The cold air in the lower gallery seemed to thicken, pooling along the unmortared seam where Tessa stood waiting.
“A bargain,” the Last Guest repeated from the dark, turning the word over as though it were a smooth river pebble found in the gravel. “People usually make bargains with swords drawn and gold laid upon a drumhead. You have only an iron lamp and an ungreased bread knife, Mistress Dene.”
“The bread knife is for cutting salt loaves,” Tessa said evenly. “And the lamp is for seeing where to put my boots. When people draw swords to make a bargain, it means they intend to cheat as soon as the ink dries. We are offering you something cleaner than that.”
Noll did not interrupt. He sat forward on the mason’s bench, his heavy slate forearms resting across his knees, feeling the steady blue heat of Core Chip #2 burning against his breastplate. Beside him, Prit had his white filing chalk poised over a blank quadrant of his master slate, his yellow eyes wide and unblinking.
“State your terms, then,” the Guest said softly. “I am listening.”
Tessa stood squarely before the hairline crack, her shoulders level beneath the coarse wool shawl.
