The silver-plated tray sat on a low dark wood taboret three paces from the judge’s desk. It held the two fine china bowls of steeped mint that the trembling servant had delivered twenty minutes earlier. The liquid had cooled slightly beneath a skin of pale green froth. But a thin, persistent curl of steam still rose from the dark surface. He carried the sharp, healing odor of dried peppermint leaves, crystal-hardened cane sugar, and hot river well-water.
Len walked past the taboret. His boots left dry, gray smears of bitter salt mud on the Persian pile. He didn’t look at the fifty sovereigns scattered across the ink-stained blotter, nor did he look at the calfskin departure permit now drowning in black iron-gall fluid. He stopped before the tray, extended his uninjured right hand. Then he lifted the heavier of the two fine china bowls by its fluted rim.
Magistrate Pell watched him from behind the desk. His hands were pressed flat against the dark wood, his breathing coming in shallow, wheezing hitches that rustled the snapped lambskin lining of his collar. “What are you doing, boy?”
Len didn’t answer. He turned on the heel of his right boot, walked two paces to the nearest copper fire bowl. Then he tilted the bowl.
