The dust of the western post road had scarcely settled. Just then, the four royal heralds rode into the courthouse square of Dry-Wells, their silver trumpets slung across green velvet tabards. Behind them came a heavy six-horse traveling coach of blackened oak, bearing the royal crest of the King’s Bench in hammered gold upon its doors.
Riding on either side of the carriage were eight mounted marshals in steel morions and buff jerkins, their heavy cavalry broadswords resting in sword sheaths stamped with the royal crown. In the stirrups of the lead marshal rode the Imperial Mace—three feet of solid gold-trimmed bronze, topped by the crouching lion of King Alden the First.
The carriage door swung open, and Lord Justice Kenneth stepped down onto the crushed pale limestone road. He was a tall, spare man of sixty winters, with hair like spun silver, steel-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp hawkish nose, and scarlet court robes trimmed with unspotted ermine. In his right hand, he carried his ivory gavel of circuit power.
Tomas Reed stood at the base of the courthouse steps, wearing his master tax clerk’s chain of office and his coarse cart driver’s canvas vest. Beside him stood Nessa Vale. It carried the approved earth-measuring charts. Sile Rook, his blackened oak tall body-shield planted firmly in the gravel.
