In the shuttered back parlor of the registrar’s residence, the only light came from a single candle burning on a small cedar table. Registrar Orlo Vane sat huddled in a high-backed armchair, wrapped in an old wool blanket. His hands shook so wildly that the tea in his fine china cup sloshed over the rim.
Across from him sat Tomas Reed, his master folio open on his knees, his goose quill trimmed and ready. Flanking the door stood Sile Rook, his arms folded across his chest, his shadow stretching across the ceiling like an unbending wall.
“The grain elevators have been seized, Master Vane,” Tomas said quietly, his voice level and devoid of anger. “Alderman Corley has fled to the capital. The overseers are disarmed. Tomorrow, the High Circuit Judge arrives in Dry-Wells with the royal mace. You have one hour to decide whether you stand before him as a principal conspirator or as a royal witness.”
Vane covered his face with his ink-stained hands. He wept with the deep, racking sobs of an old man whose forty years of deceit had finally caught up with him.
“They... They gave me no choice, Reed!” Vane gasped through his tears. “Forty years ago, when the war ended and the Resettlement Charter was signed, Corley and his trade ring directors came to this office with twenty armed riders. They told me that if I recorded the true river map points, my house would burn with my wife and daughters inside!”
