Lord Auditor Orin Vane did not pull back a second time.
He remained frozen beside the brass-bound cart, his shoulder tilted toward the control housing where Sergeant Berr’s soot-stained hand held him fast. A dull crimson suffused Vane’s temples, his breath coming in short hitches. Around the chassis, the air smelled of ozone, burnt tallow, and cellar frost.
“Release the mechanism,” Vane whispered, his voice thin as scraped bark. “Sergeant. You are interfering with an instrument of Crown revenue.”
Berr did not shift his grip. His forearm bones remained locked like an iron stay, holding Vane’s wrist six inches above the cutoff toggle.
“The revenue was paid thirty years ago, my lord,” Berr rasped, the sound vibrating out through his exposed ribs into the cart timbers. “Three hundred and sixty men paid it in tallow and bone. Gavrel’s kin paid it in the cellar chute. If the King’s audit takes thirty years to reach the frontier, the auditor can wait while the clerk sharpens his quill.”
From the witness ring, Noll Vey watched the two men. Granite clamps held his shins fast, rooted deep in the bedrock. Collar Anchor Two was trapped in its housing, copper braids grounding its force into the Hall’s floor, preventing the machine from broadcasting a fresh decree or altering the ceiling inscription.
