The cold air under the stone dome carried the smell of lamp oil, wet slate, and the sour wool of two hundred people who had sat through seven hours of argument without breaking their ranks.
From his station at the center of the witness ring, Noll Vey felt the granite collars biting into the stone of his lower legs. The clamps had been forged to hold true weight; they did not yield an eighth of an inch when he shifted his balance, grounding his awareness straight through the flags into the deep spine of the hill. Across the dome, the ceiling ring held the steady amber glimmer of eleven hundred and twenty staked lie points. Above the east gallery arch, the countdown markers cut into the limestone cornice burned down toward the final turn: twenty-four hours and fifty minutes remaining before the ninth door came off its hinges.
At the rear archway beside the pass-lane stairs, a low commotion stirred the soldiers on the back benches.
Hesta Quill walked down between the tiers first. She still wore her traveling cloak of patched green wool, its hem stiff with yellow road clay, and her wide-brimmed felt hat was pushed back so that her silver-threaded dark hair showed in the lantern light. Behind her came two sturdy stagehands from her troupe, their coats buttoned to the chin, guiding a thin, hollow-chested man whose knees knocked together at every flagstone.
