The dawn bell of St. Jude’s Church rang out across the rooftops of Crown-Reach with a heavy, bronze deep ring that cut through the thinning autumn drizzle: TONG... TONG... TONG. Five o’clock. The morning mist hung low over the cobblestones of the High Exchange. It mixed with the white steam from the bakeries and the pungent smoke of roasted chicory from the coffee stalls around the Royal Post.
Ordinarily, the opening of the High Exchange was a slow, orderly ritual. Working wagon drivers lined up their drays along the granite curbs. Fishmongers set out their iced boxes of cod from the river quays. And junior clerks in black sleeve-protectors hurried toward the marble steps of the King’s Bench with brass-bound account books under their arms. But on this morning, the rhythm of the city shattered before the second stroke of the bell had finished echoing.
Across the front facade of the King’s Bench—pasted directly onto the forty-foot fluted marble columns flanking the grand court entrance—sat forty giant broadsheets. Their black ink shone freshly under the morning lanterns. Beside each sheet stood an apprentice cordwainer or a river cart driver with a paste-pot and a horsehair brush, slapping fresh starch over the edges to anchor the paper permanently to the stone.
