De Vaux turned and nodded to Thierry, who found himself, as in a fever dream, approaching the dais and the stone lectern. He glanced at Denis Cassin as he approached. Cassin looked…furious. He’d thought this was over, clearly.

Good, thought Thierry Villar. He also thought, Fuck you. He kept his face expressionless. He turned his back on the three advocates and looked at the queen of Ferrieres, clad in black, mourning.

He drew a breath. “Your grace, my lords, I stand before you with diffidence—and with anger.” That last word because of what he saw in the queen. He wanted her to hear it.

She nodded, his reward. He wondered how the two dukes were regarding him. He didn’t glance their way, or at Marina di Seressa. There was only one person who mattered right now, along with the clerics, scribbling everything down. He looked briefly at the lectern to gather himself. He was pleased to see his hands were steady. He hoped his voice would be.

His fury was real. It astonished him.

He said, “I remember Messire Cassin from my days at the university. I studied the law with him. I had—and have—nothing but respect for his skill as an advocate. Alas, today, I have an equal disdain for his betrayal of Ferrieres.”

“What!” cried Cassin from behind him.

Thierry heard him stand. “Your majesty, I must—”

“Messire, you have had a goodly interval to make your case. Be seated and let someone else make theirs.” Queen Bianca was not, Thierry thought, mincing words. “I still do not really know the provost’s advocate…” she said. “Marina?”

Thierry saw Marina di Seressa lean forward then and whisper to the queen. He saw the woman on the throne raise her eyebrows. “Ah. Yes. I remember now. We have heard tell of you, Thierry Villar…in other contexts. We await your submission to us. Continue.”

“I am honoured beyond words,” Thierry said. “I will add, lest my old teacher feel singled out, that I am equally disappointed in the advocate who spoke after my old instructor Cassin. There may be reasons why he took so much time to say nothing…but he said nothing. Among other things I will note that what happened in the street that night was not a matter. It was a murder. An assassination.”

If, Thierry thought, he was going to be killed today, or hanged on Gallows Hill soon, he’d do so leaving words that might be remembered. He had said before there needed to be a record. There would be. He’d have preferred his own last words be poetry, and perhaps to have had a chance to say some goodbyes. Maybe that would be allowed? But standing there, hands gripping the cold stone of the lectern, he did not expect to live past nightfall, or even through the hours left of Jad’s pale sun shining on a winter’s day.