The third gold bar was different from the others.
It hovered less than an inch above the uncoupled brass core, suspended within the murky water of the earthenware bowl. Unlike the upper redactions, which had gleamed with the burnished brilliance of imperial leaf, this bar was encased in a dark, glassy shell the color of dried ox-blood. The surface was pitted with microscopic bubbles, exuding a faint, oily shimmer that repelled the lamplight.
“An imperial vitriol seal,” Lady Signe Lorr identified, leaning over the deal table with a clean linen handkerchief pressed to her nose. “Compounded from oil of sulfur, dragon’s blood resin, and antimony. It is the highest classification seal known to the chancery. If a civilian magistrate breaks that wax without imperial authorization, the penalty is execution by molten lead.”
“The Crown does not have a garrison in this room, My Lady,” Sister Oda replied, setting a small stoneware bowl beside the vessel.
In the bowl, the nun had mixed two heaping spoonfuls of white chalk dust scraped from the limestone bluffs behind the tavern with three ounces of cold willow water drawn from the water cask. The resulting paste was thick, opaque, and smelled of wet stone and bitter bark.
