Lord Auditor Orin Vane knew where the nerve lived inside every royal commission.
A king at the Old Royal Seat might forgive an envoy for sparing a border town in a snowstorm, and a high court might overlook a procedural irregularity if the witnesses were loud enough. What no royal treasury ever forgave cheerfully was an unbudgeted charge against the sovereign bond.
Standing behind his brass-bound register, Vane turned slightly so his words addressed both Master Serit at the lectern and the three neutral guild assessors seated on the eastern tier. The air in the sunken chamber hung damp and cold, smelling of tallow lanterns, wet wool, and the bitter lime dust that drifted down from the upper arches whenever the winter wind rattled the high ventilation grates. On the assessors’ desk, three candles flickered in brass saucers, casting yellow rings across ink-stained folios, brass balances, and cedar tally-sticks.
“Let us not play at pastoral romance,” Vane said, his voice crisp and clear, cutting through the low rumble of the valley draft. “This expedition did not march into the Northern Marches on fairy gold. Eight thousand men have been in the field for six weeks. Artillery trains, two hundred draft oxen, three thousand bushels of winter oats, grain requisitions from three shires, forty blacksmiths bound under service warrants, and four months of pledged muster pay are currently secured against one instrument: the March Ledger’s forfeiture lien upon this hill fort, the Mere silver-iron mine, and the pass tolls.”
