The executive wing of the Ironfang Administration Spire smelled of money, damp wool, and artificial spring blossoms. Far below, the clang of the foundry drop-hammers and the coarse shouting of the drill sergeants were muffled by thick layers of sound plaster and double-glazed casement windows.
Arthur Vance climbed the curved marble stairs leading to the fourth floor.
At the foot of the stairs, Grimm had settled down across Arthur’s canvas duffel bag, his heavy black glass chin resting flat on the cold stone. Two armed academy court guards stood four paces away. Their magnetic shock-batons were held at parade rest, their eyes darting nervously toward the hound’s resting paws. Grimm didn’t growl at them. He simply closed his eyes, his breathing slow and rhythmic. His presence anchored the marble hallway like an unexploded naval shell.
Inside Arthur’s canvas duster, tucked securely into the deep inside breast pocket against his ribs, Pip was awake. The little raptor kept his head poking through the button seam, his ruby-rimmed eyes darting across the dark wood wainscoting. His three curved talons were anchored in Arthur’s woolen vest, the heat from his compact body warming Arthur’s chest bone like a smooth river stone pulled from a campfire.
