For two long hours, the Great Hall of Justice waited in a silence so dense that the slow dripping of rain from the stone roof-gutters outside sounded like the ticking of a huge clock. No man left his seat. No advocate whispered to his clerk. Even the ducal retainers sat with their velvet-clad knees pressed together, their eyes fixed on the empty high bench. The smell of cold animal fat and wet wool hung heavy in the drafty air, while outside, the gray November afternoon began to deepen toward twilight.
In the public benches, the four hundred working men sat in unbroken, disciplined quiet. Not a pipe was lit. Not a cough broke the cold stillness of the nave. Sile Rook remained standing at the oak rail, his hands resting lightly upon the wooden handle of his hooked pruning blade, his eyes sweeping across the side galleries where the Duke’s private secretaries were wildly writing emergency dispatches. Sile knew the smell of an unraveling army. Officers stopped shouting commands and began writing hurried letters to their bankers. Then, the battle was already decided on the ground.
Tomas Reed remained standing at the counsel table, his ash-wood pack frame resting upright beside his boots. He didn’t lean upon the table. He didn’t pace the flags. A porter who carried heavy freight through mountain passes learned early that standing motionless was the only way to preserve muscle and sinew for the next incline. His scarred left wrist, locked inside its calfskin brace…
