected that this was to be Gianna d'Avec's final public act. The clock was, remorselessly, ticking down towards her becoming nothing more than another unexpected murder.

She had thirteen days, twenty bells left of life.