The escape of Lord Malakor from the Granite Hall of Verdicts was an undignified, panicked rout.
Four Templars carried the screaming, bubbling nobleman on a makeshift stretcher formed from his own ermine blanket, his shattered brass breathing mask dragging across the flat stone slabs behind him like a dead snake. The trail of scalding eucalyptus steam and dark blood marked their retreat toward the private carriages waiting at the rear sally port.
Advocate Rostov, his face wrapped in bloody linen compresses to catch the silver shrapnel, was led out by two junior clerks, unable to open his left eye.
On the high bench, Chief Justiciar Malvane didn’t bother to strike his lead mallet. He stood clutching his rotting neck with both hands, his eyes wild with terror as he looked at the thousands of citizens whose faces were now pressed against the iron drop-gates of the entry hall.
“Adjourned!” Malvane gasped, his voice barely louder than a croak. “Court is adjourned until the third bell tomorrow! Clear the well! Clear the hall!”
The judges fled through the private curtained door behind the bench. That left their official precedent ledgers and half-eaten trays of crystal-hardened ginger scattered across the dais.
Ten minutes later, Ren Vale and Mira were back in the undercroft.
