The black ink on the lower third of the charter parchment looked like wet elderberry juice that refused to dry.
Cale leaned over the witness rail, his spectacles propped on his forehead so his sharp clerk’s eyes could study the fibers of the vellum by the light of the tallow lantern. In his left hand, he held the ivory-handled divider from his Survey kit; in his right, he turned the parchment slowly, tracking the hairline fractures where Vane’s spoken release had severed the legal binding.
“The seal impressions are authentic,” Cale said, his voice quiet against the hush of the hall. “Seven ducal counter-marks in vermilion wax, and the primary impression of the Council of the March in lead. But look here, my Lady. The ink has lifted out of the grain.”
Lady Serit touched the vellum with the tip of her leather glove. Where her finger passed, a faint electrical prickle hissed in the air, smelling of cold ozone and sour parchment glue.
“It is the emergency reversion,” Serit said. “Subsection nine, paragraph four. The provision granting the March Ledger perpetual authority to reconstitute the border regiments if the civil reeve or the municipal council attempts to dissolve the siege. It was written in oath-silver ink mixed with lampblack so that no rain or fire could wash it from the page.”
