The undercroft was freezing by the fourth bell of the evening.
The silence in the holding undercroft was broken only by the distant dripping of water and the muffled footsteps of the Templars pacing the hall above.
Inside Cell Four, the mirror resting in the iron evidence casket was not dormant.
The lid had been slammed shut by nervous guards after the morning session. Even so, the gold-silver metal glass continued to pulse with muted, rhythmic light through the keyhole. Inside Ren’s mind, the household was in an uproar.
Vane Vale was pacing furiously across the floorboards of Ren’s subconscious, clicking his gold-trimmed counting frame with a speed that sounded like hail on a tin roof. “Four grafts! Do you understand the capital depreciation on a black-market organ graft, Ren? The immunosuppressive elixirs alone cost two hundred sovereigns a month! Malvane is bankrupt! He has been embezzling from the Municipal Orphan’s Fund to pay Dr. Voss’s invoices! If I had access to the High court audit ledgers for thirty minutes, I could have the court guards impound the clothes off his back!”
“Forget the ledgers,” Lord Ren’s voice rumbled like distant artillery. “The guards are fractured. Did you see Captain Thorne’s face? That man is a soldier, not a butcher. He hates Malakor. If we offer Thorne immunity under the Iron Promise, he will turn his court guards on the Templars before the morning bell.”
