The heavy oak doors of the gatehouse swung open on their iron hinges without a single squeak, gliding across the cleared flags as Noll eased the tension in the pivot stones.
Cold mountain air swept down the entry corridor, carrying with it the faint, sharp smell of ozone, camphor, and oiled brass. The woman on the threshold did not hesitate. She wiped the soles of her heavy calfskin traveling boots twice on the coarse hemp matting, adjusted the wide leather shoulder strap supporting her rosewood case, and stepped inside with the brisk, rhythmic stride of someone who considered buildings to be nothing more than three-dimensional arithmetic waiting to be corrected.
“State Survey Commission, Northern Circuit,” she announced, her voice crisp, dry, and entirely devoid of decorative modulation. She pulled a folded sheet of stiff parchment from her breast pocket and held it out toward Prit without breaking her forward momentum. “Warrant of Mechanical and Metaphysical Inspection, Order Seventy-Four. I am Artificer Ossa Flint. Keep your hands where I can observe them, please. Thermal instruments are sensitive to sudden displacements of bodily warmth.”
Prit took the parchment between his bone fingers, his skull tilting as he examined the dark purple wax seal stamped with the three intertwined compasses of the Crown Guild.
