The silence in the parlor settled like cold lead.
Magistrate Pell stared at Len’s clenched fist, the eager, triumphant light draining from his pale hazel eyes, replaced by an expression of poisonous, disbelieving fury.
“You’re refusing,” Pell whispered. The words came out slowly, like venom dripping from an apothecary’s pipette. “Fifty sovereigns. An open permit. And you draw your hand back.”
“A courier who sells his dispatch forfeits his seal,” Len said. His voice was steady, flat, and devoid of heat. “Under Section Four of the Northern Postal Code, a seal surrendered for private gain makes every contract carried by the station void. If I take your gold and walk through the south gate, Cira’s station is stripped of its prefectural bond before the week is out. The factors take the barn, they take the horses. They post my sister’s name on the debt pillory in Cloudford. A permit bought with other people’s blood isn’t an inheritance, Judge. It’s an arrest warrant that hasn’t been served yet.”
Pell stood up straight, abandoning all pretense of diplomatic patience. His fleshy face darkened to a mottled, purplish red, his jowls quivering with rage.
“You foolish, arrogant little peasant,” Pell snarled. He swept his arm across the desk. He knocked the tube-shaped baize box to the floor, where it rolled under the credenza with a dry, hollow rattle. “You think you have principles? You think you’re standing in a courtroom in the capital, defending your petty honor before a jury of clerks? You’re…
