In the center of the Great Hall of Justice, upon the green baize cloth of the clerk’s table, sat the great iron balance of the High Assizes.
Beside the balance sat three heavy canvas bags, their seals broken by Bailiff Corvin, spilling forth hundreds of freshly minted silver crowns and bright gold sovereigns. The liquidated proceeds of Vault Seven and Crane’s private clearing accounts.
Tomas Reed stood beside the balance, holding his open ledger and his bone paper-knife. Beside him sat Hester Quill, checking the voucher numbers against the original muster rolls. Meanwhile, Renn Tal recorded each payment in the register of the Mechanical Guild.
Chancellor Vane leaned over his bench, watching the proceedings with solemn, dignified test.
“Call the first claimant,” the High judge ordered.
Hester Quill looked at the roll. “Claimant Number One: Branden Keel. Master Caster, Blast Furnace Number Four. Injury: Bilateral eye destruction and heat facial scarring, Year 021.”
Branden Keel walked forward from the bar, guided by the hand of his fourteen-year-old grandson, young Joram. The blind caster’s boots clicked softly on the red stone steps. In his rough, trembling right hand, he held the yellowed slip of paper scrip he had kept in his tea-caddy for eighteen winters.
