The dispatch satchel was made of oiled pigskin, secured with three lead seals and an anti-tamper chemical dye-ampoule.
Ren Vale sat at the wooden desk in the foreman’s cabin. His ivory bone awl was held delicately between his right thumb and forefinger. With the care of a watchmaker studying a clockwork gear catch, he used the silver tip of the awl to pierce the wax seal, neutralizing the red dye-bladder with a drop of vinegar solvent before turning the brass latch.
The lock clicked open with a soft metal sigh.
Standing on the opposite side of the desk, his arms bound behind his back with double-waxed hemp cord, Foreman Harek stared at the desk with hollow, bloodshot eyes. Outside, two armed miners stood guard with heavy pickaxes, their beryl and malachite limbs glinting in the lantern light.
“You’re a dead man, scribe,” Harek rasped, spitting a trace of blood onto the floorboards. “You broke thirty-two High court seals tonight. When Arch-Lapidary Kael brings the grand array down from the First Tier, he won’t just harvest your sister. He will feed your bones into the stamp-mill and turn you into polishing rouge.”
Ren didn’t look up from the satchel. “A man who threatens a clerk with future violence is a man who knows his own books are already in unpaid debts.”
