The limestone steps of the Silver Weft were slick with freezing mud and spilled lamp oil as Tomas Reed reached the bottom landing. Behind him, Sile Rook and twelve independent watchmen formed a tight defensive wedge, their tall oak body-shield shields locked rim-to-rim to hold back the pressing crowd. Meanwhile, Bailiff Morcant held his silver mace high above his head. They shouted for the King’s Peace.
On the top landing, the double bronze doors remained shut. But above them, on the stone railing of the second-story loggia, eight private mercenary crossbowmen in blue silk sashes had appeared. They cocked their heavy steel-armed weapons with loud, clockwork clicks. They pointed the square-headed iron bolts directly into the front ranks of the crowd.
“Stand clear of the steps!” the mercenary captain shouted through a copper speaking trumpet. “By power of the Governor of the Silver Weft Trade ring! We’re authorized to use lethal force to defend corporate charter assets! Scatter right away, or we fire into the street!”
A scream of terror rippled through the front ranks of the crowd as people tried wildly to push backward against the crushing weight of the thousands behind them. A woman carrying a swaddled infant stumbled on the curb, nearly falling beneath the heavy boots of the retreating wagon drivers.
