Ren-the-Cinder reached into his canvas rucksack and drew forth two heavy clay bottles sealed with red pitch. Distilled lamp-fire-oil, stolen from the foundry storehouse.
He set them on the dark rock desk with a heavy clunk. He pulled a steel striker from his belt.
“One bottle across the preamble, one bottle across Section Fourteen,” Ren-the-Cinder said, his eyes glittering with ruthless resolve. “A single spark, and four hundred years of slavery burns to a cinder in thirty seconds. When Malakor opens the vault at Solstice Dawn, all he will find is a pile of greasy dragon ash.”
“Stop, you idiot!” Scribe Ren screamed, lunging across the desk and throwing his entire body over the dragon-hide scroll like a mother shielding a child. “Touch a match to this thick parchment and you murder sixty thousand innocent people before the sun rises!”
Ren-the-Cinder paused, his striker hovering half an inch above the flint. “What are you talking about? It’s just leather!”
“It’s not just leather!” Scribe Ren snarled, his eyes bulging with manic terror. “Look at the spirit binding runes woven into the scale margins! This promise is the keystone of the entire mountain! The physical Spire of Khorat, the aqueducts that bring water to three hundred thousand people, the retaining walls that prevent the Upper Terraces from sliding into the canal... They’re all structurally anchored to the causal weight of this document!”
