Under the great bare branches of the ancient market elm in High-Fen square, three heavy frame stand tables were set end to end upon the cobbles.
On the center table stood the great bronze balance of the Provincial Mint, its knife-edges cleaned with bone oil and checked against standard lead weights. Flanking the scale were twelve iron-bound oak kegs, filled to the brim with bright, newly minted silver crowns and silver coins, hauled from the town vault under the watchful guard of Sile Rook and six rawhide-shielded sentries.
Tomas Reed sat behind the central table, his Master Tax clerk’s medallion resting against his leather vest, his master spreading ledger open before him. Beside him, Hester Quill held the muster tags. Meanwhile, Elder Mallow called the names from the parish register.
The morning sun broke through the gray delta clouds. It cast pale gold light across the hundreds of townspeople waiting in line.
“Widow Martha Vance,” Elder Mallow called out.
An elderly woman of seventy winters, bent double with arthritis, leaned upon her grandson’s shoulder. She stepped to the table. Her wool shawl was worn thin as cobwebs, patched with scrap-linen.
Hester checked the vouchers. “Widow of Private Bran Vance, Fourth Levy. Unpaid debts: fourteen silver crowns. Bereavement endowment: twelve crowns. Nineteen years accrued interest at two percent: four crowns, four silver coins. Total due: thirty crowns, four silver coins.”
