I glanced at Lochlan. “He made an assumption.”
“Thank you for defending my clerk, Keir. Do I need to know what the Wild Hunt is before I hear this case?”
“No,” Keir said. “Consider it a bio item. Nice to know, but not need to know.”
“Okay then. Will there be paparazzi?”
Keir grinned as he shook his head. “You are one of a kind.”
As Lochlan announced the case in his authoritative clerk voice, my gaze caught movement above. It was unusual for people to come in after proceedings had begun, so, naturally, it drew my attention. It was Kagan and Killian descending the steps on either side of the mezzanine gallery. They stopped on opposite sides to take front-row aisle seats. The seats weren’t empty, but Keir’s brothers had no qualms about displacing the spectators who’d been keeping the cushions warm. The occupants quickly moved away. Understandable. When asked by a sephalian to surrender a velvet-covered theater chair, the only rational answer is, “Yes. I will.”
I wondered if their presence meant that Keir was expecting the need for backup. The fact that he hadn’t mentioned that the other two were coming raised my suspicions even more. But when I glanced Keir’s way, he looked at me with an uncharacteristic blankness. It was clear he was determined to reveal nothing.
“Now comes before the court, The Bureau of Behavioral Oversight brings a class-action complaint on behalf of the kelpie, Keaira, and all kelpies by extension, versus Prince Niall, House of Bayune,” Lochlan commenced the Meet.
Maxfield Pteron, ombudsman for the bureau, sat at the plaintiff’s table alone, unless you counted the swagger stick lying on the table next to his ancient satchel.
“Max,” I said. “Are you expecting company?”
He stood. “No, Your Honor. I’ll be representing my clients in voice and physical presence.”
“And why is that?”
“My clients, kelpies, are not the sort of species capable of making such an appearance.”
From what I’d learned about kelpies from my definitive, trusty tome on magic kind, I didn’t doubt that was true.
“Very well.” As I turned to address the defendant’s table, Max took a seat. Courtroom procedure, I was learning, was like a choreographed dance once a routine was established.
The first thing that struck me about Prince Niall and his brother was that Maeve knew how to make good-looking boys. The prince named in the suit would have appeared to be in his late teens if he was human, while his older brother would be mid to late twenties.
“Is the defendant represented by counsel?” I asked.
The older of the two stood and said, “Aye, Your Honor.”
“And you are?”
His smirk told me he probably hadn’t been asked to introduce himself for centuries. Literally. I supposed it was possible that he’d never been asked to state his name.
I felt the American middle class in me rear its head, but reminded myself that I am a fair and impartial judge who keeps an open mind and decides cases based on facts and not on emotional first impressions.
“Prince Deirmid, House of Bayune.”
“And you’re related to the defendant?”
It was a redundant question because the family resemblance was unmistakable. Deirmid was a younger, male version of Maeve.
“He’s my younger brother, Your Honor.”
“How do you wish to be addressed by the court during this proceeding?”
“Prince Deirmid, House of Bayune.” After a wave of laughter, he added. “Your Honor.”
“I see. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson about the phrasing of my questions in the future. Let me put it this way. When I say ‘prince’ I mean you. When I say ‘defendant’ I mean him.” I glanced at the boy sitting at the table. “Understood?”
I saw a slight tick in Deirmid’s beautifully contoured and over-privileged jaw. “Understood, Magistrate.”
“Sit down,” I said, sans sugar coating, secretly relishing the idea of perhaps being the first person to ever give this egotist an order he couldn’t refuse.
“Ombudsman,” I said to Max. “I’ll hear the facts of the case as you see them, the nature and estimation of damages, and your suggestion for remedy.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. For a long time there’s been a rumor, or a legend, if you like, that if someone could get hold of a kelpie’s bridle, they’d have control over not just that kelpie, but all kelpies. It seems the younger Irish prince has proved this true.
“Prince Niall has held a kelpie captive for two hundred seventeen revolutions of the Earth.” Not wanting to divert too much of my attention away from what was being said, I surreptitiously pulled my phone from my pocket, located the calculator