The hall stretched a good seventy yards long and sixty feet across. Great vaulted ceilings framed with massive timbers rose a hundred feet from the floor. Down both sidewalls giant tapestries hung depicting scenes drawn from all eight Strata. Beside them stood thanatists and raptorials wearing clothes from the era their tapestry represented. And above the wall hangings, large galleries rose. Most were filled with thousands of whispering spectators, their clothes likewise matching the era of the nearest drapery. All save one—a narrow, private box gallery at the center of the far wall, set with five black wood chairs.
At the center of the hall were eight tables set in a broad octagon, with space between them and a high-backed chair behind each. A single short table sat at the center of the octagon, a pair of chairs on either side. Next to it sat a black-iron box the size of a walk-in safe.
At the far end of the hall, a set of doors opened. Brach and Emaline entered, lanterns and bows and threads dangling from their belts. Behind them were Bazalgette, Swan, Rutherford, Purcell, and two women I didn’t recognize—one in a wool Saxon peplos, with a belt dangling keys, amulets, threads, and a bow; the other in Roman leather armor with a crimson robe fastened over one shoulder.
The shrill call of a horn echoed into the great hall. Everyone seated in the galleries stood. The horn sounded again, and the thanatists next to the tapestries drew their bows and played long, tremulous notes against their lanterns. The lamplight touched the drapery fibers and lit them like a thousand tiny filaments, causing them to shimmer. Their depictions sprang to life, the fabric suddenly gone, the broad draperies now become portals. Mild breezes wafted in from these openings with the heady aromas of livestock, industrial smoke, sewage, and—thankfully—a bit of fresh air.
Groups of men and women emerged from each of these gateways. When they’d all passed through into the hall, the attendant thanatists ceased to play their lamps, and the portals closed, becoming tapestries again.
The chancellor from the medieval portal, a gaunt man with a deeply receding hairline and wearing a long, black coat with silver decorative buttons down the sides, approached his table and sat. His attendant thanatist and raptorial took positions behind him.
“I’m Master Wat Tyler,” said the man. “Here to represent the Medieval Stratum. And today I’ll also be presiding. I remind everyone, though, that my vote counts the same as our other distinguished chancellors.”
Church whispered, “He led the Peasants’ Rebellion.”
“Yeah, first guy to ‘march on the Capitol,’ ” I whispered back. “They put his head on a pike for it.”
“We’ll begin with the Raptorial faction,” Tyler said, “represented by Chancellor Nancy Wake.” The woman wore a smart grey suit with the George Cross medal over her heart.
“She doesn’t get an actual vote, but I’d wager she’ll see things our way,” Church said under his breath. “She hates authoritarians.”
Jack nodded and whispered back, “She once topped the Gestapo’s wanted list.”
“The Modern Stratum,” Tyler went on, “is represented by Chancellor Jack Churchill.”
A thickset man in British battle dress sauntered to his table wearing a broadsword on his hip and carrying a set of bagpipes.
“The Victorian Stratum,” Tyler continued, “is represented by Captain Richard Francis Burton.”
A man with a deep scar running down from his left eye and sporting a French-forked beard took his seat.
“The Renaissance Stratum,” Tyler said, “is represented by Grace O’Malley.”
A short, lean woman with long, red, wavy hair and wearing a green ankle-length dress over a white blouse sat next.
“The Saxon Stratum,” Tyler announced with a grin, “is represented by Lady Aethelflaed.”
A broad-shouldered woman wearing a conical helmet and short-sleeved chain mail over a crimson undershirt strode in and sat heavily.
“The Roman Stratum,” Tyler said, deference in his voice, “is represented by Lady Boudica.”
Lady Boudica glared at me as she approached her seat. Her long, tawny hair was braided back. She wore a large golden torque, a bright red-and-green tunic, and rather casually carried a dagger in her left hand.
“And finally, the Ancient Stratum,” Tyler declared with a flourish, “is represented by King Caswallawn.”
A barrel-chested man with large hands and long, black-and-silver hair walked to his seat. He wore a dark-blue and black cloak fastened over one shoulder with a gold ring.
The chancellors’ attendant thanatists and raptorials all took their places behind their respective representative, but remained standing. Then Tyler raised a hand.
From behind a drape in the private gallery, four figures emerged and sat in the black wood chairs. Schism leaders. A lean man wearing a scarlet robe and nemes—Brotherhood of Heka. A young man in a gilet and fingerless gloves—S.L.A.M., I figured. An elderly woman wearing clothes fashioned of animal skin, with charcoal stripes on her neck and chin—Children of the Ashes. And a lithe woman in black leathers, crescent moons on her cheeks—Dusk Parade. The vacant fifth chair obviously belonged to Brach.
Once the schism heads were settled, the chancellors sat and Tyler pointed at us.
Church stepped forward and motioned for us to follow. On the far side, Brach and his entourage did the same. We stopped on opposite sides of the octagon. Emaline looked over at me, eyebrows slightly raised. I subtly shook my head. She sighed and looked away.
Tyler pounded the table with his fist. “Let’s get on with it. Counsel for the defendant. Please introduce yourself and your punter.”
The gallery chuckled, then quieted as Church began. “Chancellor Tyler”—he bowed—“Counselor Alastair Cooper and Mr. Jack Solomon honor the summons to trial and request admission into the circle to answer and argue.”
