The question hung in the cold vault like an iron hook suspended in the gloom.
Prit’s voice had carried to every corner of the amphitheater, bouncing off the parabolic stone dome and returning in a faint, whispering echo: Who speaks for the debt behind the door?
On the southern benches, several Crown line officers shifted uncomfortably, their leather scabbards knocking against the limestone risers. Across the sand, Lord Auditor Orin Vane sat with his iron stylus resting on his sheepskin folio, his grey eyes fixed upon Noll with cold, skeptical amusement.
Before Noll could answer, two small figures stepped out from the front bench of the town tier.
Sen, an eleven-year-old girl with dark hair cut raggedly at her jaw, walked down the stone steps with her chin lifted high. Her woolen stockings were darned with blue linen thread at the heels, and her oversized canvas smock was smudged with flour from Hobb’s bakehouse. Beside her walked ten-year-old Tally, his thin shoulders squared under a patched wool jacket, holding a small wooden tally stick notched with eight knife cuts.
They halted at the white sand circle, three paces from Master Serit’s table.
“The clerk called for mandates,” Sen said, her voice clear and carrying through the quiet hall. “We have one.”
