The Burden of Proof

Josie Nightengale stood quietly outside the makeshift gate of the empty faire.  A gentle evening rain had begun to fall only moments before, casting a further pall over the grounds.  The only souls she spotted moving about were members of the troupe skittering here or there to secure a loose tarp, or to bring a bucket of feed to a hungry animal.

She had seen these people once before several years ago, just outside Yorvik.  They seemed honest folk, or as honest as travellers could be.  They were the outsiders of society and did not court trouble where it was not needed.  She would be shocked if one of theirs was actually a brazen thief and murderer.

And yet, here they were.  Unable to leave by order of the village council, and understandably shunned by the villagers.  Well, by most of the villagers, anyway...

Earlier in the day, she had left word with various well-placed contacts that she would continue to perform on the faire grounds even as the carnival boy's trial was set to begin.  The only folk who had turned up tonight though had arrived bearing torches and various sharp, farming instruments.  She had managed to turn them away without much fuss.  They had little stomach for crossing her at this point.  But if the trial returned a guilty verdict?  She wanted to believe the people of Hannsport were better than to resort to unwarranted mob justice.  Only time would tell.  She offered a silent prayer to the spirit of the grove that the settlement's local adventurers would be successful in clearing the boy's name.

Satisfied that the cold rain would be a better deterrent to any further mischief than she could be herself, the young bard quietly slipped away into the night.

                    *                    *                    *                      *                     *

Judge Lidiya Zhurevleva certainly was a maudlin sort, Dreng mused to himself as they watched the workmen perform their task.  She had only just arrived in the village, and yet she wished to watch as construction of the wooden scaffold progressed.  It was dark, and it had begun raining, and the judge was to be put up at the Kraken, with himself as an escort upon her arrival by carriage.  And it was fish fry night . . .

Dreng found the building of the scaffold to be premature, but the judge had requested it as a condition of her accepting the post as prosecutor.  Maudlin, indeed.  And a bit presumptuous.

After nearly thirty minutes had passed silently, Dreng cleared his throat rather suggestively.

"Constable?" the aging barrister asked him.  "Is there something on your mind?"

"Actually, your honor," he replied, unsure of how to address the judge while she was serving in a capacity other than as a judge. "I thought I might deliver you to the Black Kraken and thereby discharge my directive for the evening.  The village is restless, and I should see to ordering the watch patrols in order to maintain the peace."

After a moment, she replied.

"Very well, you may guide me there, and your charge will have been fulfilled."

Without further proceeding, the pair departed from the scene.  As they left, Dreng could have sworn he saw the judge's glance steal lingeringly one more time over the steadily rising instrument of execution.