The ironwood bookcase swung shut behind them, cutting off the dim morning light of Varga’s office.
Garrick hurried down the spiraling stone stairs two steps at a time, clutching the bulging shadow ledger to his chest. “If Varga catches us in these tunnels, he will skin us alive and pickle our hides in cinnabar brine.”
“Varga cannot skin anyone while he is trapped behind his own security protocols,” Kaelen said, carrying the iron strongbox under his arm.
Sera led the way down the damp granite risers, her star-iron pike held ready. “Vice-President Harlan is at the southern gate. Varga will have to answer the Guild’s summons before he can start a manhunt.”
“Precisely,” Kaelen said, his felt slippers tapping lightly against the stone. “Government audits are notoriously slow. By the time they exchange formal greetings, verify seals, and review the first ten pages of shipping manifests, at least three days will have passed.”
“And what do we do while they audit?” Garrick asked, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
“I take a sixty-four-hour nap,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “And under no circumstances does anyone show me a diagram, a map, or an ancient rune.”
Garrick stared at him in utter bewilderment. “You just robbed the most dangerous man in the canyon, and your battle plan is to take a sixty-hour nap?”
