At six o’clock that evening. Meanwhile, the long shadows of the western granite ridges crept across the cobblestones of the central square, Len and Cira walked together into the provisional town treasury.
The building had formerly housed the Bank of Rookvale. An austere, imposing structure of dressed grey limestone, fronted by four massive fluted columns that had once stood as a symbol of the city court’s financial stranglehold over the valley. For twelve years, its heavy bronze doors had been barred to ordinary citizens, opened only for high-ranking Survey officials, licensed salt contractors, and Judge Pell’s private factor.
Now, the bronze doors were wedged wide with blocks of seasoned oak. A steady stream of citizens moved through the marble entry hall: kiln workers redeeming vouchers for flour rations, quarry wagon drivers cashing timber warrants, and market women exchanging country scrip for copper coin.
Behind the central counter of dark green snake-like marble sat Tobin Callow.
The former guard captain wore no breastplate, no sword-belt, and no officer’s sash. He was dressed in a clean, plain tunic of dark brown wool, his collar open, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, displaying the thick, hair-mottled forearms of a soldier who had spent twenty years handling a heavy service blade. Beside him sat two former accountants from Melli Dorn’s glassworks, their glasses perched low on their noses as they audited thick stacks of freshly printed country banknotes against bound ledgers.
