“We start with the three points in Rookvale that can’t be falsified by Chancellor Morn’s ink,” Ivara Quill said, dipping her drafting pen into the black inkwell.
She brought the nib down inside the first circle on the thick parchment sheet, writing in bold, clean block letters:
ONE: THE RIVER ANCHOR (WATER-PRESSURE BACKPRESSURE).
Then she moved to the second circle:
TWO: THE SALT-GLASS KILNS (PEAK THERMAL RETENTION).
And finally to the third:
THREE: THE CENTRAL REGISTRY (TOTAL ACTIVE CLAIMANT COUNT).
Len studied the three headings, his thumb absently tracing the bronze collar of his sounding pole. Across the zinc table, Bram leaned forward, his heavy arms crossed over his dented breastplate, the green light of the lanterns catching the deep frown that creased his forehead. Behind them, by the low fire of the central hearth, Doma Reel was slicing cold salt-pork into a wooden trencher, her paring knife clicking against the maple board in a steady, steady, unrushed pace.
