The heavy oak doors at the western entrance of the Great Hall were thrown open with a violent crash that shook the dust from the stone lintels. Through the portal marched twelve guards of the Royal High court in polished plate armor, their crimson velvet tabards emblazoned with the golden chevron and crossed keys of High Chancellor Lucian Vane. At their head strode Sir Gervaise Drake, the High judge’s chief political guard, his sword handle resting beneath his left palm and an embossed parchment warrant clutched in his iron gauntlet.
The five hundred spectators in the gallery surged to their feet. An angry roar rose from the rivermen and wagon drivers as the armed soldiers pushed their way into the sacred well of the court. The four elderly court guards of the King’s Bench stepped forward, raising their black tipped staves of office. But the guards shoved them aside with their steel bucklers, marching directly to the foot of the court dais.
Tomas Reed moved smoothly between the soldiers and Hester Quill, his sound right hand resting upon the corner of the heavy oak evidence table. His scarred left forearm, freshly strapped back into its calfskin brace, hung steady at his side. He didn’t reach for a weapon, for he carried none. But his feet were set squarely upon the flat stone slabs, his balance point low and unmoving as an iron anvil.
