While Vane set the screw-jack, Corvin Hest turned to face Davin Sorell. The Chief Summoner stood before the bronze counterseal box. His bony arms spread was wide. His hands grabbed his ivory-tipped master rod like a beggar defending an empty bowl. His hair was plastered to his hollow temples, his lips were gray. His velvet tunic hung in sodden tatters around his knees.
“Stay back, Corvin!” Sorell hissed, raising the rod with a trembling hand. “You have no right to set foot on this platform! You’re a judge stripped of his seal! You bring common town court guards to desecrate the highest arcane installation in the Empire!”
Corvin didn’t draw a weapon. He reached into his leather dispatch bag, pulled out Special Municipal Order 14-C. Then he held the scarlet-sealed parchment six inches from his old master’s face. “The Empire didn’t build this platform, Master Sorell,” Corvin said, his voice ringing with total, cold and exact clarity. “The people of Lathmere built it with sixty years of water taxes and the blood of four hundred apprentices. Your license was revoked three hours ago by unanimous vote of the Board of Works. You’re trespassing on town property.”
“A piece of town paper!” Sorell spat, his voice cracking with shrill despair. “Paper can’t hold the Gray Rush! The Crown is the only thing standing between this city and the deep sea!”
