The freezing sleet fell in long, slanted needles against the cobblestones of Gate Street. That turned the gutter silt into black, glassy grease.
Under the dripping bracket of the gallows lamp at Checkpoint Seven, the black lacquer of the carriage shone with an oily sheen. It stood twenty paces past the tram junction, its timber chassis rocking on leaf springs as two black horses stamped their hooves against wet granite. Gray steam curled from their nostrils into the darkness, smelling of oats, wet wool, and horse sweat.
On the door panel, lit up by the downward glare of the gas lamp, the crest of Magistrate Halden Pell gleamed in gold leaf. A fruiting lemon bough crossed with a pair of level balances. It was flanked by the calligraphic motto of the southern district court.
Two liveried footmen in dark green wool greatcoats stood motionless beside the mounting steps, collars turned up against the sleet, lower faces obscured behind dark silk mufflers. Their gloved hands rested over the breeches of brass-mounted carbines held muzzle-down beneath waterproof leather capes. They didn’t speak. They stood like statues stationed outside an iron vault.
Ten yards back, within the recessed shadow of an abandoned freight shed archway, Len paused to adjust the linen sling supporting his left forearm.
