The brass speaking tube carried the faint sound of anxious breathing from the courtyard below.
At Hour 530—with the Fallow Slate humming at a five hundred and thirty-one times multiplier—Kaelen Vance did not hesitate for a fraction of a second.
He leaned slightly closer to the polished mouthpiece, his bamboo fishing rod balanced lightly across his knee.
“A Tier 3 Cloud-Veined Supreme pill sells for eight Mid-Grade Spirit Stones at our ghost market auctions,” Kaelen said in a mild, measured voice. “That is eight hundred low-grade stones. That can buy three cartloads of fine southern rice, fifty bundles of winter firewood, and forty bags of barley tea.”
He paused, watching a golden carp circle the green pebble sinker.
“Cassian Vance has not been worth eight copper bits since the night he led five cousins to smash my garden shed in Ashford Town,” Kaelen continued placidly. “Do not waste good medicine on a rotten potato.”
Down at the base of the tower, Barnaby Holt released a low, wheezing breath of understanding.
“Understood, Master Vance,” Barnaby murmured. “The magistrates will have to do without their interrogation.”
