The four figures standing upon the silver glass of the Mirror’s Heart didn’t look like spectral illusions summoned to buy time. They had the solid, heavy presence of stone foundation pillars beneath an ancient cathedral. Vane Vale adjusted the brass buttons of his velvet waistcoat with fastidious care, his manicured fingers brushing away a fleck of silver ash as if it were an unseemly crumb at a high-society banquet. Lord Ren stood motionless at his side, seven feet of imposing star-iron plate and dark velvet mantle, his broad chin raised. His gaze looked past the headsman toward the horizon of unchosen worlds. Behind them, Ren-the-Cinder was busy wrapping an oiled leather strip around the grip of a heavy iron pry-bar. His mouth was full of small brass lock-pins. Meanwhile, Brother Ren knelt quietly on the bare glass, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his rough burlap cowl.
‘Quite a mess you’ve made of the accounts, kid,’ Vane said smoothly, glancing over his shoulder at Ren Prime, who was slowly climbing to his feet with Mira’s support. The merchant’s voice was crisp, cutting through the freezing sub-zero draft with ironic amusement. ‘Fifteen balance-sheets burned in under an hour. If Master Corvus were alive to see your ledger right now, he’d lock you in the coal cellar and dock your bread rations for a century.’
