The air in the well of the Hall of Witness smelled of damp wool, tallow lamps, and the sour vinegar Fen used to sponge the forehead of a feverish clerk.
Noll Vey stood with his stone palm flat against the cool limestone rail. The blue light from his chest cavity seeped through the hairline seams of his granite torso, casting long, wavering ribs of azure across the floor stones. Beside him, Prit held his slate with both bone hands, his three chalk stubs tucked into his leather belt loops. The imp’s dark eyes moved from the red hazard line to the high bench where Lord Auditor Orin Vane sat alone in his black coat.
“One sentence, Master Vane,” Master Serit repeated, her voice steady and quiet in the vast amphitheater. “The six officers seated on that tier are men of this realm. They have families in the southern counties. Speak the release, and their allegiance transfers to the Crown Council under my seal.”
Vane did not move. His hands remained clasped over the black leather folder of the master siege charter, his long fingers pale against the calfskin binding. When he spoke, his voice was low, flat, and entirely without tremor.
