The silence that fell over Tannery Square was heavy, thick with the smell of scorched thick parchment and warm chamomile.
Court guard-Captain Thorne stood frozen ten paces from the sorting table, his heavy iron maul lowered, his mouth slightly open beneath his visor. Across from him, Patrician Valerius lowered his gold-stamped edict. He stared up at the newcomer with the confusion of a man who had prepared for an execution and found himself addressed by a royal envoy.
Diplomat Ren didn’t draw a blade. He didn’t recite a liturgical curse, nor did he brandish an iron geas. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal mantle, withdrew a clean linen handkerchief. Then he calmly wiped a speck of soot from the brass metal tube of his signet matrix.
“Court guard-Captain Kaelen Thorne of the Seventh Chancellery Precinct,” Diplomat Ren said. His voice carried the easy deep ring of a trained court speaker. “And Patrician Gaius Thorne-Valerius, hereditary prefect of the Sun-Crown Weaver’s Guild. Put down your weapons. Both of you’re currently committing high treason against the town survival of this basin.”
Thorne bristled, his armored gauntlets tightening on the leather-wrapped wooden handle of his maul. “Who granted you credentials to address an officer of the High Synod, vagrant? You wear the face of this unlicensed contract forger!”
