The cellar beneath the municipal courthouse was vaulted with damp river granite, cold as a tomb and smelling of wet coal dust, old tallow, and lime wash.
Two charter watchmen stood on either side of the heavy oak door, their ash billhooks held upright against their shoulders, their breath rising in thin white ribbons in the chilly underground air. Inside the vaulted cell, seated at a rough trestle table beneath an iron-caged oil lantern, sat Warden Brecht.
The royal governor was fifty winters old, his neat aristocratic mustache trimmed with razor precision, his dark blue woolen coat spattered with fine coal dust at the cuffs. His velvet waistcoat was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a linen cravat that was rumpled from four hours of confinement. Despite the iron bars on the high vent and the armed guards at the threshold, Brecht held himself with the languid, condescending composure of an imperial lord waiting for an indifferent servant to bring his morning chocolate.
His pale, manicured hands rested flat upon the oak table, framing a sealed parchment scroll tied with gold cord and a heavy pigskin pouch that clinked with the unmistakable, heavy ring of imperial coin.
Jon Hale stepped into the vault, closing the heavy oak door behind him. He did not remove his leather coat.
