"Second." Vorn's voice was climbing. "A general levy is raised upon every household of the under-tier, called by district, beginning with the galleries. Smiths are exempt, being required at the anvil."
"Exempt." Old Dain said it from his bench, both hands on his cane, testing whether the word worked any better out loud. It did not. "They'll take my sister's boys, and leave me here to arm them."
"Third. Wages of all crown craftsmen are to be paid in scrip until the war is decided." The hall's rumble began somewhere around the word scrip.
"Which war?!" a journeyman shouted down from the second tier. "We haven't got an army! We buried it in the passes!"
"Fourth," Vorn said, and then he stopped.
He had read ahead.
"Read it, lad."
"The elves." Vorn's voice came out flat and careful. "Having broken faith with the mountain and delivered their whole race unto the Primordial Villain, are declared treacherous, and hold no treaty of ours."
The rumble stopped.
