The silence in the Great Chamber of Spires was not empty. It had thickness, like the damp air that gathers in a canal lock before the lower water gates are cracked. The courtiers in the galleries leaned forward against the polished oak railings, their silk bodices and velvet doublets creaking softly under the strain.
The Chief Advocate remained standing before Tomas, the golden metal tube heavy in his trembling palms. A drop of sweat ran down the old jurist’s temple, cutting a pale track through the dusting of white powder on his cheek, before dropping onto the green velvet carpet.
Tomas didn’t look at the gold. He looked at the Advocate’s wrists. The man had thin, dry bones, the skin mottled with brown liver spots. His sinews shook not from fear, but from the simple physical tiredness of holding five pounds of beaten metal at arm’s length for two minutes without a rest.
“Set it down, sir,” Tomas said gently. His voice was not directed at the throne, but at the tired old man standing on the carpet. “You’ll tear a shoulder joint cord if you hold it like that. A load carried without a strap always bites the joint.”
