Tomas stepped out of the registry onto the limestone roofed porch. Then, the courthouse square was no longer empty. A troop of twelve mounted men sat upon sleek, well-fed bay geldings, their leather saddles adorned with silver conchos, their wool cloaks dyed a rich merchant green.
In the center of the troop rode Alderman Vance Corley, the managing factor of the Grand Merchant Trade group’s Southern Land Trust. Corley was a stout, florid man in his fifties with thick jowls, cold gray eyes. A fur-trimmed velvet coat that strained over his heavy stomach. In his right hand, he held a gold-headed riding crop. He tapped it rhythmically against his polished leather boot.
Flanking him was Sheriff Vance Gault, his hand resting on his sword handle knob, with six armed plantation overseers carrying heavy hunting carbines across their pommels.
“You’re making a great deal of noise in my town, carrier,” Corley said, his voice smooth, cultured, and laced with total contempt. “Nailing notices to public doors, disturbing elderly clerks, and dragging dirty wagoners through the streets. I suggest you pack your measuring rods and return to the docks before you find yourself in an iron collar.”
Tomas stood on the top step, his ash pack frame resting on his shoulders, his face fully expressionless. Sile Rook stepped up beside him, his oak tall body-shield planted firmly upon the limestone. That created an iron-hard barrier of heartwood.
