The royal traveling carriage stood axle-deep in the sodden riverbank mud.
Its polished vermilion lacquer was splattered with mire. Its gold-trimmed wheel spokes were clogged with wet river reeds.
Before the gold-trimmed coach towered The Iron Bastion. The massive charcoal-black locomotive exhaled steady jets of white steam from its metal tube cocks. It smelled of sulfur, boiling machine oil, and cold wet iron.
Donald Croft stood on the track shoulder in his velvet-heeled boots. It grabbed his fur mantle tightly against the damp wind. His powdered face had taken on a grayish, sickly hue as he stared up at the massive steel rivets of the armored engine.
Beside him, Trade Envoy Silas Crane cleared his throat, attempting to maintain an air of high-born disdain. The envoy adjusted his velvet beret, brushing a fleck of locomotive soot from his lace jabot with evident disgust.
“Giles Croft,” Donald began, his voice wavering before rising into an aggrieved screech.
“You stand accused of open rebellion against the Imperial Crown. You have forged unholy clockwork abominations, defied the trade monopolies of House Croft, and shed noble royal blood upon the King’s highway.”
Donald unrolled the heavy parchment with trembling hands, waving the gold ribbon in the air.
