The junior warden took two aggressive strides toward Jo Saye, his iron truncheon raised toward her shoulder. ‘Stand where you’re, woman! Under royal relic law, foreign entities bound to a seized rig are remanded to academy custody for interrogation!’
Before the warden’s hand could touch Jo’s linen smock, Pella Rook moved like striking lightning. She stepped between the warden and Jo Saye, Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs held level with the man’s throat. ‘Touch her with that truncheon and you commit an act of piracy under town law! Jo Saye is not a piece of equipment! She is a free human being under an independent trade contract!’
Across the room, Eren Tal’s massive hand gripped the warden’s leather collar. He lifted the man two inches off the flat stone slabs with easy, terrifying power. ‘Back off, boy, before I snap your neck like an ash twig.’
Jo Saye didn’t scream, and she didn’t panic. With calm, amazing deliberation, she looked at the young warden with quiet Yorkshire contempt. Her fingers reached up to the crimson emergency tab pinned above her left breast pocket.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Eren,’ Jo said, her voice steady and clear as church bells in the morning mist. ‘In Yorkshire, no policeman takes a woman without a judge’s warrant. No potion-maker puts a collar on a weaver from Harrowby.’
