The iron chain didn’t fall with an unguided rattle. It moved link by link, greased iron sliding over cold bronze, as if whoever held the other end were counting the friction of each link against the oak casing.
Then came the sharp, dry scrape of a sliding iron plate.
The level check wicket snapped open four inches. In the narrow sky-slit, lit up only by the sputtering green fan of the copper outer edge lantern overhead, a pair of eyes appeared.
They were deep-set, dark brown. Then they framed by severe, etched lines of chronic insomnia that made the skin beneath the lower lids look like bruised plum skin. The hair pulled back from the forehead was dark, streaked with coarse premature gray at the temples, pinned tightly with plain wooden skewers. The gaze that swept over them didn’t blink. It had the fierce, hyper-vigilant careful intensity of a cornered badger assessing the approach of hounds.
A woman’s voice, sharp, hoarse, and shaking with an electric tremor of terror, cut through the narrow slit:
“Names. District permit numbers. And state who signed your transit token.”
Bram Ash didn’t step back. He moved directly into the center of the lantern beam, planting his boots firmly in the frozen mud, lifting his right hand so the silvered brass of his court guard badge caught the green glow of the salt-glass lens.
