The murmurs from the upper galleries had turned into an angry, agitated roar that shook the hanging velvet tapestries along the eastern wall of the Great Chamber of Spires. Several young barons from the mountain marches had risen to their feet. Their hands gripped the carved oak railings. They shouted down into the well of the court. Their silk mantles rustled like dry birch leaves in a gale. The sword sheaths of their ritual dress swords clattered against the tier benches.
“Insolence!”
“He treats the King’s patent as if it were a bill for rotten turnips!”
“Strip his license! Throw him into the river tower until he learns the knee!”
Tomas Reed didn’t look up at the galleries. He stood with his boots planted squarely on the gray flat stone slabs. His weight was balanced evenly over his hips, his breathing slow and regular through his nose. A sudden squall broke over the open waters of the marsh. Then, an experienced carrier didn’t waste his breath shouting at the clouds. He turned his shoulder to the wind, checked that his tarpaulin was lashed tight over the cargo crates. Then he waited for the driving rain to blow itself out against the reeds.
