[Allenel/et al.]

Mayce's other comments Allenel let pass, and instructed that the witnesses
be escorted from the courtroom.  When he looked over the jury-box again,
waiting for Brion's return, his eyes did not pause on any face, even those
most familiar to him.  Marisa and John both looked like they wanted to be
nearly anywhere else; and if he could have made it so, he would have.  The
girl should be planning her wedding, after all.

Once Brion had returned to his station, Allenel nodded to Arno Everett to
begin his opening statement.  The prosecutor stood again, bowed to the
bench, and stepped closer to the jury box.  He paused to clean his
spectacles before beginning to speak.  His words were evenly spoken, and as
he walked back and forth down the length of the jurors, his eyes met those
of each juror, as if speaking to them individually.  The spectator's
gallery he ignored, as if uncaring what the on-lookers thought of his
performance.

The opening was less theatrical than it might have been.  Perhaps even
disappointingly even-handed, judging by the expression on Archie Chisholm's
face.  Arno Everett's concern, it was apparent, was not to awaken any lurid
imaginings -- but merely to tell the jurors the charges against the
defendant:  The murder of the girl, Denlira, Arno Everett first explained,
was the greatest of all.  The jurors would hear how the accused and the
unfortunate young woman lived in the shanty-town. "Residents of that
neighborhood will appear before you and tell you what they saw and heard,
what passed in that small shack, and what end came to is."  He did not go
into detail about Denlira's fate -- most likely, many of them already knew,
but said only that they would learn more about the girl's fate throughout
the trial.

At the end, walking back to his table, he stopped, remembering something
forgotten, and turned back to the jury-box.  An after-thought, perhaps, the
other charges arising from the assault upon the envoy, and the outline he
gave of the evidence to come on that was sketchier still, as if the attack
upon the Crown's representative was at best a secondary concern, paling
against the terrible things that were done to Denlira, Montfort's own
daughter.  When he finally yielded the floor to defense counsel, it was
with one more bow.

[Crofton Lyons]

Crofton sat forward to listen, forcing all thoughts of building designs
from his brain. While Master Khoda sometimes complained that young Crofton
was a dreamer, and many a time irresponsible, the red-haired young man knew
that a man's life or death hung in question.

[Brawl]

As this discourse on yon fiend's fell deeds continued, the minotaur frowned
once or twice after his usual fashion, threw an ominous glare in the
direction of the villain as if to warn that one of a dire end coming. That
such verminous intent might be essayed in Montfort itself, this could not
be borne!  He reached for a mace, somewhat inclined to draw the weapon and
shake it forcefully at the miscreant; he thought better of the deed when
the proceedings showed no hint of abating any time soon.  Well, he would
have time enough, for such gestures, later on.

[Magda Nightwalker]

The leather-clad woman quietly stifled a yawn, and began her work.  She
opened a pad and began to deftly sketch the likenesses of those involved,
witnesses, jurors, and court officers alike.  As she did so, she glanced
over at the scribe beside her and watched as the girl transcribed every
word of the opening argument.

[Perrin Mayce]

Perrin stood and proudly approached the jury.  He stood before them and
started to speak... but then he suddenly paused as if unsure of what to
say.  The pause was strictly for dramatic effect... Perrin had practiced
and memorized his opening argument days ago.

Making eye contact with each juror as he spoke, Perrin told the assembly of
a man.  The man was not a good man, not a hero or noble adventurer such as
those who frequented this town... he was a coarse, crude, and simple man.
He cursed and he drank.  He fought.  His temper had placed him at odds with
more than half the people he'd ever met.  His neighbors either disliked him
or could care less about him one way or the other.  To add to all of these
faults, this man was a practitioner of the magical arts... not a good thing
to be in a town that had been so deep under the influence of the Church
just a few years ago.

"And what ever happened to the Church?"  Perrin mused in the middle of his
statement.  "The leaders are gone, but what of the rank and file members
that learned to hate magic with such a passion?  Where are they now? But,
ahh...  I'm getting away from myself..."

Perrin continued telling them of the unpleasant, rude, and often drunk man,
who's name frequently brought sneers to the faces of those who heard it.
He was not a popular man, not even with his family.  They had disowned him,
cut him off from his own blood.

He was a lonely, angry, and bitter man.  No one liked him.  Some even hated
him.

But in one way... in one small way... he was absolutely perfect.

"You see,"  said Perrin.  "This man was thought of so poorly by his
neighbors... by his own family... that he became perfect.  How can this be,
you ask? Well... If there were ever a crime or other unpleasantness that
needed to be covered up... if there were ever a circumstance that required
a scapegoat... that required someone to take the punishment in the place of
the actual perpetrators... what sort of man would you choose? What KIND of
person would someone pick to suffer in his place so that he could go free?
Why... you would pick Fillip Menagrem, of course.  He isn't well liked.
Half the town either doesn't like him or is generally suspicious of him
already.  They would LOVE to be rid of him.  He won't be missed... in fact,
some would even celebrate his imprisonment or demise. And so... when a
scapegoat is needed, Fillip fits the bill perfectly."

Perrin went on for several minutes... touching on and hinting at things
that would come to light in the trial, and weaving them all into a grand
conspiracy against Fillip Menagram. He told them about Fillip's capture by
a group of vigilantes... some of who remain unidentified.  He told them
about a confession that was obtained by violence by these same missing
vigilantes.  He told them these things and more, and by the time he
finished his eloquent speech nearly a half an hour had gone by.

At the end, Perrin told the jury that it was THEY, not him, that was here
to stand up for Fillip Menagrem.

Your purpose is to ensure that an innocent man is not sent to the gallows.
Your purpose is to ensure that a man who you would probably not speak two
words to on the street, does not pay the ULTIMATE price for simply being
crude and simple. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not here to defend Fillip
Menagrem... YOU are."

At that, Perrin returned to his seat and sat down.

[Fillip]

With each word that Perrin spoke Fillip's pallor gave way to a heated red.
Coarse! Crude!! How dare......?

He tasted blood from biting his lip so hard. He knew that Perrin Mayce
would dare, and he would meekly accept the slander that would be heaped on
his head. Because it was his only hope of living.

~Damn you, Denlira,~ he thought, his heart filled at hate at the woman he
had murdered. This was all her fault. Because of her he had to sit and hear
abuse laid upon his head. Because of her his shame was a public spectacle.

[Brawl]

Listening with a bleak countenance as the miscreant's 'voice' accounted the
man's various misdeeds and petty villainies, the minotaur found himself
suddenly glancing across to the defendant with a thoughtful eye. Coarse? He
drank, fought and cursed?  Short of temper?  Well, Brawl mused, in all it
seems that this one was not such a damnable sort after all. Yes, he'd been
rather hasty in coming to that judgment before, and so for a brief moment
the minotaur found himself wondering whether a man not so unlike himself
could be the perpetrator of such dire deeds as he was now being tried for.

Then came the mention of magic, and Brawl's face again became bleak as
stone, and an ominous rumble sounded deep in his chest.  What, alike to one
such as *this?* By the gods, but fiends wore many a fine form.

[Fool]

"Hear, hear!" declared one man with a sardonic tone, as he arose from amid
the murmuring masses to clap for such a pretty speech, loudly and with
scant regard for the proceedings.  This insolence was rewarded; a single,
stifled curse escaped him before he was swiftly borne down under the weight
of a half-dozen stalwarts, these hardly inclined to listen to one fool's
clamouring when matters of such import were in progress.

[Allenel/et al.]

        One look towards Brion and the attending Guardsmen was enough to
send them towards the commotion in the benches.  With the tall highlander
and the uniformed guards at the job, both applauding man and his attackers
were unceremoniously hauled to their feet and "escorted" from the
chambers. Order restored once more, Allenel observed quietly and firmly
that any further outbursts would lead to an opportunity to appreciate the
newly finished jail cells, and a hefty fine for contempt.  "Anyone so
peremptorily sentenced shall, of course, have the right to request
reconsideration at the end of this trial, some untold number of days
hence," he explained.

        There was another round of murmuring, but the movement of Brion's
hand to his blackthorn shillelagh was another bit of warning.  Who knew
what mishaps might befall a troublemaker on his way to the jails?  And to
afterwards be held to pay for the privilege, in the form of a fine?

        "Mr. Everett," Allenel continued, turning towards the prosecutor,
"which witness do you wish to call first?"

        The small, tidy man stood almost immediately, hands clasped behind
his back.  "The Crown calls its envoy, Lawrince Ournel."  He looked
expectantly at Brion, waiting for the much taller auburn-haired man to
fetch the envoy back into the courtroom.

[To be continued.]