The iron exit gates hissed shut behind them, sealing the roaring heat of the primary caldera inside.
Deacon Vane was already waiting at the junction of the third ventilation shaft. He carried three spare ash-sweeper smocks over his arm and wore a neutral, bored expression that blended seamlessly with the slave labor shifts.
“Keep your heads down,” Deacon Vane whispered, tossing the rough tunics to Barnaby and Linnea. “Krahl has tripled the corridor patrols after your ninety-five percent stunt. Galen Morvane is currently tearing his own tent apart in a rage.”
Barnaby chuckled, quickly pulling the stained smock over his clean clothes. “Let the peacock tear his silk. We have two thousand stones in the bag.”
“Morvane isn’t just tearing silk,” Deacon Vane warned in a low murmur as he led them down a narrow iron staircase. “He accused Patriarch Pyre and Patriarch Cinder of conspiring with commoners to humiliate him. The three Pill-House Patriarchs are practically at each other’s throats.”
“Music to my ears,” Barnaby said with a satisfied grin. “May they bite each other’s tails until only their boots remain.”
“I already visited the registrar’s archive,” Deacon Vane added, tapping a small copper seal in his pocket. “Table Seven’s registration tablet has been ground into powder and replaced with a blank tile. Even if Morvane calms down, there is no paper trail linking your victory to our sector.”
