The sound of the final punch echoed through the depot like a rifle shot.
Snip-crunch!
Twelve clean, star-shaped holes perforated the gold-embossed vellum of Corbus Vane’s Syndicate Exemption License. The paper did not tear. It disintegrated. The gold foil curled into brittle gray ash, floating down through the sodium light like dead moths.
Corbus Vane staggered backward, clutching his mangled left wrist.
“My exemption,” Vane whispered, his voice trembling in disbelief. “My regional franchise—you can’t revoke it.”
“I’m the Chief Notary,” he stammered. “I hold the red stamp for this entire district.”
His numbed fingers lost their grip on the heavy leather strap at his hip.
Clang!
