The blued steel point of the sergeant’s three-sided bayonet hovered six inches from Peter’s chest, its cold, razor-sharpened edges reflecting the jade glare of the overhead floodlights in sharp, diamond sparks.
Peter didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his eyes. He stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart on the wet dark rock paving, his uninjured right hand coming up in a sharp, contemptuous flick that slapped the folded thick parchment transit pass directly against the sergeant’s crossed leather shoulder-belts with a loud, authoritative smack.
“Watch the point, Sergeant Kroll,” Peter snapped, his voice ringing across the transit lane with the hard, arrogant, office insolence of a senior court guard who had spent five years ordering gate constables into the rain. “Unless you intend to explain to Magistrate Pell why his personal courier packet is soaked in constable spit.”
Sergeant Kroll blinked, his broad, weather-beaten face tightening as his mutton-chop whiskers twitched. His bayonet didn’t drop, but the barrel wavered an inch to the left. His gloved thumb came up. He pressed into the heavy crimson wax seal stamped into the corner of the thick parchment.
“Court guard,” Kroll grunted. His breath clouding the was cold air in thick, white puffs that smelled of chicory and stale plug-tobacco. “The High judge’s telegraph came through forty minutes ago. All outward civilian transit is suspended. No residents cross the barrier without a Star tower travel warrant signed by Morn himself.”
