The shock-hound didn’t bark. Dogs bred by the Chancellery Contraband Division were legally silenced at six weeks of age, their throat cords excised and replaced with silver reeds that shook only. Just then, a forbidden binding script entered their smell range.
What emerged from the north drainage pipe was a shuddering metal whistle. A shrill, high-pressure hiss like steam escaping an over-tightened boiler.
Ren Vale reacted before the hound’s forepaws hit the flat stone slabs.
“Vane—keystone!” Ren yelled, dropping to his knees.
Vane Vale was already moving. He pivoted on the heel of his kidskin boot, planting his ivory cane against the fourth arch stone of the brick archway. His brass pocket counting frame snapped shut against his thigh, his monocle flashing in the darkness.
“Transverse stress fracture across the second header!” Vane barked with total mercantile care. “Four hundredweight of dead load resting on five inches of decayed lime mortar! Scratch the third bed-joint, boy, or we’re all filed under liquidated inventory!”
Ren’s bone awl was already between his fingers. He drove the thumb of his left hand straight against the sharpened silver wire at the metal pen tip.
Pain flared—sharp, cold, and familiar.
