Director Tovin Crane was brought to the witness stand under armed escort, his iron manacles clattering against the polished walnut rail. His eyes darted wildly across the gallery. But there was no pity in the room, no sympathy, and no escape.
Chancellor Vane looked down upon the heavy-duty baron with the cold, unmoving majesty of the sovereign law.
“Tovin Crane,” the High judge spoke, his voice echoing off the dark rock piers. “Do you deny that the signet ring upon your finger is the matching die used to seal the sabotage mandate in Exhibit F?”
Crane looked down at his right hand. The gold ring—three iron hammers bound in laurel—glittered in the chandelier light. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Answer the court!” the High judge commanded.
Something inside Crane snapped. The arrogance that had sustained him for eighteen years curdled into a bitter, poisonous fury.
“Yes!” Crane shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Yes, it’s my ring! And what of it? You sit up there in your velvet and ermine, Vane, pretending you understand the iron basin! Who do you think cast the chains that hold the King’s navy? Who do you think forged the rails that bring your coal to the High Citadel? I did! I made this city! And I did it by keeping costs low and production high!”
