A light drizzle swirled around in the gusty breeze, and the grey sky seemed to press down upon the crowds that were already packing into Hales Park. The sound of a steam organ drifted across the park from the fairground in its eastern corner, along with the mingled piping voices of young furs as they laughed and played. Leyland sighed a little as he listened, and moved away, buying a vegetable pasty from a nearby baker's stall, along with a small bottle of apple juice. He sat down carefully on a bench under a yew tree, and stared gloomily out at the rain, which had become a little heavier now.
He was jolted out of his silent thoughts by the realisation that a Town Constable - not an OB, thank Lep - had sat down beside him and was smiling in what he assumed was supposed to be a friendly and open way. Leyland knew that the vixen's expression was purely for show, and the outward friendliness was anything but sincere. Nevertheless, in the circumstances he had no choice but to make small talk, and so he ventured a mild remark about the rain.
"Yes, it's a shame," said the officer, whose name turned out to be Bekza. "I know who you are, too. You won’t be needed to speak of course, not now Garax has chosen the Seven, but still, I imagine you don't get to come in here very often so maybe you should admire the flowers or something." She grinned and was about to continue when a male vulp called her over. "My sergeant," she explained briefly, before dashing off and leaving Leyland somewhat relieved, yet puzzled at her earlier comment.
Normally buns were not allowed beyond The Gob without good cause - although many worked in the orchards out to the west, so the park was familiar enough to them - but Selim had always insisted that capital trials should be held in the open air - "justice being seen to be done," as he put it, and in contrast to the restrictions placed on movement elsewhere all species were admitted; indeed, for a trial of this significance not appearing might be considered somewhat suspicious.
The trial itself would be held atop a large wooden dais hard against the wall of the park. Garax had exercised the ancient right of those accused of capital crimes to be heard by the Trial of Seven, rather than submit to the more democratic yet unpredictable whims of a jury of his peers, and so on the dais was a long table at which the seven judges would sit to hear the evidence. Everyone else, including the prisoner, would be required to stand throughout the hearing: this provision was intended to prevent trials from dragging on.
* * *
At exactly twelve o'clock, the organ fell silent and the stall-holders left their posts, leaving their wares behind on the open shelves; there was no need to worry about theft: not here; not today. As if on cue, the rain died away too, and the faintest glimpse of the sun could be seem behind the still murky clouds. For a few moments, there was near silence in the park, the sounds of the forest clearly audible as they caried in on the westerly wind. Then a collective sigh went up as Lord Selim strode to the centre of the dais, and proclaimed the start of the trial.
There had been nothing like this in Oakwood for years - an officer - an OB, no less - on trial on a charge of public killing. The tension in the air was almost tangible as the accused was led to the dock flanked by two heavily armed guards, and faced the panel of seven judges, Selim himself at the centre, who were to decide his fate. The Lord Protector turned to face the prisoner and asked him to take the oath; Leyland shivered at the sound of the OB's steady, unwavering voice as he spoke the required phrases.
"I, Olive Garax, do recognise and accept this court as the final arbiter of our law and justice. I will speak always true to my heart and to my people. For the love of Oakwood."
Selim nodded. "Then let it be done."
* * *
Lord Wharton opened the case for the prosecution, formally repeating the charge against Garax, who as expected pleaded not guilty. The OB readily accepted that he had killed the chev and that he had done so in a public place: his argument was that he had acted to prevent further loss of life. Technically an accused was supposed to address his remarks only to his questioner, but in truth the seven judges were the only audience that mattered: had they had the chance, most of the buns in the crowd would gladly have lynched him without hearing another word of evidence.
“That animal was out of control,” Garax stated baldly. “It was heading into Lax Lane and could have killed someone. I had no choice but to act quickly, and I believed that a swift arrow through the heart was the best and most humane course of action. How would I have felt had it continued its rampage and run down a party of innocent bystanders? I am sworn to protect peace and order; I could do no other.”
“But could you not have incapacitated the chev in another, less final, way, without ending his life in such a manner?” asked Wharton?
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It had a broken leg.”
Wharton waited for Garax to expand upon his remark, but when it became clear that that was all there was, he continued himself.
“I don’t understand,” admitted Wharton. “Why does the fact of a leg injury make it harder for you to do something?”
“The creature was in pain. You may not know anything about equines… sir… but quads like them can’t function like that. I had to put it down.”
Garax conducted his own defence, of course: capital accused always did, unless they had been given special dispensation. There was nothing new in it: he simply rehashed the arguments he had used under his questioning by Wharton. The crowd’s hostility was almost tangible at the way the OB continued to refer to the fallen chev as “it” and “an animal”, but the patrolling Officers were far too thick on the ground for there to be any actual trouble.
At length, Garax finished his defence and fell silent. Selim nodded slightly at Wharton, who in turn nodded at the most senior of the Seven. The judges left the dais by a heavily-guarded staircase at its rear, which led to a small and cramped brick building where they would reach their verdict. As with the standing, the dreariness of the building was supposed to be conducive to quick decisions and the swift justice to which the Lord Protector was so attached.
* * *
A murmur went through the crowd as the judges returned to the dais. They were required to remain silent until the verdict had been announced, but generally it was possible to discern from the faintest traces of emotion on a certain vulp’s face which way the argument had gone. This time, however, there was nothing: no anger, no satisfaction, no annoyance: nothing. The judges’ eyes were impassive and calm as Selim stepped forward and gazed down on the multitudes waiting below.
The Lord Protector’s face was calm, though there was the faintest sheen of sweat on his brow: he knew that today’s events would not easily be forgotten. As the law decreed, he spoke as though addressing himself to the defendant.
“Garax,” he began, and this single word cut through the slimy air. After the briefest of pauses, he went on. “As befits your station and the seriousness of the matter you have been accorded the Trial of Seven. The Seven have found you guilty of public killing, a capital crime. There is no higher court: there is no appeal. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. For the love of Oakwood – let it be done.”
The prisoner appeared to be about to speak, as was his right, but then subsided and signalled to his guards that he had nothing to say. His right of reply foregone, he did not resist as he was gagged – a legacy of a failed attempt by a past subversive to start a revolution from the steps of the gallows – and his paws were bound behind his back. One of the other judges picked up the symbolic noose from the table and lowered it around Garax’s neck: it would remain there until replaced by the real one. The prisoner was led slowly down from the dais and across the field to the gibbet, the milling crowds still too cowed by the police even to jeer.
Leyland would much have preferred to have gone home and buried his head in his hands, but he knew it would be too dangerous to leave this particular trial before its bitter conclusion, so he forced himself to join the rest of the crowd in training his eyes on the execution. Watching grimly from the edge of the crowd, mixed emotions churning in his stomach, he felt a small hand grasp his very tightly. He knew even before looking down that it was Pelona.
Copyright © David "Loganberry" Buttery 2004-5. Last updated 27th December 2005.