The street before the Survey Office was paved in heavy granite setts, worn smooth by fifty years of iron wagon tires and wet with the constant, freezing mist that rolled down from the northern mountain pass. In the permanent gloom of Rookvale, where true noon was impossible to tell apart from second watch, the four green-flamed lanterns mounted to the facade created an island of artificial clarity. Shadows fell long and sharp across the steps, their edges unsoftened by any surrounding daylight. A dozen civilians moved along the wooden boardwalks across the thoroughfare. Their coats drawn was tight to their chins, their eyes fixed on the wet timber at their feet. Every person carried a small, hooded tin lamp or a twist of oiled hemp, shielding the pale flame with gloved fingers as if light were a taxable contraband they feared losing to the wind.
Len Vey paused at the foot of the granite flight. His left arm was held close against his ribs inside his pinned wool coat. His sound right hand gripped his modified ash sounding pole like a walking cane, the bronze metal ring clicking with a dull, steady pace against the stone treads. His route book pouch was slung across his chest, its oiled leather weathered from weeks on the northern highway, displaying the official brass emblem of the Tern Road postal network. Beneath the heavy wool of his coat, the eight horsehair stitches Doma had placed across his torn forearm pulled with a dull, persistent…
