As the fourth bell finished tolling from the bridge tower of St. Jude, the afternoon drizzle paused, leaving the grey slate roofs of Harth shining like wet lead around the perimeter of the market square.
At the center of the cobbles, on the three octagonal stone steps of the ancient market cross where royal proclamations, grain assizes, and cattle fairs had been cried for three hundred years, stood Special Provost Warden Brecht. He had left his black travel cloak inside his carriage and wore his full Chancellery judicial habit: a long coat of black broadcloth buttoned to the chin with dull silver disks, a stiff white linen bands-collar at his throat, and the silver-headed ebony cane planted before his polished calfskin boots.
Flanking the steps of the cross stood Senior Oath Guard Keld and four of his blued-steel shock troopers, their visored sallets locked down, their heavy broadswords resting in their scabbards while their iron-shod boarding picks were grounded at attention beside their steel greaves. The sixth trooper, Morvath, was nowhere to be seen among the file at the cross—an absence that Jon Hale noted instantly as he, Elin, Dunstan Harl, and Notary Corve Penner walked out of South Lane and took their places on the timber porch of the River Lantern Inn.
