Two high court vergers, their black cassocks rustling against the stone, carried a heavy lectern of black iron down the marble stairs and planted it in the center of the dark rock floor. Upon its slanted desk they laid the crimson morocco folio, propped open to Clause 14-B.
Ren Prime walked toward the lectern with slow, deliberate steps.
Every stride sent a jolt of fire through his forearms. Scribe Ren’s presence in the mirror was awake, his phantom fingers twitching in sympathy. Scribe Ren’s memory—a lifetime spent studying royal warrants, scouring out fraudulent property deeds, and mastering the micro-chemistry of feudal inks—flooded Ren Prime’s brain with overwhelming clarity. Ren Prime’s throat burned with iron-gall rot. But his vision was sharper than a jeweled magnifying glass.
Beside the lectern stood a void-court clerk holding a brass check tray containing standard careful rig. A small fire bowl of glowing willow charcoal to test for volatile binders, a pair of ivory measuring tongs, and a polished lens of green glow-stone. The clerk’s hands shook slightly as he set the tray down. He was a minor notary from the Lower High court who had never expected to find himself at the epicenter of a country rebellion.
