My name is Colin de Boisvert. An investigator-prosecutor specializing in criminal cases. More precisely, in homicide. I'm not a noble… It's just that I'm from Boisvert, a village in the seigneury of the Akanos.
I know, I know, I'm an immigrant.
Pff…
…
I know! I know! Better?
…
It doesn't sound like me…
Whatever.
I should let go of the mirror.
I can't believe it!
Five years of residency. Half a decade.
234,072 inhabitants in the fief's capital. 2% nobles (≈ 4 cases/year), 14% burghers (≈ 26), 24% middle class (≈ 44), 26% slums (≈ 47), 10.5% suburbs (≈ 19), 23.5% soldiers & clergy (≈ 43). 183 cases per year. At the prosecutor's office, most take one file a month. Me: 61 files/year. 365 days → ≈ 6 days per investigation!
In five years… 196 successful investigations.
65% success rate.
24.5% are soldiers and clergy.
Not my business.
But what a life!
Lord, I'm so withered. The week begins, and work resumes.
Over a chicken? My mind wavers…
My wrinkles crawl up to my ears.
My thirties! And my face screams centuries!
My watch, at least, does its work faithfully. It's only 08:00. The sun hits my right cheek. The rays assault me. I must get a grip! The details of the case need to come back. Hours reading transcripts. Days talking to the so-called "victims."
Thimoté, 3 years old… crushed by a cart. The accused killed him. He was racing his horses through the village center. In a residential area, he was fleeing his own shadow! Like a maniac! Several witnesses saw him tearing along. It was only a matter of time before tragedy struck. Imagine your child in Thimoté's place! Bones shattered! Flesh sliced! Blood on the walls! And feathers in the gutters! I started gesturing, dramatically underlining the horror of the scene.
Imagine a child who lets his ball roll into the street! That maniac is losing control again! Tell me! Will your child have as much of a chance as Thimoté? I jabbed my finger at my reflection, trying to put on the sternest scowl.
Tiny footsteps interrupted me.
I turned my head almost immediately. A young woman stared at me. Red-haired and in a nightgown.
She burst out laughing. She was familiar with the case inside and out. She'd watched me study it day after day. I thought she was sleeping.
— "So, you're off to get plucked?"
— "Come on, scalped is more like it! I've got no wings… I can't flee…"
Julie tensed up. The humiliation to come was already being served to me under my own roof.
— "Do you have time to eat?" she asked, wiping away a tear.
— "Yes, I start at noon. At the capital court…"
The mockery in her eyes collapsed. Her face now screamed worry. The impossible was bitter and painful. I had accepted my public execution.
— "How can this case be in the capital court?"
— "Long story…"
I can't stand those pitying looks anymore. A coffee should help. The briefcase was waiting in the parlor, and my hands had rested far too long on the sink counter.
She took my place to brush her teeth. I sat on a sofa in the living room. I ordered a maid to bring me a coffee once my posterior had settled. Giving orders… having maids… I'm climbing the hierarchy.
She came rather quickly with my coffee. She even brought me biscuits. Julie joined me soon after my amuse-bouche arrived. She sat by my side. She smells of roses. Her robe flatters her. Her red hair almost blinds me. And yet, I can't hide a certain jealousy. Julie's lovely pupils don't fix on me; they analyze the documents scattered over the coffee table. She's embarrassed, undecided. She doesn't know what to look at.
Time stops. She wants to comfort me with a lie, probably a delicate one. My power—my curse, my right—locks onto her existence.
Many truths rise to my tongue.
One fear draws my attention. It intrigues me most.
Sharing our fears over coffee almost sounds romantic.
Shards of images flash through my skull as my choice takes effect. The fragments clump into a whole; memories that aren't mine surge up. I see myself in Julie's place: "He screams, he cries, he seems to panic. Colin… Anne, Anne, and Anne. That's the name he repeats obsessively. He sleeps; yet he never rests. He flees death, not because he fears it, but because he owes it a debt."
— "Will they find out your secret?" she asked gently.
Cold sweat began to run. My heart howled with panic. She knows. How?
— "I…"
Julie was just as wrong-footed.
— "I didn't mean to…"
She fell silent, as if she were looking at a terrified animal.
Is she happy? As if she'd found an opening. Julie took me in her arms, giving me a comforting hug. She imprisoned me, as if I were about to flee. Her hands gripped me with a visceral fear. But her soul shone, like a convict freed from prison. The paradox was palpable.
— "You've nothing to fear. I promise. At least… I love you."
The two hours of wilting collapsed much faster than expected. I was surprised by the time and dressed in a rush. One might think I'd been mugged by two kindly ruffians from the slums. My gait was impeccable. My walk lets me pull myself together and nibble meatballs. Pretend, and only the lies will be true…
I arrived at the capital court around 11:35.
My mask of a calm, cultivated man had just shattered. I had never truly analyzed that ridiculous door. The entrance is as imposing as the palaces. I am a prosecutor; it's my second home. Yet it was the first time I feared going in… like at my first trial.
I closed my eyes and prepared to cross the threshold. Like a prisoner tying his own noose.
— "Colin de Boisvert!"
The guard's shout froze my blood. I don't even know where he is.
— "Your case will be at the palace; you'll be paid double for this one! Trial at 13:00! No delays allowed."
At the palace… of Lord Jack de Brothkovic… Jack de Brothkovic will be the judge…
I broke into a sprint the moment the logical links hit my mind. A capital judge was already bad news.
In a few minutes, I managed to reach the palace entrance.
Gold, ornaments, and frescoes covered the portico. The guards smiled at me like colleagues, but I had no time for camaraderie. My time was crumbling, and I had to hurry.
The blazing red carpet blinded me. I turned down the corridor that would take me to the throne room. A new marble statue startled me, and the impact nearly knocked me out. Jade! A jade sculpture! I could have killed myself! When I regained my senses, Bernard, the defense attorney, passed me. He was running as fast as I was toward the cross-examination. I couldn't let him win this round. I started sprinting, but he understood my intent.
Despite all my efforts, we entered the room at the same time. Exhaustion didn't spare us. Both of us tried to catch our breath.
Bernard took a deep breath before speaking to me. It helped him puff out his chest like a rooster.
— "So, Col! … You picked a strange case."
— "Indeed, we're doomed…"
Bernard seemed confused by my sigh as if I were insane. Am I the only one who thinks presenting a ridiculous case before the Lord himself is not a good idea? Am I the only one who believes this mocks the law?! Why does he look stunned by my terror?
— "Why are you panicking, Mr. Boisvert?" said an old woman in the room.
She startled me: it was my secretary, Jessica. I can say she threw me. But she reminded me of warm moments with my grandmother—a time when I was just a child. I managed to steady myself out of pure nostalgia—time to get back to my case.
— "Jessica… time to prepare. Bernard, good luck, though I won't lose without a fight."
— "I return the compliments."
I joined Jessica while Bernard went to see his secretary. We had documents to prep and daggers to sharpen.
13:04:32
The witnesses stood ready. Attorney Bernard stood with the accused. His name is Noha; he's 34 and a bit chubby. He has a peasant's hands while looking like a burgher. His mustache screams arrogance, but he can't stop sweating. His purple-and-gold cap hides a monstrous bald spot. The few strands on his skull battle with the dandruff. He wears many rings, each as gaudy as its neighbor; yet his gaze seeks gold. From his appearance alone, I could convince the jury he's as thirsty for wealth as his double chin is prominent. He had driven his carriage as fast as he could. In the countryside, I would understand! But in the village center! For a chicken! You'll say, just a chicken! Would you prefer a child instead?!
Why would he do that? Perhaps to sell the goods faster?
I think I've got my beats…
The problem… the peasant beside me clearly won't help. He reeks and didn't even change. He doesn't understand the system and seems completely lost. Then again, he was hauled to the palace for his dear chicken. What an imbecile—or a genius—how did he manage to grant human status to a chicken? You need a birth certificate. I should play on pity. Make them weep for Thimoté, the chicken who, like you or me, lived, loved, and died unjustly… Explain why he can't feed his family. Explain the importance of eggs… Good grief, I'm funny.
The Lord's throne stood tall and proud, its user absent. The splendor of the décor didn't escape me. The desks are marble, and the wood is dark. The walls are adorned with paintings and sculptures that tell the Brothkovic story. Each lord inscribed his tale within these walls, and his jewels, loves, and lands are as one. Behind the throne stands the family crest, high and proud. An emblem whose roots snake through every story transcribed on these walls. This work of art was our courtroom.
But the courtroom was befouled with some poultry pâté in which a claw and a bird's head lay. Please don't ask me to describe the beak; I'm not even sure it's there. The marble table in the center of the chamber reeked of death, probably because of the body. I pity the servants: after this hell, theirs begins.
The peasant was dumbstruck by the scale. He had never seen marble in his life. He didn't know how to hold himself. His name is Rodrik, and, despite the smell and embarrassment, he isn't stupid. He knows someone messed up because he shouldn't be here over a chicken.
He seems as panicked as the accused. I sympathize. I would have done anything to avoid this trap myself.
Footsteps echoed through the galleries.
Jack de Brothkovic approached and walked among the tribunes. His soul is gray in color and reeks of iron. He was clearly being taunted as if he didn't want to be there. The spirits of his ancestors smile upon him; despite the extravagances he permits himself, he doesn't visibly dishonor them.
The man sat on his throne. The room's culture fell silent. Our lord was about to pass judgment.
Before proceeding, he stroked his beard to hide a discreet laugh. He lost his seriousness when he saw the remains, placed so dramatically at the room's center. Bernard witnessed the fracture of his mask, but we weren't going to speak of it. When he regained his composure, he began to talk.
— "On the 20th of Veloth, Julius, this year. A fallen chicken set this in motion! Normally, a municipal judge would have handled it. And yet, here we are! And why? The answer is simple: legally, no one knows how. She is, juridically, a human being and not an animal. Even so, I can't help but admire Attorney Bernard and Colin for dedicating themselves to this matter. We'll finish quickly; I fear this is a waste of time for everyone involved. Still, a crime asks for a punishment."
The Lord's words lightened me. I might have floated without my leather shoes. I knew Jack. Why was I so afraid? Perhaps because man fears the unknown. As my kind are hunted and burned by humans, elves, and ogres. Maybe I'm only a man…
— "I see the capital's three grand bailiffs! The three chief receivers! The 18 mayors, and many nobles and peasants. We have halted the automatism of this splendid city for a chicken. I want to call a vote. Raise your hand if you want to go home, where your life awaits. If you want to follow the classic procedure for this ridiculous case and have time to spare, keep your hands down. Of course, witnesses may not leave."
All jurors raised a hand, except one, a rather strange peasant who was reading a grimoire adorned with gold and rubies. The dark leather was painted with tentacular white lines. The tentacles extended from the center of the book's cover. In the center was a magnificent yet sinister logo. An eye whose iris was set with diamonds of different colors. To say this man's find beguiled me would be blasphemy against all that is sublime.
The peasant was soberly dressed, but clean, and seemed far more focused on his book's contents than the situation.
But someone killed my stupefaction: my client… that imbecile had raised his hand!
The lord was taken aback.
— "My lord, 'z with all respect' but 'z doesn't see why 'z am 'ere?"
My rage turned to pity. He must have traveled to the capital, then crossed this castle. And that… for a chicken. He has a life, a wife, and children to feed. He brought this matter before a municipal court because the problem kept recurring, and the local bailiff was not doing a satisfactory job. Yet, due to an error, the case continued to escalate.
— "You are here because the State, I… abandoned you. I intend to correct my mistake and resolve this matter. Do not worry; I'll see to it you get what is owed."
To hear someone speak like that is something! A noble is another. A lord—now that's a shock.
— "We will be done quickly. I'll order Noha to give four chickens or repay an equivalent sum, then he'll spend a month in the dungeon for criminal negligence. I have reached this decision based on the various documents provided by the defense and the prosecution. I remain open to objection. Furthermore, there will be a non-negotiable sentence for Bernard and Colin: no more than one case per month for a year."
A thunderclap struck me—one case a month… 12 cases in a year? He's trying to punish me?
— "Objection!" I shouted.
— "What is it, Colin?"
— "Why do you impose this sentence on us?"
— "You're the one asking me that? Do you know how many cases a prosecutor or an attorney takes?"
— "…"
— "One a month! That's a normal pace! You're killing yourself on the job and squandering your talent on cases like this? Look at this situation! A competent prosecutor reads the case before taking it, not the other way around! You're sweating like a pig! You panicked over a chicken! Can you truly not understand why I'm imposing this?"
I can't reply. My eyes avoid his. I'm on the verge of tears.
— "Listen, my Colin! You are probably the best investigator-prosecutor in history! But you'll be a legend if you take your time! A 60% efficiency for six times the workload, compared to a normal prosecutor at 30% efficiency. Stop deluding yourself, calm down. The world worked before you. You do not have to kill yourself. Rest."
Bernard was staring in amazement. Jack was furious. He'd probably emptied the room and passed his verdict to chastise me.
— "Colin de Boisvert, do you remember your internship year? Twelve cases? No? Of course… 100% efficiency. Your first twelve cases, as a beginner. Take a step back."
I slowly raised my eyes to the horizon; it was at my nose. He had stepped down from his throne to speak to me. His gaze seemed half-paternal. He sees I'm two fingers from collapsing. He was angry at my presence, not this stupid case.
— "I see there's no further objection?"
The merchant, Noha, was sweating profusely. He knew he'd gotten off easy. On reflection, I should never have invested so much… Ridiculous. A light punishment for a stupid crime, but at least he wouldn't end up hanged.
Jack returned to his throne and brought down his hammer. The decision was official. The guards escorted the merchant to the cells, where a straw bed on cold stone awaited him.
I crossed the door to be done with this affair. Yet one detail intrigued me: a man left in the gallery. I couldn't remember his face. It slipped away from me.
My day resumed. It was fifteen o'clock. The trial had lasted less than expected. Twelve gold pieces for a chicken: the equivalent of six hundred argentins, that is sixty thousand écus. To think my secretary lives comfortably on a single argentin a month…
A purse full of gold, for such a farce. Nothing normal about it. I should stop by the bank.
I should go to the jewelers. A small necklace for Julie might suit her well, perhaps with a small jade figurine. She should like that. To explain that I'll have more time for her.
She's going to make fun of me… she saw me panic… she saw me cry…
For absolutely nothing!
My God…
I thought I was going to die.
I convinced her I was going to die.
She knows my secret. That I'm a demon, that I am the Plague of Revelations. A secret so vast and terrible that, if revealed, it signs my death warrant.
…
A fine tongue…
Anne…