At a quarter to five in the afternoon. Meanwhile, the shadows of the Guard ridge reached the center of the arena floor, the court clerk called the third defendant to the bar.
“Bevin Soot. Licensed commercial merchant, Northern Transit Concession.”
Bevin rose from the wooden bench in the dock and walked slowly forward to the iron railing. He was forty-five years old. But he moved with the stooped, shuffling rhythm of an elderly laborer who had spent thirty years hauling flour sacks over frozen canal bridges. He wore no handcuffs. He had been granted provisional bail under the recognizance of the Free Wards Coalition, living in his own warehouse under the watch of two quarry guards. His dark wool traveling coat was faded, frayed at the cuffs, and missing three of its carved horn buttons. His round, fleshy face was haggard, pale, and lined with deep, unwashed creases of grief.
He stood with his head bowed, his calloused hands clasped loosely before his leather belt, his eyes fixed upon the grey gravel between his boots. He didn’t grovel like Pell. He didn’t offer grand speeches like Morn. He stood like a cart driver who had backed his wagon into a ditch and knew that the axle was broken.
