They hurried down the hall to a narrow service stair at the rear of the building. The steps were rough-hewn granite, slick with damp slime and covered in a gritty layer of crushed coal dust. As they dropped, the pleasant scent of beeswax and dried lavender from the upper floor was fully erased, replaced by the heavy, choking stench of stale canal water, wet straw, and bitter sulfur fumes from unvented heating stoves.
The stairwell was unlit, lit up only by the faint green slow leak of light from the hall above and the glow of an oil lantern at the bottom of the flight. Len kept his right hand on the cold limestone wall. His sounding pole tapped each step before he lowered his boots. His Surefoot baseline allowed him to negotiate the slick treads without slipping. Even so, the jolt of each downward step sent a sharp throb through his stitched forearm. With every pace, the air grew colder and denser, smelling of rot and old iron.
This was the sub-basement of the Provincial Registration Bureau.
Here, forty feet below the street, the office facade collapsed into raw, heavy-duty detention. The vaulted brick cellar was divided into six holding pens by heavy partitions of zinc-coated iron mesh, bolted to upright iron support posts set into the stone floor. Water dripped steadily from the vaulted brick ceiling, forming dark, oily puddles between the flat stone slabs. A central drainage trench ran down the middle of the floor. It carried…
