Noll did not turn his back on the Last Guest—a man who had spent thirty years working country fairs knew better than to turn his back on anything carrying a four-foot blade, even after the contract was read—but through the wet mortar of the courtroom walls he saw Lord Auditor Orin Vane with crystal clarity.
Vane had already taken one neat, measured step toward the central aisle stair. His dark wool cuffs were tugged straight; the brass-bound portable register chassis rested against his hip with its glass plates glowing faint white around Collar Anchor Two, and the heavy vellum scroll of the royal siege charter was tucked securely beneath his left arm. He looked like a chief magistrate leaving a county assize twenty minutes early to catch the dry coach south.
“The summons posted at dawn,” Vane said, his voice smooth and unhurried again now that the red chalk line had proved solid against the ninth door, “guaranteed every participant safe conduct to and from the Hall of Witness without detention of person. Under the ruling your own steward just read into the flags, Vey, any attempt to bar my exit violates your standing as host and collapses the threshold ward across this entire hill. Captain Dorn, Master Serit—stand clear of the steps.”
