Two fort constables guided Varn down the side steps toward the bench under the eastern gallery.
The debt collector walked like a horse that had been foundered in a deep ditch, his knees trembling, his bandaged hand clutched against his ribs as though a sharp wind might scatter his bones. When Sella Rusk stepped into the aisle to receive him, she did not draw her short-sword; she merely placed one heavy, calloused hand upon his shoulder and guided him down onto the pine seat between two Mere watchmen. Varn dropped his head between his knees and did not look up again, his greasy hair hanging in limp hanks over his ears.
On the town benches, Reeve Holt leaned over the wooden railing, her knuckles pressing into the grain of the oak. Her grey eyes were bright with an urgent, fierce satisfaction.
“Noll,” she called down into the ring, keeping her voice low so it did not carry to the magistrates, though the acoustics of the floor brought every syllable straight to his ears. “Call for the judgment now. The Crown has confessed to felony homicide on the public record. Demand that Master Serit break Vane’s seal and dissolve the March Ledger’s jurisdiction on the spot.”
