The silence in the Granite Hall of Verdicts lasted for ten full seconds.
In the high gallery, the wealthy spectators leaned over the wooden stone railings, their whispers rustling like dry corn husks. On the bench, Chief Justiciar Malvane stared at the slate-grey figure of Magistrate Ren. His mind was clearly racing, calculating whether attempting to eject this bizarre, matching older advocate by force would cause an immediate public riot.
“The plea is noted,” Malvane said at last, his voice tight and strained. “Advocate Rostov. Present your first witness for the Crown.”
Rostov swallowed hard, adjusting his stitched stole with trembling fingers. He cleared his throat twice before turning to the court guards at the outer edge doors.
“The Crown calls Guard-Lieutenant Voren,” Rostov announced. “Commanding officer of the seizure detail.”
The side doors opened. A stocky, square-jawed officer in a polished steel cuirass marched down the center aisle. Voren was thirty-five, with a heavy scar across his left temple and the swaggering, arrogant stance of a man accustomed to kicking in the doors of low-city tanneries without a warrant. Over his shoulder hung an iron-banded truncheon stamped with the ducal crest.
He climbed the witness dais, placed his right hand upon the bronze replica of the Lexicon. Then he swore the ancient oath to speak only the truth under pain of civil forfeiture.
