The rain on the High Terraces was turning to sleet, freezing in jagged, see-through crusts along the marble stone railings and the rims of Warden Korr Var’s iron helmet. Twenty town guards stood formed in a disciplined double rank on the grand granite stairway. Their leather coats shone wet, their heavy ash staves grounded solidly on the stones.
Korr Var strode up the last three steps to the massive bronze-faced doors of the High Citadel. He didn’t draw his baton, and he didn’t order his men to unlimber an iron pry-bar. He unrolled Executive Warrant Eighty-Eight C, held the thick parchment flat against his leather-armored chest. Then he rapped three measured, heavy blows on the bronze check wicket with the iron handle knob of his dagger.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound echoed hollowly through the empty courtyard, swallowed by the roar of the wind.
For ten seconds, there was no response, only the hiss of sleet against bronze. Then, a small, heavily barred sliding hatch in the center of the right-hand door slid back an inch with a dry, scraping rattle. Behind the heavy iron bars, the pale, feverish face of Master Davin Sorell appeared in the shadow. His velvet scholar’s cap was missing, his graying hair was disheveled. The silver embroidery on his high academy collar was stained with red machine oil.
