Master Davin Sorell didn’t walk to the clerk’s table with the deferential step of a petitioner. He dropped the curved marble stairs with the heavy, stately rustle of dark blue academy silk, his velvet stole stitched with silver thread that caught the cold afternoon light. At seventy years of age, Malcor had sat through forty-two legislative sessions of the Municipal Senate, outlasting three Chief Judges and two regional dynastic rebellions. His hair was a manicured cloud of white wool. His hands, manicured and smooth as animal fat candles, rested lightly upon the cedar rail of the witness box.
Behind him, three academy exam guards in gray linen tunics stood in rigid formation, their leather satchels packed with bound codices of royal charter law. On their faces was the calm, shrugging certainty of men who believed that city councils were temporary nuisances born of trade, whereas the College of Summoners was an eternal pillar of spirit order.
Councilor Vesk didn’t invite him to sit. She dipped her quill into fresh black ink, adjusted her glasses. Then she nodded to Auditor Varo Nenn.
“Master Davin Sorell,” Vesk said. “The Town Board has subpoenaed the central ledger of the Summoners’ College for the years forty-two through forty-four of the current civic era. Specifically, the registry of permits, high-pressure authorizations, and foundation easements relating to the lower reaches of the Gray Rush. Auditor Nenn will present the findings of the town document check.”
