circumstances do queens, um, ‘make’ land and give it away?”
“Upon the performance of a great service to their house. It’s not painful for queens to create land, so I understand, but it’s not easy either. Not something they look forward to.”
“We will have that longer conversation,” I whispered.
“Yes, Magistrate.”
“Gote Murelli!”
He jumped to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Who is your client?”
“Pavio Lauro, the queen’s consort.”
“Alright, Pavio Lauro. You’re accused of disrupting my court and calling me a bitch. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I’m Italian,” he said. Murelli whispered something and the man added, “Your Honor.”
“That’s your defense? That you’re Italian?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “You’re going to have to give me more than that. Being Italian is not a defense.”
“Yes. It is,” he argued. “We’re hot blooded.”
I half expected him to add, “Check it and see.”
“If I understand you correctly, I believe you’re saying that you’re genetically predisposed to be out of control and irresponsible. Not unlike immaturity.”
He blinked and opened his mouth, but Murelli stopped him.
“Your Honor, may I speak for my client?”
“Okay. I want to hear this.”
“My client means that the Mediterranean temperament is by nature more demonstrative than that of the Germanic peoples.”
I barked out a laugh, which might not have been judge-like, but whatever. “You’re really going with that?” I let my disappointment show before shifting my gaze to Hotblooded. “Pavio Lauro,” I said directly to him, “you’re fined two hectares for the disruption, one hectare for calling names, and another hectare for offering a can’t-help-myself defense. Mediterranean temperaments can be volatile. They can also be stone cold.” To the room at large, I said, “The suggestion that people originating in the region of the Mediterranean cannot control themselves is not just preposterous, it’s ludicrous. And offensive to others.”
I wasn’t sure where all this public-speaking fervor was coming from, but I was on a roll. Perhaps I’d profited from the experience of spending decades keeping my opinion to myself only to end up kicked to the curb. After realizing that I didn’t regret things I’d said, only things I hadn’t said, I decided to face the future with my brain engaged and my mouth in gear.
So, I continued.
“The Greeks camped outside the gates of Troy for ten years. Ten. Years,” I repeated for effect. “Now that’s patience. The Roman Empire lasted for centuries. They didn’t conquer the entirety of Western Civilization and build roads and bridges that are still being used today by being out-of-control hotheads. Not being able to control oneself is not a defense for bad behavior in my court.” I paused. “Unless you’re suggesting that human Italians are superior to fae Italians?”
A wave of audible gasps washed over the room at the same time I registered a quiet snort from the sephalian sitting off to my left.
Pavio Lauro said, “No, Your Honor. I’m not suggesting that.” He leaned toward Murelli to hear something whispered, then added, with newfound humility, “I apologize to the court and to you personally, Magistrate.”
I lifted the gavel to call the case done, but Pavio quietly added. “Your Honor?”
“Yes?”
“Could I have my hat? It has sentimental value.”
I suppressed the urge to be snarky and say something like, “You have sentiment,” and instead nodded to Lochlan, indicating that he could return the hat. To my amazement my elven clerk stood, angled his body, and expertly launched the hat so that it sailed through the air like a frisbee and was effortlessly caught by its owner. A cheer erupted that almost brought the house down and Lochlan and Pavio each took a bow. You would’ve thought it was a grand slam that shut out a
World Series.
This precipitated two thoughts. First, perhaps the fae would never cease to amaze me. Second, they know how to bring the party with them.
When all was once again quiet, composure regained, I raised my voice for a public service announcement. “Let it be known far and wide that this court will not tolerate a just-couldn’t-help-myself defense. Ever.”
I banged my gavel. It seemed like a great way to punctuate the conclusion of a case and to release the mad I had going on. For cripes sake. It was only my first case. I thought about pacing myself, but remembered I didn’t need to concern myself with such inconveniences as high blood pressure.
I was roused from my mental walkabout when Lochlan said, “Would you like a short break before the next case?”
“Mind reader,” I accused.
He signaled the bailiff, who announced a recess. I wished I could slip away