Tomas Reed stood upon the check table, his boots planted squarely on the oak planks. He held Master Apothecary Marrow by the collar of his starched smock.
Below the platform, six hundred furious wagon drivers and peat-cutters surged against the timber railings. Their heavy shoulders shook the cedar posts until the iron nails groaned in the wood. Bram of the Lower Reach stood on the bottom step, his massive arms outstretched. He held back a mob of young wagon drivers who were trying to drag the scared apothecary down into the mud.
“Stand back, neighbors!” Bram roared, his voice booming over the din. “Let the Provost speak! If you tear the ditch-rat to pieces now, Vance will tell the city we murdered a royal doctor! Let the law do the skinning!”
The crowd slowed, their breathing heavy and ragged in the cold sleet. But their eyes remained fixed on Marrow with murderous hatred.
Tomas lifted his right hand, the brass carrier’s medallion swinging from his neck.
“Citizens of the Delta!” Tomas called out, his voice cutting through the wind with total power. “Under Law II of the Last Claim, justice isn’t a riot! Justice is a receipt! If we hang this man from a willow branch today, Bailiff Vance will burn his books, claim the mob destroyed the records, and keep your ten thousand acres forever!”
