Chapter 1: In the Courtroom
"Wood Johnson, you are charged with the theft of a set of gold-plated horse harness, valued at approximately 15 Soli, belonging to Mr. Raul Hendler on November 17th. How do you plead, Mr. Johnson?"
"Not guilty, sir!"
Listening to the familiar exchange between the clerk and the defendant, Burton Chester turned his gaze toward the young man sitting to his left in the same row.
He was a handsome young man with sharp features, wearing a stiff white detachable collar and a black open-front robe with padded shoulders. Atop his head sat a short, white horsehair wig. He sat upright, his eyes fixed on the judge's bench. He was the defense counsel for the accused—Rolls Adrian.
Burton Chester knew this young man well—or rather, there was no one in the Backlund legal profession who didn't.
Rolls came from a family of lawyers. His father, Mason Adrian, was born into poverty but refused to accept his lot in life. By day, he worked as a laborer in the docklands; by night, he studied at a free night school established by the Church of the Evernight Goddess. Through steady hard work and diligent study, he eventually gained admission to the Law Academy and became a barrister. Within just a few years, he made a name for himself in Backlund's legal circles and founded his own law firm by the age of thirty-five. Perhaps due to the exhaustion of his early years, Mason did not live past sixty, passing away from illness the year before last.
Rolls Adrian, who was then studying at the Lincoln Law Academy in Tingen, returned to Backlund to handle Mason's funeral and take over the family firm.
Of course, if that were all, Burton wouldn't have known Rolls so intimately. A young man inheriting a family firm was nothing special; every year in Backlund, there were youths who inherited vast fortunes only to squander them and end up as vagrants or laborers at the docks. During his younger days as a solicitor, Burton had seen plenty of them and drafted many a sale contract for their liquidated assets.
But Rolls Adrian was different. After his father's death, he completed five years' worth of coursework in just six months, graduated from Lincoln Law Academy, and became a barrister.
Then, like his father—no, faster than his father—he rose to fame. In just one year, he had become a renowned barrister in Backlund.
Yet for some reason, over the last fortnight, Rolls had begun taking on ordinary civil cases, even petty matters like this one involving less than a single pound.
Glancing at Rolls again, Burton couldn't help but sigh inwardly. So young! He had heard Rolls wasn't even twenty-two yet; when Burton was twenty-two, he was still a student at the academy.
Meanwhile, Rolls was observing the man on the bench—Harvey Brooke. The judge appeared to be in his fifties, his broad face lined with wrinkles. Dressed in a black silk informal judicial robe and a short white wig, he was currently holding a glass and drinking.
Although Rolls knew from his predecessor's memories that many judges who worshipped the Lord of Storms were accustomed to having a glass of Lanchi rum during a session, neither his predecessor nor his current self had ever actually seen it happen.
Perhaps it was because this was a minor civil case involving only 15 Soli that Judge Brooke felt comfortable indulging in a glass.
Back when the original "Rolls" handled major civil and criminal cases, no judge would have dared to drink Lanchi—especially the strong variety—before the verdict.
However, looking at the cluttered bench—the quill stands, the silver candlesticks, and the already tilted Scales of Justice—Rolls felt that His Honor might not necessarily shy away from a drink even during a major trial.
Then again, being a mere stipendiary magistrate in the Cherwood District at that age, Brooke likely wouldn't get the chance to preside over major cases anyway.
After all, this was Backlund, the "Capital of Capitals" of the Kingdom of Loen. The House of Lords, the Court of Appeal, the High Court, and the Royal Courts of Justice were all here. Why would a major case ever fall to a stipendiary magistrate of a police court?
"Call Raul Hendler."
As the clerk summoned the plaintiff, Rolls knew the trial had truly begun. Judge Brooke set down his glass, straightened his informal black robe, and looked toward Raul Hendler.
Raul Hendler was roughly fifty years old, wearing a white shirt and a red waistcoat that struggled to restrain his bulging belly. He had a genial expression.
"Mr. Johnson came to my home in November of the year before last to serve as my carriage driver. However, last November, he requested to return to Whitecliff Town, saying his son was ill." Hendler spread his arms toward the jury. "As a gentleman, I naturally agreed.
"After paying Mr. Johnson his wages, I went to Desi Bay for a holiday, returning only in February of this year. Upon my return, I discovered that a set of my gold-plated horse harness was missing. My servant told me that Mr. Johnson had taken it when he left!"
Hendler pointed toward Wood Johnson in the dock. "I knew Mr. Johnson's son was ill, and it was possible he had stolen my harness to sell for medical expenses, so I immediately sent a servant to inquire. The servant told me that when he arrived at Johnson's home, he found my harness right there.
"So, I wrote to Mr. Johnson requesting its return. But Mr. Johnson refused, leaving me no choice but to sue."
Hendler's words sparked whispers among the jury. Harvey Brooke tapped his gavel.
"Rolls Adrian!"
Rolls rose from the barrister's bench, nodded to Judge Brooke, and turned to face Raul Hendler.
"Mr. Hendler, may I ask how you discovered the harness was missing? Did you notice it was gone when you went to use it?"
"No, it was discovered during an inventory of my property. After all, you must understand, I left Backlund for over a month for my holiday in Desi Bay, and there are always black-hearted servants who will steal from their masters while they are away."
When Hendler said "black-hearted servants," he pointedly looked at Wood Johnson. "This is something every gentleman loathes, so I make it a point to inventory my property before and after every holiday."
"Well said! Such things always happen in my house too. It seems I should learn a thing or two from Mr. Hendler!" a young man in a black morning coat shouted from the jury box.
Tap. Tap.
"Mr. Charles, you wouldn't want to be escorted out, would you?" Judge Brooke rapped his gavel in warning.
The young man, Charles, sat back down sheepishly.
Rolls turned around and made a "quiet" gesture to Wood Johnson, who was anxious to defend himself.
"Oh?" Rolls let out a soft chuckle. "Then, do you own two carriages?"
"No, only one two-wheeled carriage."
"That hardly seems to fit your status. You really ought to purchase a four-wheeled sedan carriage." In Backlund, wealthy gentlemen usually owned two: a two-wheeled one and a four-wheeled one.
"I haven't quite reached that level yet, Mr. Adrian," Hendler replied. Though he didn't see where Rolls was going with this, he answered nonetheless. Even though Rolls was currently his "enemy," he was quite willing to befriend such a promising young barrister—especially given his own current precarious situation.
"But I heard that you purchased a significant amount of land the year before last, and last year your income was nearly three thousand pounds..."