The iron nib of the steel pen scratched across the heavy thick parchment with a harsh, rhythmic rasp that echoed off the damp stonework of the pantry walls.
Len Vey sat hunched over the cedar table. His good right hand gripped the turned-wood penstock. His knuckles were tight as he dipped the point into an open heavy clay pot of black dark oak-ink. His left arm lay pinned to his ribs inside the clean linen sling Doma had sewn, the stitches throbbing with a dull, sickening heat every time his breath swelled his ribs.
In the curtained nook of the sick room, Bram Ash was propped against two sacks of dried peas, his breathing shallow, wet, and labored. Every three sentences, the wounded court guard paused, swallowing a mouthful of bloody spit before raspy words forced their way past his lips:
“Write the lawful preface first, Len,” Bram wheezed, his right shoulder bound in thick, salt water-soaked bandages that were already blackening with dried blood. “If you omit the turf statute, the desk sergeant at Redstone will reject the voucher before he checks the signed name. Section Nine of the Boundary Concordat. Reassignment of Carrier Debt.”
Len’s hand moved carefully. It formed the stiff, angular cursive of the Tern Road postal guild across the blank space beneath Magistrate Pell’s stamped crest:
