The blistering heat radiating from the dragon-skull furnace struck Kaelen’s face like an open oven.
Far below the catwalk, eighty feet into the sulfur-scented gloom of the lower depot, heavy wooden wagon wheels ground against the volcanic cobblestones. Four massive iron-plated draft lizards dragged a convoy of ten armored carts through the southern archway. The scaly beasts snorted thick plumes of gray vapor, their claws clicking against the wet flagstones.
Each cart flew the crossed-crucible crest of the Morvane and Pyre Pill Houses. The banners were woven from heavy crimson silk and bordered with gold thread.
“Look down there,” Elder Sterling whispered, leaning his scarred chin over the rusted railing. “That’s the bi-weekly tribute convoy from the merchant district.”
Dozens of depot guards in scarlet leather tunics swarmed around the wagons. They unloaded heavy iron-banded chests, stacking them onto bronze hand-barrows destined for the lower vaults.
Beside Kaelen, Princess Valeria narrowed her eyes.
“Those chests contain high-sediment pills,” Valeria said softly. “The defective batches that the Four Great Pill Houses couldn’t sell in the public markets. They’re feeding them directly into the magma conduits to raise the furnace temperature.”
“A monstrous waste of medicine,” Barnaby muttered from behind them, shaking his white head. “Even defective pills could be diluted into wash for mortal livestock. Malakor treats human lives and spirit herbs with the exact same contempt.”
