Marshal Kett’s gloved hand remained clamped tight over his throat, the stiff black leather of his gauntlet hiding the glowing silver torque beneath. He stood at the edge of the second tier, his gray silhouette sharp against the phosphorus lanterns, his posture as rigid as an iron mile-marker along the border highway.
Noll Vey kept his single stone palm flat against the limestone balustrade. The blue core light within his hollow ribs thrummed with a low, uneasy vibration that buzzed against his teeth. He did not shout at the old marshal. He did not gesture with anger. When a man has spent forty winters standing guard on a frozen frontier, threats bounce off his chest like birdshot off a castle wall.
“Speak your piece, Marshal,” Noll said, his gravelly voice low and patient in the vaulted quiet. “The Hall is open. If you hold that wire against your skin while the clock runs down, tell this court what you are buying with the minutes.”
Kett looked down at the stone floor. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint, wet dripping of mountain water through the high ceiling flues and the distant, dry rattle of bone spoons upon the Last Guest’s coat behind the red chalk line.
