"Let the defendant present his case," said the Adjudicator in a high, cold voice that reached every corner of the vast chamber which housed the High Court's main arena for legal battlefields.

Despite the small number of people occupying it as of the moment — twenty-five, the press included — the case in proceeding was of huge, if not superficial, interest to the masses outside the Court's doors. After all, it wasn't very often that a young, promising Acolyte from a respectable family died on his first fieldwork trip in the Fringe. No, not often at all, thought Ayesha as she watched from her position in the gallery.

The defendant in this instance was a tall, handsome man who stiffly sat in his chair with a look on his face that said he wanted to be anywhere but here, beneath the imposing gaze of Adjudicator Idorov and the judging stares of others. She was intimately familiar with what he must be feeling at the moment, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Normally, Ayesha was not obligated to attend a court in session in such, but she was doing it because this case was big — at least to the Magical Misuse Office — and it warranted an attendance in the flesh, at least. Especially if the rumors about the defendant's recent plea were true.

The most that the denizens of the MMO could ever hope for in their line of work was arresting over-eager, wet-behind-the-ears drifters for various misconducts that were soon forgotten. Their division was undoubtedly the laughingstock of the entire Bureau of Law Enforcement; it had been that way for years, and this was just Savage's way of getting petty with the guys from Artifacts. Anyhow, Ayesha wanted to be here. There were things she had to know, hell or high water. Time was ticking, and if she was right this time...

"Is the defendant's advocate Vartemius Flinch?" asked Idorov.

"I affirm, Your Honor." The defendant's lawyer said lowly, looking strung out but ready to go on the offensive to protect his client, who did not seem to care much about what was going on. Either he was overconfident or he had already given up - it would be a hard fight to get him out of incarceration.

"Is the defendant's name Balthazar Pierce?"

"I affirm, Your Honor."

"Is the defendant's occupation an Assessor under the Department of Dream Cartography?"

"I affirm, Your Honor."

"Clerk Symonds, do you confirm that Mr. Pierce's trial is being held on its assigned time and date?"

Clerk Symonds, a stick-thin man dressed in ill fitting claret robes of his office (they would've had better use as drapes) stood up quickly and answered in a high pitched voice, "I affirm, Your Honor!"

"Then let the trial 'The City of Irongate versus Balthazar Pierce' commence," said Idorov, gavel slamming down on sound block in premonitory warning that the events about to unfold would be anything but pleasant for one Balthazar Pierce.

*****

“Congratulations,” said Vartemius, and Bartie wanted to punch him in the face. Granted, it would’ve been counterproductive to beat up the only person who was the sole reason he wasn’t already carted off to Tulag and slaving away in some vhel mine, but he still wanted to do it, damn it.

Ma Rosa’s was uncharacteristically quiet for a busy, if not late Monday afternoon, a rare occurrence he couldn’t help but feel pleased with. Gods help him if the patrons showed up if they were to catch wind of the fact that he was in this part of town. It had been bad enough the first time around, with everyone sticking their noses in his business and not so subtly trying to get him to spill the details of the incident. What a mess.

“You’re lucky, Bartie. Very lucky. I’m still shocked myself at the fact that you aren’t in a cell right now.”

Was that the man's way of giving himself a self-congratulatory pat on his back? Good, he deserved it. Didn’t mean Bartie had to like it. The other man must’ve seen the expression on his face because he said,

“Don’t do that. Somebody died, Balthazar.”

He gave his advocate an acerbic smile. “I know. I was there.”

His redheaded friend gave him a disapproving frown, which was soon replaced with a searching, if not a little too serious expression.

“You really believe what you saw, don’t you?”

He refused to answer that question.

Rovigo might’ve been a lazy, arrogant and more trouble than his worth all-around brat, but he had tried to save him from whatever the hell that… thing had been. Or murdered, depending on who you asked. His own mind was constantly switching between the two, trying to sort out memories that had been altered in some way, mysteriously vanished – or never even existed, as per Vartemius’ final statement to the court that morning.

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That was the worst part of the entire ordeal. He wanted to hate the advocate, spit in his face and hurl every insult imaginable, maybe throw him over a bridge - but he knew that his friend was right; there had been no way in heaven or earth where he could've walked free without Vartemius doing what he did.

Anyhow, he didn’t want to think about this business anymore.

“She’s here, Bartie.”

He unconsciously gripped his spoon tighter in his hand, and his head slowly made to turn and look behind him. Sure enough, Elia was standing by the door, eyes perusing the occupants of the joint before they landed on him. He fought the temptation to look away, to match the tenacity if not a sliver bravery with which she faced him down with. He succeeded and they held each other’s gaze until she reached their table and sat herself down. He looked away then, concentrating hard on his bowl of clam chowder.

“Hi.” She said – her voice was less high pitched from since the last time he saw her. She had grown up, all without him, a woman now. An all too familiar pang crept up and squeezed his heart painfully. This is your fault, Bartie.

“Hi.” He said back awkwardly, and the three of them basked in the pregnant, uncomfortable silence that followed.

"Let's eat," said Vartemius suddenly, signalling a young waitress to their table, "Elia, what would you like to have? The cod here is absolutely delicious."

Their dinner went that way for at least an hour - his best friend and daughter exchanged pleasantries and barbs with good natured humor, with the occasional tidbit on what happened that week or this month. He was thoroughly ignored, not that he minded. But jealous, oh, that he was. A small voice in the back of his mind presented itself every few minutes, pointing out that he should've been the one conversing with Elia the way Vartemius did; he should be the one initiating the kind of talking that didn't end with her crying and him disappearing for an odd number of months or years.

He squashed that voice, stomped it with an imaginary, steel-tipped boot. He wasn't good enough for that, and that was all anybody needed to know about that.

"How was the trial?" asked Elia, and he felt her dark eyes on him once more.

He didn't answer. What could he say? Sephim’s Mirror had been both his savior and doom, an emancipator that set him free from the Proctors' clutches but damned him nevertheless. In a word, he had been legally declared not of clear sound mind, thus exempt from whatever extreme penalty the Proctor’s Division had deemed fit to recommend to Adjudicator Idorov and forever marking him as a lunatic. Even he had to admit his testimony was the stuff of the gods, a sensational story that belonged in the story column of the Daily Echo and not in court records.

"Good, all things considered. I pulled a Berte Forstg."

"There was not even a penalty?"

"There was a hiccup. The family of the deceased demanded compensation-" Bartie gave him a warning stare at that but the advocate continued anyway "-which is ridiculous given their situation but that issue has been resolved."

"So you are free, truly?"

"Well, he has to attend a monthly session with a Healer at St.Semalion's for at least-"

"Are you going to let Vartemius answer every question for you?" Elia snapped, and Bartie could feel the telltale signs of a fight breaking out between them start to exhibit themselves.

"He seems very capable of it."

"You haven't even really looked at me, not once, Father. Did I do something to deeply offend you?"

He swallowed thickly and weakly replied, "I said hi."

It was in moments like this that she reminded him of her mother - all heart and compassion bundled in a white hot temper. If looks could kill, he would've been a dead man. She looked ready to slap him, maybe plant a fist in his face, but instead she deflated and heaved a sigh.

"I'm getting married."

Bartie's world screeched to an ungraceful halt.

"What?" he managed to say disbelievingly, as if it would make her statement less real.

"Oh, now you're talking?"

"Congratulations?" said his friend, and he gave the man a dark look. As grateful as he was for his help, this was not the time.

"To whom?" he demanded, not unlike a child.

"Andebert Glasse. He's an architect. He is kind and smart, funny too. It's surprising for a Verdant Hill fellow to be that magnanimous. His family adores me as well. We'll live happily."

Kind, smart, funny, well-off. Everything he wasn't for Verla and Elia. He should be happy. He should be happy. Except-

"Elia, you're only twenty."

"And?"

"Wait for a bit, who knows what will happen? You might-"

"-end up regretting it and abandon him? Make a few calls and sparse visits to our only child when I feel like it? I'm not you, father."

She seemed to regret the words the second they left her mouth, and if Bartie hadn't mastered the art of deciphering facial expressions he wouldn't have caught it. He tried to ignore the hurt that her words dealt him but pain demanded to be felt. It was a low blow, and both of them knew it. Verla and he had been young and stupid - because most twenty year olds were stupid irregardless of what they thought - and he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, the kind that would put a child six feet under just because they could. He hadn't wanted that for them so he left. He'd had to. It was no excuse, but he thought he could get clean, be better. Where had that got him? Back to square one, with barely a thousand ducats to his name.

He stood up abruptly. "No. No you're not. You're better, much better Elia. Vartemius, thank you for everything. Tell Ma Rosa the food was wonderful and to put it in my tab."

Only when he was outside did he realize snow had already started falling and he'd never be able to afford Elia's wedding cloak. There'd be no ethersilk for her, no complex Ludgera weave of golden thread draped over her shoulders on her day of matrimony. It was a harsh realization, the kind that resembled a bucket of ice cold water thrown over an already shivering body. Balthazar Pierce, an inept father to the very last and a useless human to boot.

He pulled his coat closer to himself and trudged along the sidewalk, disappearing among the throng of people and into the swiftly approaching dusk. If he had turned around to look behind him, even for a second, he would've seen a familiar woman tailing him, and the long shadow that trailed after her...