Noll Vey planted his one stone hand flat on the witness rail, widened his basalt stance until his heels bit into the mortar seam at the edge of the restraint line, and threw every ounce of his remaining structural hold into the timber benches and gallery arches above the crowd.
“Hold onto your neighbor’s coat!” Noll bellowed through the brass speaking tubes, his voice booming out over the valley-wide clatter of the fort bell, the market well, and the pit gongs. “Don’t stop reading when the light flashes! Keep your thumb on the line you’re speaking!”
On the third western bench, Edren Dene hooked his left arm through the belt of the disarmed pikeman beside him while his right thumb stayed pressed hard under the date on his pocket slate. Up by the bell platform, Captain Arda Dorn caught the corner of Tessa’s scaffold with one gauntleted hand and drew Soldier Joss back half a step by his wool collar. Behind Noll, across the red-chalked restraint line where less than two hours of threshold grace held the ninth door at bay, the Last Guest stood motionless, its pale fingers resting lightly on the horn handle of its shrunk kitchen knife as it watched Ossa Flint lean into the machine that had tried to turn eight thousand men back into its supper.
