The ascent from Sub-Basement Nine to the High Scroll hall was an exercise in stone-built hypocrisy.
Ren followed Grand Censor Malachai Vance up the grand spiral stairs. Then, underground dampness pulled back, replaced by the warm hiss of filtered air and the scent of expensive ambergris oil. The weeping lime-wash of the lower vaults gave way to dressed granite, then to fluted pilasters of white Carrara marble banded with gold-trimmed bronze. Every ten paces, brass gas sconces shaped like hooded falcons cast clean light over rows of locked cedar cabinets.
Behind them marched two crimson-coated Judges of the Board of Redaction, hardwood staves tapping against polished stone in military all at once.
Ren kept his hands tucked into his lambskin apron. His right fingers curled around the carved shaft of his ivory bone awl. His left pressed against his ribs. There, the eight-sided gold-silver metal frame of the Speculum rested beneath his wool tunic. The metal was lukewarm, shaking with a faint, uneasy hum.
Don’t look at the roof ledges, Lord Ren commanded silently, his deep cold in Ren’s ear. Look at the guards’ footing. Smooth calfskin soles—zero purchase if blood touches this marble. A sweep of the legs takes them down.
