During the midday court recess, Tomas pulled back to the small stone vestry behind the choir stalls to soak his aching wrist in a basin of warm vinegar.
The door opened, and Advocate Kray entered the room.
Kray was a tall, smooth-shaven man in his fifties, wearing a spotless black velvet robe lined with silver fox fur. His fingers sparkled with three heavy gold signet rings. His breath smelled of expensive clove wine and imported tobacco.
He closed the heavy oak door behind him, dropped the brass latch. Then he walked over to the stone washstand.
“A very moving performance, Master Reed,” Kray said, his voice smooth and cultivated as oiled silk. “Very dramatic. You have the mob in tears, and Magistrate Valen is preening for his country electors. But we’re both men of administration. Let’s speak of reality.”
Tomas dried his scarred wrist with a coarse linen towel, not looking up. “The reality is on the table, Advocate. Three thousand gold crowns stolen from dying men.”
Kray chuckled softly, leaning his hip against the vestry table. “Sir Justinian is a High Champion of the Empire. He sits on the Grand Council in the Capital. His party slew the Manticore of the Crags and cleared the Dragon Spire. Do you truly believe the Royal High court will allow a third-rank country judge to brand a living hero of the realm a thief and a murderer?”
