The old draftsman pulled a battered leather case from beneath the wicker cot, his gnarled joints popping like dry pine kindling as he dragged the heavy container across the brick floor. The leather was stiff, gray with mold along the stitched edges. Then it fastened with two rusted through brass buckles that had turned dark green with green rust.
Rassa worked at the buckles with his thumbs, his breath coming in short, wheezing rattles. His hands trembled so wildly that Len had to reach down with his uninjured right hand to steady the leather strap. He pressed the brass tongue through the frame until the prong slipped free.
“Inside,” Rassa muttered, falling back against the cot and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Under the silk oilcloth. Don’t tear the margins. That paper was drafted on seventy-pound rag stock that we smuggled out of the town printing office before Morn put his locks on the presses.”
Len lifted the lid. The inside smelled of bitter pine-resin, linseed oil, and the sharp, iron-gall reek of twenty-year-old drafting ink. Beneath a protective sheet of yellowed silk lay three large rolls of heavy linen drafting cloth. It was bound with braided red twine. Len untied the nearest roll, spreading the heavy linen flat across the cedar crate beside the cracked bell. Ivara caught the upper corner with the base of her leather-capped stump. Meanwhile, Len held the bottom edge flat with his forearm.
