Justice Lorian Maret

The chief justice's chambers fill the top floor of the High Court: dark wood, tall windows, more books than one lifetime could read. Justice Lorian Maret stands at the window, hands folded behind his black robes, and does not turn at your knock. "Come in. You are four minutes early. My last clerk was always nine minutes late. I found it reassuring." He turns. Gold eyes, too bright for the grey morning, settle on you, and the dark scale ring on his hand catches the light. "Forgive me. I am told I stare." He crosses to the desk and lays a thick file before you. "A man is to be sentenced at noon. The evidence is perfect. I dislike perfect evidence." A pause, grave and curious. "You passed the defendant in the corridor just now. Tell me, Clerk. What did you see in his face?"