The Eye of Zoltar

She was duly escorted in by the two officers who had arrested her earlier. Mr Lloyd, prosecuting, was sitting at his bench surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. In the Cambrian Empire lawyers were paid not by time worked, but by using a complex algorithm that took into account the weight of the paperwork, the age and height differential between counsel and defendant, recent rainfall and the brevity of the proceedings. It was said the best way to make a profit as a Cambrian lawyer was if you were a tall octogenarian who could generate three tons of paperwork, conduct cases in the rain for no more than three minutes and only prosecute the under-twelves.

‘All rise!’ said the clerk, and we all rose dutifully as the judge walked in and took his seat. He rummaged for his glasses, and had the court sit before he read the charges. While he did so, the public – there were at least thirty of them, I think – tutted and went ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’. The Princess looked on impassively, but did not glance in our direction. She may have been in the body of Laura, but she wanted to show us she could face the music like a princess if need be.

‘How do you plead?’ asked the judge.

‘Not guilty,’ said the Princess, and there were more muted whisperings in the courthouse.

‘Nonsense,’ said the judge, ‘I’ve seen the evidence and it’s highly compelling. Guilty as charged, for which the sentence is death. Anything to say before the punishment is carried out?’

‘Yes,’ said the Princess, ‘actually I do—’

‘Fascinating,’ said the judge. ‘Thank you, Mr Lloyd, for such a well-tried case. The legal profession may be justly proud of you. What was that? Nineteen seconds?’

‘Eighteen and a quarter, M’lud,’ said Mr Lloyd, bowing deferentially after consulting a stopwatch. ‘A new regional judicial speed record.’

‘Good show,’ said the judge, signing a docket the clerk had handed him. The scrap of paper was then passed to a bony old man who was sitting on a chair half asleep, and who awoke with a start when prodded.

‘Executioner?’ said the judge. ‘Do your work, but make sure it’s a clean cut – not like the messy job you did last time.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ said the executioner.

I jumped up.

‘Objection!’ I shouted, and several people in the courtroom gasped at my audacity. ‘This trial makes a mockery of the high levels of judicial excellence that we have come to expect from the great nation that is the Cambrian Empire. I counter that everyone has the right to be represented by counsel, to be judged by their peers, and all evidence subjected to scrutiny before any decision is reached. I move that this farce be declared a mistrial and the prisoner released forthwith!’

There was silence in the court. It wasn’t a great speech. To be honest, it wasn’t even a good speech, but several of the public were moved to tears and shook me by the hand, and I even heard a sob from someone in the front row.

‘Your impassioned appeal has moved me, miss,’ said the judge, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, ‘and I accede to your wishes. The trial will be declared void, the prisoner will be pardoned and released, and her criminal record expunged, with our apologies.’

He indicated to the clerk, who swiftly drafted a pardon for the Princess.

‘Th-thank you, M’lud,’ I said, surprised by the results.

The judge signed the pardon with a flourish.

‘There,’ he said, handing the Princess the pardon.

‘Thank you, M’lud,’ said the Princess, then added, as soon as she had read it: ‘Wait a moment, this is post-dated. I’m not pardoned for another hour – until after the execution.’

‘How … ironically tragic,’ said the judge. ‘Executioner? Get on with it.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I shouted.

‘You shouldn’t confuse justice with the law, my dear,’ said the judge. ‘I have done everything that the law and you have asked: I have been both resolute and merciful. Now stay your hand, or you shall be arrested for contempt.’

I felt myself grow hot. The veins in my temples began to thump and a prickly heat ran down my back as my anger rose. It would end badly if I went into a rage, and I battled to keep it down. I squeezed the chair in front of me and the wooden back-brace exploded into fragments in my hands. I felt a howling in my ears, which then became a whistling; a high-pitched squeal that … sounded like a train whistle. Everyone in the courtyard had heard it too, and it had come from outside. My temper subsided as the judge, the executioner, Mr Lloyd and the public all hurried out to see what was going on. I took a deep breath and beckoned to the Princess, who hopped over the barrier between the combined witness box and flour bin.

‘All we have to do is keep you hidden for an hour,’ I said, taking her hand and heading for the door. ‘Quick, to the North Gate.’