The High Street of Bellwether had never seen a procession like the one that marched from the Central Watch House at the eighth hour of the morning. It wasn’t a military parade, nor was it a mob of rioters. It was the solemn, terrifying march of the working law.
At the head walked Chief Bailiff Malcol Corvin, wearing his heavy crimson velvet mantle of office edged with wolf-fur, his gold chain of court power gleaming against his chest. In his right hand, Corvin carried the four-foot polished ebony staff of the Municipal Assizes, capped with the cast-bronze crest of the sovereign crown.
Flanking the court guard were twenty sworn town spear guards marching in tight double ranks. Their polished steel breastplates reflected the gray morning light. Their ten-foot polearms were held upright in crisp, rhythmic all at once.
Directly behind the guard walked Tomas Reed, his ash-wood pack frame strapped broad across his back, his bandaged left forearm resting in the leather sling of his harness. Beside him walked Hester Quill. It held the engrossed thick parchment of the Locked deposit Debt claim in both hands like a sacred chalice, and old Renn Tal, his Master Engineer’s bronze medal pinned proudly to his best woolen frock coat.
