From her bench at the front of the military section, Sella Rusk watched the three standing officers on the third tier and knew the exact shape of the cliff they were walking toward.
She knew all three of them by sight from her years in the Survey rangers. The bandaged captain was Marn of the Third Foot; to his left stood Lieutenant Vobb of the Ridge Pioneers; to his right, Quartermaster-Sergeant Hurl of the Seventh Heavy Pike. None of them were Vane’s creatures. They were thirty-year border regulars whose fathers had fought wild dungeon outbreaks in the eastern fens, and whose whole lives had been built on two articles of faith: you never broke formation in front of an active core, and you never traded your pike for a monster’s promise.
Around them, forty other company delegates shifted on the split-oak benches. The air smelled of wet wool coats, grease from unwashed armor, and the sharp sulfur tang of the tallow lamps smoking in the wall sconces. Men who had slept in frozen trenches for six weeks looked for exits and ambush angles rather than fine points of law.
“Speak plainly, Captain Marn,” Master Serit said from the lectern. “The Hall is open to every question from the camp.”
