Shortly before noon the back end of the courthouse looms before them. Two stone dragons flank the entrance, hundred foot goliaths with a fearsome and unnatural look about them. Draken cannot take his eyes away from them, there’s an uneasy feeling in his guts.

As his eyes meet their cold stone counterparts the dragon’s eyes blaze to life as both creatures rear their heads. Draken freezes in place, trembling.

He’s heard the stories but never really believed that the rear of the courthouse was guarded by two dragons.

“State your purpose or die in agony.” The dragons growl in unison.

Veronica raises her hand in salute.

“Two witches in service of the court.” She says, with a formal tip of her hat.

The dragon’s eyes flash.

“You may pass.”

The rumbling voices echo through the empty street. Draken stares at the twin monsters unable to move save for the quaking of his knees until Veronica’s hand roughly yanks him forward.

“Come on, these things don’t wait long before they zap you.”

They hustle past the tall vaulted doors into a long, narrow corridor. It’s a dim passage, lit by torches set in granite walls.

“Don’t be fooled into thinking those are real dragons,” Veronica says.

“I don’t understand,” Draken replies. “Those things were definitely made by wizardry and shaped like dragons.”

Veronica laughs.

“I’m no wizard but I can tell you that there’s more to a dragon than that. Real dragons are said to be fiercely intelligent and able to cast complex spells on their own. Those things are about as smart as dogs and only able to gnash their teeth and throw lightning.” She rubs her chin as they walk on. “I did once hear a story that the wizard who made them wanted to make real dragons but the High Wizard wouldn’t have it, deciding that to allow real dragons in the city would be insanely dangerous.”

Their footsteps echo in the long, winding corridor. After some minutes they begin passing numbered doors.

“There’s two courtrooms for every city district, one for criminal cases and one for civil disputes.” Veronica says as they pass the doors.

“You don’t gotta explain that to me,” Draken replies. “I’ve been here before, just not in chains. So, I've never seen it from this end. When one of us gets nabbed we all attend the trial, of course you already know that having been in my memories.”

“I was going to explain that we don’t need to worry about criminal cases. Only the defense can call witches and they’d never want an apprentice. When it comes to civil cases, however we are expected to act as impartial guardians of truth.”

They turn into a small alcove, passing a black curtain. On the wall, hanging from a wooden rack are dozens of porcelain masks. Veronica picks up one that looks very much like a snake’s head and puts it on.

“Pick one, anonymity is important here.”

Draken’s fingers dance lightly over the faces of the doll-like masks. Cat, bear, wolf, bat... his fingers linger, dragon, mouse, deer, falcon, raccoon… fox, his fingers close around the mask. Taking it from its place he puts it on, the smell is not a pleasant one.

“You’ll be working with me in district twelve civil court. You may know some of the people who appear before the magistrate, which is one reason we wear these. No point in ruining relationships over our job.” Veronica says, adjusting the snake mask to sit straight on her head.

“Does that happen?” Draken asks.

Veronica shrugs. “The masks have been around for as long as i’ve been alive but older witches will talk your ear off about it.”

Draken follows her into the empty courtroom and sits beside her in a corner next to the magistrate’s bench.

“Keep quiet and keep your mind open,” Veronica says. “Watch me handle the first cases today.”

The wait in the empty courtroom seems to drag for hours though only a few minutes pass. Draken nervously taps his foot until Veronica slaps his leg.

“Stop it.”

He stops tapping his foot but without realizing it begins tapping his fingers on the chair instead and is met with a solid jab to his ribs from her elbow.

The door swings open. The bailiffs, two guardsmen in blue sashes strut through, followed by a crook nosed magistrate in long flowing red robes and a tall powder white wig done up in curls.

“Make way for Skyrim Skaneris, magistrate of the district twelve low court.” The bailiff shouts to nobody in particular.

Following on the magistrate’s tails is a little man with arms full of scrolls and pockets full of pens. The magistrate glances in Draken’s direction and whispers to the little man.

“I see our cold blooded snake has taken a fox under her wing.” The Magistrate says.

“He sits as if he belongs on the other side of the bench, troublemaker I'll warrant.” The little man sneers. Both men flinch as the image of a snapping fox leaps into their heads.

Draken tries not to cry out when Veronica stomps his foot and surreptitiously attempts to adjust his sitting posture.

The magistrate and the scribe continue their walk to the bench, muttering their whispered conversation, which Draken can’t focus his telepathy on because of the throbbing in his foot.

The magistrate sits on his bench, taking a moment to straighten his wig. Meanwhile, the scribe sets himself down at a desk at the opposite end of the bench, loudly shuffling papers for a minute or two.

After a while he produces a scroll and hands it to one of the bailiffs.

The bailiff nods to his counterpart and composes himself as the other man runs to the barred door. The second bailiff hesitates as the first unfurls the scroll and stands at attention.

Draken is fascinated by the whole setup. The court seems so intimidating when you walk through its doors. He never imagined that they worked so hard to produce the effect.

Hearing the 'mighty' magistrate blow his nose and clear his throat while watching the 'terrible' bailiff suck in his gut and shuffle a few inches left and a few inches right to fall exactly under the shadow of the scales of justice is enough to make Draken snicker.

“I’ll warn you, Master Fox,” says the magistrate. “I’ll not have tomfoolery in this court.”

He has to literally bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

Finally, having found the perfect spot, the bailiff nods to his counterpart and the door swings open.

About two dozen people slowly enter the courtroom, eyes constantly darting between the stony bailiff and the grim magistrate while carefully avoiding the two weird figures in the corner.

“Be seated.” The bailiff says in a voice too deep and drawn out to sound anything but comedic to Draken’s ears. He promptly bites his tongue again.

“This court calls to order. The case of Shoumaker V. Burton which will now be heard by the honorable magistrate, Skyrim Skaneris. Both parties will present themselves or face five lashes.”

Burton, a small, well dressed man with wild black hair and darkened spectacles steps forward.

Shoemaker, a wavy haired man with a pudgy nose and an unbuttoned shirt stands up with hand on hip.

“This is the plaintiff, Timok Burton, professional trade director. He says his daughter’s reputation was ruined by a wedding dress from hell. He demands two pounds of silver in repiration. Defendant Juul Shoemaker, dress maker by trade says he was given creative freedom and that the dress is his artistic vision. The people are real, the cases are real, the rulings are final, all rise for the lower court.” The bailiff’s spiel has the desired effect of investing the courtroom spectators in the outcome of what Draken judges to be an overall dull case.

The loud crack of the magistrate’s gavel brings the court to order.

“Order in the court,” the magistrate says. “Timok Burton, step forward and present your charges.”

“Gladly,” the small, dark man says, taking a step towards the bench. “My two older daughter’s weddings were each mature and respectful events where in i secured many business deals. This wedding was expected to hold to the same standards but thanks to this man’s incompetently lewd dresses my daughter’s wedding became a garish burlesque. We are infamous, a laughing stock none wish to be in business with and my poor daughter is despondent!”

The gavel cracks loud against the wooden podium.

“Compose yourself,” the magistrate says.

Hands shaking in fury, Burton’s rage is such that Draken is stunned by the waves of emotion slapping him in the face. He tries to close his mind to it but Veronica quickly shakes her head.

“Listen carefully to everything you hear and feel,” she says mind to mind.

“People laugh behind my back and I've lost clients who I’ve worked with for years. His failure has shattered grand projects which might have changed this country forever.” He shoots Shoemaker with such an intense gaze of hate that goosebumps form on Draken’s skin. The razor sharp emotion is dizzying.

“Two pounds of silver is but the smallest fraction of my losses. Were I a younger man I'd challenge this devil to the field of honor and let steel be the judge!”

The gavel swings again.

“That will be enough, return to your seat or face the penalty.” The magistrate eyes the man cooly and he steps back, sitting down.

“Juul Shoemaker, step forward.” The bailiff commands.

Shoemaker swaggers forward, hips swinging and chest exposed. He pulls from his belt a scroll and hands it to the magistrate.

“This is a contract, my standard contract.” He says, shifting his weight from hip to hip. “I am an artist and my reputation is fabulous. My clients trust my vision, my vision for those dresses was one of bright colors and bold design and Mr. Burton gave me a canvas on which to work and agreed to grant me a free hand. Just because hes’ too narrow minded to understand my art doesn’t mean he didn’t give me every right to make it. He should thank me for making his daughter’s wedding dress into something special.” Shoemaker makes a point of smiling at the other man.

“You put nipples on it, you bastard!!”Burton shouts, jumping from his seat. Burton lunges at Shoemaker, determined to throttle him.

The bailiff is too fast for him, on him instantly and locking his arms behind his back.

“Kill you, son of an oversized worm!”Burton froths at the mouth as he struggles against the bailiff’s well muscled grip.

“Is this a courtroom or a barroom?” Draken wonders silently, recalling several similar scenes that played out between troublesome drunks and the burly barman, Bodrick.

The gavel could be a woodpecker for it’s rapid and repeated falls.

“You’ll spend a day in the stocks for that outburst, Burton!” The magistrate shouts.

Something feels off.

With all of the rage swirling off of burton like a gale force wind he almost missed it, but it is there.

Satisfaction, cold and petty satisfaction. Shoemaker is wallowing in it, bathing in the other man’s rage and misfortune. His whole speech about artistic vision was an act, the dresses were deliberately sabotaged for some personal reason.

“Took you long enough to figure out,” Veronica’s voice intrudes on his thoughts.

Reaching into the man’s head to learn his motivation, Draken is met with a disorienting dance of random images.

“He’s planned it all out quite nicely,” Veronica whispers. “But that kind of defense can be easily overcome if you know how. Watch and learn.”

The spectators loudly murmur as the gavel slams.

“Order, I’ll have order in this court, god damn it!” The magistrate shouts. He shakes the scroll in the direction of Burton.

“I think this contract is very clear and in light of your unseemly behavior today I have no choice but to--”

The crowd’s muttering ceases, falling to a deathly silence. The magistrate halts mid sentence as he hears the click of boots on the hardwood floor.

“Mistress Serpent,” he says uneasily. “This case is very cut and dry, I don’t see how your skills are...”

She approaches Shoemaker, not deigning to look at the magistrate.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Shoemaker whispers, almost to himself.

Veronica slowly shakes her head, an unsettling gesture when wearing a black mamba for a face.

“Then you are a silly fool indeed.”

She pulls off her right glove slowly, finger by finger. His head jerks away instinctively but her palm lays softly on his cheek.

“It only takes a single touch.” She says as the walls around his mind fall open. “You’ve been a bad boy. Taken us all for fools and I think the magistrate would like to know why you’ve tried to make a fool of him in his own court.” She lifts her hand from Shoemaker’s cheek and curtly bows to the magistrate. “With your permission we will all know the reason that this brazen knave chose to challenge and insult this court with lies and childish tricks.”

The magistrate is grim faced, though clearly seething inside. He bangs his gavel.

“Proceed, Mistress Serpent, if all you say is true the court will show no mercy.”

She grips Shoemaker’s head with each hand and though he tries to pull away he finds he cannot muster the will.

“The people came here for a show, lets give it to them.” She says, as the whole court plunges into the man’s memories.

***

“Do all of our years together mean nothing?”

Shoemaker pleads, his face glistening with tears. A young man stands opposite him, tall mustachioed and blond. He exudes pride and breeding.

“We both knew this couldn’t last,” he says. “My family’s fortune rides on this.” His voice is firm and Shoemaker’s face is pale with grief.

“Is money all you think of, Sam, what of love?”

“I’m not like you Juul.” Sam replies. “I could learn to love a woman and Merideth is a true beauty that i’d be proud to call my wife.”

“And what of me?” Juul asks. “Are you so ashamed of what we have?”

Sam shakes his head. “What we had was a youthful fancy, nothing more. We were happy for a time but I want family and legacy and you are content with this lonely existence in the shadows.” The sting of the words is not only visible on Shoemaker’s face but echoes through the hearts of every observer.

“We could have all of that were you but willing to try.” Juul says, unable to hold back the tears. “In the northern duchies we could wed and we could easily adopt a child, the streets overflow with orphans. We could have everything but your father’s dirty money but In the end that’s all you care about.”

“You aren't being fair,” Sam sighs. “Living the way you suggest would only bring disgrace to the family name. I could never bring such infamy to my father when he is so close to earning a knighthood. The lands offered through this deal and dowry by Timok Burton are enough to put the coveted title in his hand!”

Shomaker is left alone and as the weeks pass he becomes disheveled and unwashed. A shadow of his former self, a man with nothing to live for. Dozens and dozens of requests for tailored dresses, funerals, weddings, go unanswered.

Then his eyes focus in and grow wide at the sight of a name on a request, Timok Burton, the father of his lover’s bride.

He is possessed by a wild passion for revenge. Bumping the job to the top of his list, he begins an ugly scheme.

***

“Have pity!” he wails, breaking contact with Veronica.

“Where was your pity?” Veronica demands. “Where was your pity for an innocent girl pushed into an arranged marriage to honor her father’s ambition? In the face of the prospect of spending her life with a man whose heart belonged to another her only silver lining was the dream of a beautiful wedding. You turned that dream into a nightmare!”

Shoemaker shrinks away from Veronica’s cold, unyielding gaze.

“What I did wasn’t so horrible,” he protests.”I could have killed her, sewn poison needles into the dress. I had it all planned out but I didn’t do it, did I?”

With three thunderous claps the gavel strikes.

“Full payment and ten lashes!” The magistrate orders.

Veronica turns her back to the weeping man and walks slowly to her seat.