The heavy cedar door of the master pavilion slammed against the plaster wall with a concussive bang that shook the roof tiles, admitting four armed bailiffs alongside Elder Mane.
Mane stepped into the central reception room, his dark blue disciplinary robes sweeping across the polished floorboards, his narrow eyes fixed on Caleb with venomous hostility. Behind the elder, two junior scribes carried wooden document boxes, while outside on the flagstones, the fifty armored guards kept their barricades locked against the bridge. Mane held an iron-tipped wooden staff in his right hand, bringing the metal ferrule down onto the timber with an arrogant, hollow c***k that demanded immediate subservience.
"The time for merchant evasions is over, Conway," Mane declared, his raspy voice filling the
