While the battle for High Street raged beneath the curdled sky, Vane Vale was engaged in a far more ruthless and civilized form of warfare.
The Merchant of Guilt had commandeered the private executive office of the Bank of the Grand Duchy on Commerce Row.
The private office of the Bank of the Grand Duchy was a shrine to the sacred religion of compound interest.
Heavy velvet draperies of deep bottle-green shut out the bruised, curdled sky of the riots outside, muffling the distant thud of artillery and the wail of town sirens. A gentle fire of imported dried sea-coal crackled in the carved royal marble fireplace. It cast a rich, buttery glow over floor-to-ceiling bookcases bound in gold-trimmed calfskin. On a side table sat a crystal decanter of twenty-year-old port wine, two fine bone-china cups, and a silver dish of candied ginger.
To a man like Lord Silas Malakor, this room was reality. The streets outside—the soot, the tanneries, the dying children, and the screaming paradox mobs—were merely outer noise, an unfortunate office friction that occurred while his wealth quietly multiplied itself in the dark. The dark wood-paneled room was dead quiet, save for the wild scratching of four junior clerks copying ledgers. The rapid, rhythmic click-clack of Vane’s gold-trimmed brass pocket counting frame.
