While Arbiter Venn’s two scribes were still furiously sanding ink blots on their pullback notice and debating with Hall Mistress Soran over how the transfer of the broken bronze socket scrap would be indexed in the country register, Nara Soth pushed her right shoulder lightly off the orchard wall.
She didn’t look toward the center table to see whether the council official had finished speaking. Tapping the metal ring of her plain wooden walking staff once against the gravel, the white-haired Crown fighter turned her back on the inner-council banner and began walking at a slow, even pace toward the hospice kitchen porch where Mother Renn’s evening kettle was beginning to steam.
By pure institutional reflex, two of Arbiter Venn’s younger armored escorts stiffened beside their horses. Their gauntleted hands dropped half an inch toward their sword handles at the sight of a named warrant subject leaving an ongoing hearing. Across the yard, Daro Kesh didn’t even lift his walking stick. He simply met the nearest guard’s eyes. Meanwhile, Commander Keth Or shook his head once from the porch steps. Both young guards froze and looked anxiously at their superior.
Flustered by having the most powerful fighter in the valley walk away in the middle of his legal summation, Arbiter Venn snatched a stamped parchment blank from his scribe’s folio and raised his voice toward her back.
