The timber bench of the Salt-Reach Circuit Court was bleached gray by decades of maritime salt and damp river fog. Magistrate Kroll sat behind a scarred oak desk upon which sat three stacks of depositions, a lead inkpot. An ancient brass sander filled with crushed oyster shell. Outside, the gulls wheeled over the newly cleared dark rock raised stone road, their harsh cries piercing the leaded glass windows of the courtroom.
Tomas Reed sat upon the low pine bench assigned to petitioners, his leather pack frame resting between his boots. The dull ache in his scarred left forearm was steady and rhythmic, echoing the lap of the incoming tide against the wooden support posts beneath the courtroom floorboards. He bent his stiff fingers against his knee, the thickened gristle resisting with familiar, stubborn friction. Beside him, Hester Quill was sharpening her split steel nib with a bone-handled hone, her motions careful and sharp.
On the opposite side of the aisle sat Proctor Malakor, chief advocate for the Delta Navigation Trade ring. Malakor wore a robe of dark blue wool trimmed with greasy otter fur, his long fingers drumming on a brass-bound strongbox that rested beside his chair. Three armed river-court guards stood behind him, their buff-leather jacks bearing the silver heron badge of the toll cartel.
