Clara Casewell, Attorney to the Villainess [Vol 1 Complete]

“You must be Counsel Casewell.” Pedro de Bragança uncrossed his legs and rose halfway, offering her his hand. There was a silver ring with an aquamarine on his index finger. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but it seemed only polite that I should introduce myself, as you have sailed an extraordinary distance to come to my defense.”

“Lord Pedro,” she said, grasping his hand. The ensuing handshake was firmer than she expected from someone his age. “I was under the impression you were missing, and that not even the embassy staff could locate you.”

“I am exactly where I am needed. If some think I am missing, that is simply their own lack of knowledge—of which trees to look under, and which gardeners to befriend.” He sat back down, a small smile blooming within the white of his beard. “Sit, please. I took the liberty of bringing a second cup, on the chance you partake. I am one of the few Arcadians who does not care for tea, and the coffee in the Empire is among the finest in the world.”

“Does the duchess know you’re here? Should I go down and fetch her?”

“I would rather you didn’t.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you call Isabel, she will lecture me quite incessantly on diplomatic protocols, thus bringing ruin to our quiet conversation. So, Counsel, let us talk, and when we are done, you may do whatever you wish.”

Clara weighed it. Ultimately, she was his attorney, and if he wanted to talk to her without others present, he was entitled to that.

“Okay.” She sat down and tried the coffee—it was much stronger than she’d had at Westwick, but somehow sweeter, too. “You’re right, this is very good. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Quite a few people have written to me about you, Counsel. Emmet, in particular, was much more laudatory than he usually is.”

“Emmet? You know Professor Morris?”

“Indeed. He was one of my pupils, long ago. For all he lacked in natural gifts, his dedication to study, even as a child, astounded me. He’s become quite the scholar, so I was pleased to hear about your defending him—you have my thanks for that.” Pedro bowed his head to her more deeply than any other noble ever had. “I only wish Maximilian hadn’t been the one to pay off his debts. Ah, if I hadn’t been so far away, I could have Emmet running errands for me, instead of House von Rhenia.” He chuckled warmly.

“Professor Morris has been a dear friend to me,” said Clara. “But I don’t suppose you’ve come to me to reminisce. Can you tell me about the case, Lord Pedro? In as much detail as possible.”

Part of her wanted to ask him if he’d done it, but she knew enough to understand why that wasn’t a question criminal lawyers usually asked their clients. Lawyers aren’t supposed to lie in court, so knowing if your client was guilty could limit the avenues of defense. This world didn’t really have courtroom ethics rules, but Clara still wanted to stand by those principles.

“I’m not here to tell you anything,” said Pedro. “It is my firm belief, Counsel, that things always end up the way they were meant to, in the end. If it is your fate to discover something, you will do so in due time.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small notebook bound in cracked leather. “That said, every now and then, it falls upon me to ever so slightly even the scales.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. This was clearly a stubborn man who enjoyed his mysteries. Which is not a trait a lawyer ever wants in a client. What kind of man doesn’t want to cooperate with his own defense?!

She took the notebook and opened it. The first line read ‘Sack of grain—Thalia Manaklis—200 dinars.’ It was an accounting ledger, then. Dates down one margin, sums down the other, names in a cramped, businesslike hand. There were transactions for passage, lodging, bread, salt, lamp oil, and a variety of other standard household goods, initialed on every page by one R. T. Bey.

“Lord Pedro, what am I looking at?” she asked.

“Arithmetic, of course.” He picked up his coffee again. “You will come to understand it, if you live up to your reputation. A conclusion a person reaches alone sits more firmly than one pressed into her hand.”

“You know I’m your advocate, right? By being cryptic with me, you’re only hampering your own cause.”

“On the contrary. I am doing exactly what my cause requires.” He took one last sip and placed the empty cup on the table. “Now, I must excuse myself. My body is not as spry as it once was, and the way back is long.”

“You’re leaving? I thought you’d stay at the embassy. What about your daughter?”

“I will see Isabel soon enough.”

“Lord Pedro, at least give me something. Do you really want your advocate walking blindly into a foreign court?”

“You already have what you need.” He pushed himself up slowly.

Clara sighed. “Let me get your coat, then.” She went to the hanger by the door and lifted the long black coat. It was a sturdier garment than the Istantinople heat seemed to call for, the wool dense and a little worn at the cuffs.

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She turned it in her hands as if checking which way the shoulders faced, then carefully slid the soulmate ring off her finger and into the inner pocket. If I fail, I’d much rather we find him and escape than bomb a city full of innocent people.

“Here you are, Lord Pedro.” She held the coat open for him.

He turned, sliding one arm and then the other into the sleeves unhurriedly. When he faced her again, his deep blue eyes settled on hers. “Goddess keep you, Counsel. You are kind to an old man—Isabel has chosen well. Win, if you can, or my daughter will do what she must.”

Clara nodded and opened the door for him.

Wait, is he even going to leave by the door? That can’t be how he came in, or everyone in the embassy would have noticed him. He’s not exactly small.

But when she turned around, she found herself alone in her room. The only sign someone else had been here was an empty cup with a soulmate ring beside it.

***

The Basilica Adalet sat at the foot of the imperial hill. It was a broad, low structure, crowned with a single shallow dome, its outer walls built with alternating bands of pale and rose-colored stone. A colonnade ran the length of the front, and soldiers stood at intervals along the steps with their hands on their sabers.

Clara and Warren broke apart from the rest of the Arcadian group near the entrance and made their way to a side door. Warren had been quiet the whole morning, which, in a way, was its own statement. Clara, for her part, was already sweating—her suit was definitely not made for the Istantinople summer, but it would have felt too odd to wear a dress in court.

A janissary with a red plume on his hat saluted when they approached. “You are the friends of the accused?”

Clara and Warren both nodded.

The janissary pushed the side door open. “The kadi’s court is assembling. You will be escorted within.”

“Thank you,” said Clara.

They followed the soldier inside, Warren walking half a pace ahead of her through the wide hallway. She hadn’t told him about her visitor. She’d considered conferring with Warren after Pedro’s vanishing act, but every version of that conversation in her head ended with a variation of ‘I’ll take the lead, Casewell’. She had, at least, told Bel, but the duchess’s only reaction had been a disappointed sigh.

Clara’s mind went to the cracked leather ledger in her satchel. She’d carefully reviewed it before going to sleep and again after waking up, and found nothing that seemed relevant. Bel didn’t know anything either. Was it supposed to be proof of some sort of fraud?

Fine, Lord Pedro, we’ll do it your way. You better hope your gambit pays off, because I have absolutely no idea what I’m walking into.

They went through another set of doors, and the Basilica Adalet opened into a single great hall.

It was nothing like the Arcadian High Court, which had been impressive in a distinctly Classical sense. And yet, it was just as beautiful, if not more so.

The dome floated above, with an array of colored windows arranged in a ring underneath it, the morning light pouring through in red and blue and gold. The floor was layered with ornate carpets overlapping like fallen leaves, and the walls had golden mosaics interspersed with sweeping panels of calligraphy.

At the far end of the room, raised on a stepped dais, was an empty seat, presumably for the judge—the kadi. It wasn’t like the throne-like Arcadian seats. Instead, it was a broad, cushioned platform, a divan piled with bolsters of deep purple, flanked by two janissaries. To the dais’s left and right, low railings penned off two much less elaborate divans.

And at the other end of the room was a gallery, screened by a lattice of carved wood. She could just barely make out Bel’s bright yellow coat in the front row, and presumably Luisa, Conrad, and Iris were by her side.

An attendant guided Clara and Warren to the railed enclosure on the dais’s left side. As she stepped through the little gate, Warren moved to take the position nearest to the kadi.

Clara stepped into it first, taking her seat on the divan.

“Casewell.” His voice was very low. “We discussed this.”

“You discussed it. I didn’t exactly agree.”

He furrowed his brow. For a moment she thought—almost hoped—he would snap at her, or at least give some sort of condescending, Warren-like reply. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and sat beside her without another word.

It should have felt like a small victory, but it was just uncomfortable.

Across the room, the accuser’s enclosure filled.

Given the Byzottoman system of private prosecutions, Clara had assumed the accuser would be the deceased merchant’s grieving widow or child, or maybe a business partner, or even an appointed advocate of the victim’s house.

She had not braced herself for the purple-and-red tunic that had just walked in.

Prince Justan stepped calmly into the accuser’s space, turning his flat, appraising gaze across the hall to settle on Clara and Warren.

The prince nodded, and her hands tensed up reflexively.

The infamous second son of the Sultan-Basileus is bringing the accusation himself. And my client didn’t even give me any information.

A bell rang, and a bearded clerk struck the floor three times with a long staff. The murmur of the gallery died, and the soldiers straightened their backs.

“Rise and be silent, for justice descends.” The clerk’s grave voice rang out. “The Basilica Adalet opens its doors by the grace of the Goddess and the law of His Imperial Majesty Sultan-Basileus Konstantinos Murad the Seventh, may his shadow ever lengthen. This court receives now its kadi, daughter of the imperial blood, raised at the side of the janissary, learned in the law, vessel of the Sultan-Basileus’s judgement. Bow your heads before Princess Mikhaila.”

Clara rose and braced herself for whoever was about to appear. A princess, a vessel of the Sultan-Basileus’s judgement. Perhaps a graceful, composed woman, someone like Duchess Adelheid.

The back door near the dais opened.

The two soldiers flanking it dropped to one knee.

And a child walked inside, her small frame swallowed by the green robe that trailed on the floor behind her. She was accompanied by a pair of janissaries, each carrying a black standard with a thirteen-pointed sunburst.

What is she, ten?

Clara had never been good at telling apart the ages of children, but whether Princess Mikhaila was eight or twelve, she was far too young for this. Her face was soft and uncertain, a scatter of nerves badly hidden under a frown. She wore a golden tiara, and a pale pink veil fell over her dark hair. The girl climbed onto the dais one careful step at a time. When she reached the purple divan, she turned and sat.

The clerk struck the floor again. “The kadi is seated.”

Clara’s hands gripped the railing in front of her as her eyes met the kadi’s. A girl who, in her old world, would have been starting middle school was now responsible for a trial that could lead to war.

Objection, Clara thought. The judge has a bedtime.