The private door behind the high bench swung open on iron hinges, and two High Provost marshals stepped into the Great Hall of the Anchor.
Between them walked Grand Admiral Garrett Brand.
Sixty-eight years old, tall and rigid as seasoned oak, he wore the full ritual dress of an Admiral of the Blue. Indigo velvet stiffened with gold bullion, a collar stitched with oak leaves, and white kidskin breeches tucked into polished morocco boots. Across his chest ran the crimson sash of the Sovereign Star, anchored at his hip by an ivory-hilted dress sword in a gold-trimmed sword sheath. On his shoulders rested massive gold-bullion epaulets, thick as a ship’s thick ship rope, swaying with his measured stride.
He walked like a commander boarding his own quarterdeck, his silver hair brushed back and his hawk-like nose turned upward in disdain.
The senior court guard stepped before the bar, his ebony rod raised horizontally.
“Grand Admiral Garrett Brand,” the court guard called. “Under the Treason and Sovereign Court Protocol of the King’s Bench, you’re commanded to surrender your blade before entering the dock.”
Brand halted two paces from the bar. His ice-blue eyes swept past the stony-faced naval officers and the thirty widows clutching their worn papers, down to Tomas Reed beside the evidence table.
