With eighty-six hours remaining on the Last Guest’s clock, Noll Vey stood in the lower gallery of the Hall of Witness and watched Prit measure out thirty-six inches of grey flagstone on the east side of the witness rail.
The bone-imp held the blunt stub of his grey audit chalk between two knobby fingers. He worked on his knees, his slate resting against mason’s ballast, his iron ruler clicking against the joints with the patience of an appraiser.
“East bench,” Prit muttered, dusting stone powder from his joints. “Flanked by the third granite pier. Out of the direct draft, within clear hearing of the gallery, and nine paces from the rail where the miners will stand. If Lord Auditor Orin Vane sits here, he will have an unimpeded view of the ceiling ring, the slate, and every face entering through the southern arch.”
Noll rested his hands on the heavy oak top of the rail. His basalt fingers felt the dense resistance of dry timber seasoned over forty winters.
“You gave him a cushion on your sketch, Prit,” Noll said.
“A folded horse-rug,” Prit corrected. “Not down pillows. We are acknowledging his administrative precedence under the charter of the founding dukes. If an auditor sits on bare granite for four hours, his temper sours, and he begins searching for clerical errors out of bodily misery. My fifth master at the armory always gave Crown inspectors a wool pad and salted cabbage. It prevented three punitive tariffs on horse shoes.”
