Inspector Vane-Garr’s heavy boots crunched against the basalt gravel, stopping three paces from Table Seven.
The gaunt inspector raised his brass array-compass. Its twin bronze needles twitched erratically, swinging back and forth through the dense white fog.
“Out of the way, old fool,” Vane-Garr sneered, waving his iron heat-probe at Barnaby’s chest. “Warden Krahl doesn’t tolerate smoke screens. Show me your fire core.”
Barnaby Holt threw himself directly into the inspector’s path, raising his right hand in a frantic salute and bowing with exaggerated panic.
“Honored Inspector, please!” Barnaby cried, his voice trembling with manufactured terror. “Opening the draft vent now will rupture the delicate vapor matrix. The ancestral Holt steam technique can’t bear cold mountain air.”
“Move, or I’ll run this iron rod through your ribs,” Vane-Garr replied coldly.
The inspector took two aggressive strides forward, his sharp eyes squinting through the thick peat smoke.
Behind him, two armed guards in studded leather armor took positions at the end of the table. Their halberds gleamed with jagged serrations designed to butcher runaway laborers.
