The Council Chamber of the High Guildhall was cold. He smelled of ancient oak paneling, dry parchment, beeswax floor polish, and the animal fat smoke from forty wax candles burning in the two heavy iron chandeliers overhead. Outside the high, diamond-paned leaded windows, the grey slate roofs of the lower town sloped steeply down toward the mist-shrouded harbor. There, the river tide was turning with the slow, muddy heave of an iron spade against wet clay.
Councilor Elna Vesk sat at the head of the long walnut table, her hands clasped over an unrolled linen map of Lowbank. She was seventy years old, with hair as white and sharp as spun glass, dressed in a plain, high-collared gown of black Flemish broadcloth that had seen thirty years of town committee hearings. A heavy silver chain of town office rested across her collarbones, clinking softly whenever she shifted her weight. Beside her right elbow lay the Great Seal of the Board of Works. An embossed lead press was resting on an iron stone stand.
Across the table, Auditor Varo Nenn stood with his glasses pushed up onto his furrowed brow. Meanwhile, Pella Rook laid out the physical evidence piece by piece upon the polished wood.
