A stonecutter pulled his daughters behind their loaded handcart when three armed tax collectors blocked the road into the residential district.
A battered wooden handcart piled high with bundle-wrapped bedding and copper cooking kettles creaked to a sudden halt on the cobbles.
Three rough-looking men wearing grease-stained arming doublets blocked the roadway, their hands resting carelessly on the hilts of notched cutlasses.
"Toll inspection, traveler," the lead thug sneered, tapping the cart's front wheel with the toe of his scuffed shoe.
"The late Master Malor held a sixty-silver lien against your grandfather's quarry allotment, and interest compounds weekly."
A middle-aged stonecutter clutched the cart handles with trembling knuckles, shielding his trembling wife and two small daughters behind his back.
"Master Malor was executed four days ago in the public square," the stonecutter protested, his voice cracking with dry panic.
