The sound of the broken sword hitting the marble floor was the death knell of the Imperial Veterans’ Hegemony.
Before the echo of the snapping steel had faded, the high-born patrons and country lords who had filled the ballroom began to move toward the side exits. They didn’t speak to Marshal Brand. They didn’t look at his weeping wife or his stunned colonels. They pulled their velvet hoods low over their powdered wigs, wrapped their furs tight. Then they slipped through the terrace doors into the winter mist.
Within ten minutes, the four hundred nobles had vanished, their carriage horses galloping down the backup carriage drives to escape the eyes of the five thousand commoners waiting on the turnpike.
Advocate Morrel stood alone at the petitioner’s bar. His hands shook so wildly that he dropped his ivory magnifying glass, the lens shattering on the marble flags. He looked at Hester Quill, then down at the lead plates, and slowly lowered his head.
“We offer no further evidence, Your Honors,” Morrel whispered, his voice thin and broken. “The defense... Rests.”
Senior Justice Vance adjusted his robes, his eyes hard as flint. “You don’t merely rest, Advocate Morrel. You concede the factual and legal accuracy of the lead wooden props plates excavated from Bastion-Nine.”
