The witness box of the Sovereign Bench was made of plain black ash, scrubbed so often with lye water that the wood grain stood up in rough, chalky ridges.
Tomas Reed rested his left palm on the iron-banded Sovereign Code Book. The cold thick parchment bit into his skin, smelling of sheepskin, cellar salt, and beeswax. Beneath his dark wool sleeve, the calfskin brace held his right wrist rigid. The tendon across his inner forearm throbbed from three days of hauling iron chests and tracing dockyard timber runs. But he kept his fingers curled loosely at his side.
“State your name, trade, and legal power,” Chief Justice Finch directed.
“Tomas Reed,” he answered, his voice gravelly from harbor coal-smoke. “Licensed porter of the Lower Basin, Master Tax clerk of the Office of Unfinished Claims, holding lawful title to the unclosed Royal Maritime Relief Locked deposit under Charter 314.”
Advocate Malcom rose, his lip curled. “My Lord Chief Justice, a common street porter has no competence to testify regarding naval movements or fleet disposition. He holds no commission, has never commanded a naval company, and knows nothing of His Majesty’s Fleet.”
“He holds physical custody of the vessel,” Finch said without looking at Malcom. “Under the Cartage and Salvage Statutes, the keeper of the bond testifies first to the chain of possession. Speak to the custody, Master Reed.”
