The iron bolt of the potato cellar gave a short, metal scrape. Len turned the heavy brass key. He pulled the thick oak planking open just wide enough to slip his shoulders through the gap. He stepped down onto the wet dirt floor. The air inside was stifling, thick with the sour stench of rotting tubers, damp lime-wash, and the sharp, animal musk of cold sweat. Behind him on the landing, Tolan and Garr stood with their iron tapping-bars resting against their thighs, their silhouettes blocking the yellow glare of the torches, their boots planted firmly on the wet sandstone steps.
Len held his shielded courier lantern low, directing the narrow yellow beam across the floor. In the far corner, wedged beneath the low brick groin of the vaulted ceiling, Magistrate Halden Pell cowered on a heap of moldy straw. His velvet-trimmed waistcoat was torn at the hem, smeared with black grime from the coal bins. His white linen jabot hung loose like a soiled rag. His round, pasty face was slick with sweat and tears, his teeth chattering with such violent spasms that his jaw clicked like a clockwork gear-catch.
“Did you... Did you drive them away?” Pell whispered, his voice trembling as he shielded his bloodshot eyes from the lantern light. “I heard Jarek. I heard what he said about the melted rock waste rake. He wanted to take my eyes out, Vey. He wanted to take my eyes out with the tines.”
