Lord Auditor Orin Vane’s accusation hit the upper benches where the doubt was already dry as tinder.
Three seats down from the Mere miners, a weathered infantry captain from the Third Siege Line—a man with a bandaged cheek and a brass gorget dulled with woodsmoke—leaned over the stone rail and stared down at Hobb’s empty scullery chair.
“He’s right about the voice,” the captain muttered, loud enough for the whole eastern tier to hear. “I heard the core speak through the ditch horn on the fourth day when we moved the water wagons. That’s the same throat. A touch slower on the vowels, maybe, like a man talking through a wool muffler, yet it’s the same voice.”
Beside him, a guild assessor from the southern road—one of the neutral witnesses summoned when Master Serit opened the Hall—frowned at his own notes. “And the hill fort’s fourth rank unlocked acoustic stone-tube projection across the foundations. We logged that capability yesterday afternoon during the artificer’s testimony. Master Serit, how does this court know the debtor in the ring is not simply ventriloquizing his own creation to manufacture sympathy?”
On the town bench, Hesta Quill stood up so fast her heavy travelling cloak swung against Reeve Holt’s knees.
