Lord Auditor Orin Vane stood with the unhurried composure of a man who had spent thirty years watching other men lose their tempers before magistrates.
His coat was of charcoal-dyed broadcloth, cut narrow at the waist and fastened with small, flat horn buttons that caught no glare from the lanterns. His linen stock was clean, stiffened with rice starch, holding his chin at an angle that looked neither arrogant nor defensive. He rested the fingertips of his right hand lightly on the corner of his dispatch case, waiting until the last wet snuffle from Varn subsided against the iron rail.
“Master Serit,” Vane began, his voice pitched so cleanly that it seemed to hang in the still air above the center aisle, “the Crown has no interest in shielding individual cruelty. If this bailiff’s hireling exceeded the bounds of civil warrant, if he struck a debtor with unnecessary violence or accepted private coin from an unauthorized agent, the law provides ordinary remedies. A magistrate in the lower valley can try him for battery and extortion on any Tuesday market morning.”
Vane turned his gaze toward the tiers, letting his eyes sweep across the delegates with cool, judicial dispassion.
“What this tribunal cannot do,” Vane continued, his tone calm and measured, “is allow the character of an enterprise to be defined by its lowest instrument. A kingdom of seven million souls is not maintained by immaculate intentions. When a river dike must be shored against spring flood, the ditcher who carries…
