Deacon Sallow kicked the outer wicket gate wide open, waving a crimson-sealed audit scroll.
Behind him marched eight guild enforcers swinging bronze-headed clubs. Two laborers hauled a cold, three-legged iron brazier between them. A crowd of shopkeepers gathered in the lane, craning to watch.
Barnaby Holt planted his boots on the front flagstones, blocking the inner archway.
His empty left sleeve was tucked firmly into his cord belt. In his right hand, the old steward gripped a blackened iron fire-poker like a broadsword.
“Back into the street, Sallow,” Barnaby bellowed, his gray beard bristling with fury. “This is private property deeded under barony charter. You have no right to drag cold iron in here without three days of advance notice.”
“The provincial charter supersedes your worthless barony papers, cripple,” Deacon Sallow sneered.
He tapped the scroll against his palm. His thin mustache twitched with undisguised contempt.
“Branch Master Orson received a sworn complaint of fraudulent pill trade,” Sallow announced, his voice carrying down the alley. “Under Article Three, the council holds authority to inspect any workshop without warning. Bring out Kaelen Vance.”
