The chalk marks above the gallery arch stood at one hundred and sixty-five hours. Six days and twenty-one hours. Outside, north wind swept down the ice ridges, driving dry snow into the hill ditches.
Across the trestle table, Cale closed his witness notebook. The former survey clerk looked exhausted, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his ink-stained fingers resting against the scarred pine wood. Beside him sat Prit, the audit imp perched on a stack of ledgers, his grey chalk stub balanced between two talons, ears twitching at every creak in the timber.
“A con man always knows when to throw his purse on the rail,” Noll Vey said, his voice echoing from the blue hearth stones with the warmth of a fairground barker. “If the Hall of Witness demands a stake to open its doors, we have more than enough in the pocket. The dawn broadcast gave us thousands of points. The whole valley heard me announce the creature behind the ninth door. Eight thousand royal soldiers down in the trenches believe in the monster with every shudder of their boots. We can stake the windfall from that claim. It costs us only fear-bought credit that we never possessed three days ago anyway.”
