The communal book was bound in rough sheepskin that smelled of elderberry stain and woodsmoke.
It lay open on the ash table between Cale’s inkpot and the four payment registers, its thick linen leaves sewn together with waxed cobbler’s thread. Each page was ruled with grey graphite lines, filled with the uneven, stubborn handwriting of twenty different valley men and women: timber tallies from Corin, sack counts from Tomas, flour distributions from Reeve Holt, and the small, careful entries Cale had copied from the Survey House duplicate quires.
Prit stood on the bench beside Cale’s shoulder, his oilskin pouch hanging loose against his ribs. The bone imp’s grey chalk was worn down to a rounded nub no larger than a hazelnut.
“Register One,” Prit called out, his voice sharp and high in the quiet hall. “The Unsettled Phantoms. The third-floor mirrored gallery, the false tapestry chambers, and the acoustic speaking illusions. All designated for collapse upon the host’s final surrender. Status?”
Cale checked the column against the communal book. “Verified. No mortal inhabitant holds tenancy. The timber partitions were removed during yesterday’s rehearsal. The space reverts to empty stone.”
“Register Two,” Prit continued, tapping his chalk against the willow frame of the slate. “Displaced Coinage and Wage Restitution. The tin washer from Debt D-03 and the two hundred and forty old silver-and-iron pieces from the Black-Sun chest. Bound to the ten-year covenant under the debtor’s personal name, with prior liens assigned to the Soldier Family Wage Fund and the Mere…
