On the solid flat stone slabs of the western gatehouse, Inspector Korr Var stepped before Davin Sorell, with four town sergeants with axe-spears. The checker didn’t draw a sword. He didn’t shout or gloat over the fallen master. He produced the zinc dispatch tube containing Special Municipal Order 14-C. Then he held it with quiet, office solemnity.
“Davin Sorell,” Korr Var said, his voice flat, dry, and unrushed. “By order of Councilman Elna Vesk and the Municipal Board of Works, you’re hereby placed under office detention pending a formal hearing by the City Council. Your summoning license is suspended. Your academy keys are impounded. Your personal movements are restricted to the town offices under guard.”
Sorell looked at the sealed warrant, then at Korr’s worn wool coat, and finally down at his own mud-spattered boots. “You take my keys with paper, Checker?” Sorell whispered, his voice cracked and hollow.
“I take your keys with the law, Master Sorell,” Korr replied. He took the broken ivory rod from his hands and handing it to Sergeant Vane. “Paper signed by honest citizens lasts longer than bronze forged in pride. Take him to the museum library, Sergeant. Give him dry wool, hot tea, and a warm fire. We don’t torture our prisoners in Lowbank.” Sorell was led away into the warmth of the parish buildings, an outlaw broken not by violence, but by the quiet majesty of town law.
