The morning sun broke clear and bright over the jagged limestone ridges of the High Karst, flooding the market square of Split-Stone with brilliant autumn light.
In the center of the square, the ancient bronze lion-head fountains roared with crystal snowmelt, splashing gallons of icy water into the marble basin and sending sparkling rivulets rushing through the stone gutters. Around the square, eight hundred and fourteen smallholders, tenant farmers, orchardists, and mountain herders stood in four broad, orderly lines that wrapped around the outer edge of the churchyard. They had put on their cleanest woolen coats and work smocks, their faces scrubbed with fresh well-water. Their breath rose in soft white plumes in the crisp mountain air.
Before the stone steps of the market cross stood four heavy deal frame stand tables, set upon stout oak beer tuns.
Behind Table One sat Caleb, the ditch-reeve of Canton Vane. He was flanked by Apprentice Olla, who dipped his quill into a heavy baked-clay ink-pot every thirty seconds. Behind Table Two sat Master Mason Orrin for Split-Stone. Behind Table Three sat the village elder of Oakhaven. And behind Table Four sat Hester Quill and Elder Bran, administering the muster roll of the High Karst mountain herders.
