Len Vey stood in the circular witness enclosure at the center of the arena, his right hand resting flat upon the polished cedar handrail, his ash-wood staff resting upright against his knee.
The morning sun had climbed above the rim of the granite bowl, lighting up the tiered arena with a clear, sharp, unshaded radiance that picked out every scratch on the witness box, every thread in the judges’ robes, and every drop of sweat on Halden Pell’s sallow forehead across the gravel.
Below the court bench, two court stenographers sat with their elbows propped on small writing desks, their steel pens scratching continuously across heavy sheets of watermarked thick parchment with a rapid, dry hiss that sounded like locusts in autumn stubble.
“State your full name, age, and registered occupation for the official record of the Crown,” the court clerk commanded, his voice formal and ringing.
“Len Vey,” Len answered, his voice quiet, clear, and steady. “Nineteen years old. Independent courier, registered with the Tern Road Postal Network under regional running license number forty-four.”
“And your business within the country outer edge of Rookvale on the afternoon of the first day of the third month?”
“I entered the province under contract with the Highfield Regional Transit Board, carrying Consignment One Hundred and Four: forty sealed glass vials of packed fever spirit-extract consigned to the Country Medical Post. An official priority dispatch from Chief Engineer Ansett Rill addressed to Chief Surveyor Edren Bale.”
