The underground vaults beneath the Old High court smelled of three hundred years of decaying tax rolls, moldering linen ledgers, and cold, damp river stone.
At the center of the vaulted chamber, four animal fat candles burned in iron sconces. He cast long, wavering shadows across scarred oak workbenches. Around the table sat the most dysfunctional council in the history of the Grand Duchy of Val-Khorat. Eight men who shared the same sharp jawline, the same silver-grey eyes, and an impossible to climb mountain of mutual contempt.
Vane Vale, spotless despite the cellar draft in his midnight-blue velvet frock coat, was furiously clicking the beads of his gold-trimmed pocket counting frame. His manicured goatee twitched with every flick of his kidskin-gloved thumb.
“Seventy-four silver sovereigns,” Vane hissed, slamming the counting frame onto a stack of yellowed death-estate registers. “That’s what this household burns through in four days. Bread, lard, coarse flour, firewood. Now—because the universe refuses to grant me the mercy of a quick death—we have a royal scribbler who needs imported gum arabic and three-shilling linen handkerchiefs to wipe his nose!”
Across the table, Scribe Ren didn’t even look up from the bone burnisher he was using to smooth a curl of scrap thick parchment. He sat with his wire-rimmed beryl bifocals perched precariously on his hooked nose, his black velvet doublet stitched with tarnished silver ivy catching the dim candlelight.
