Vane Vale stood his ground on the cracked flat stone slabs of the Crucible. His kidskin boots planted was wide. His ivory-headed cane was tucked firmly under his left arm.
The morning light filtering through the dome caught the tarnished brass wire of his counting frame. Despite the cold, the ash, and the torn silk of his midnight-blue coat, the Merchant looked as though he were standing on the polished parquet floor of the High Exchange in Val-Khorat, preparing to strip an arrogant rival trade ring of its shipping monopolies.
“You talk of accounting, old man,” Vane said. His voice was sharp and poisonous as burning acid. “You throw words like forced payout and insolvency around as if you understand double-entry bookkeeping. But you’re not a clerk. You’re an unfit clerk who burnt down the warehouse because he couldn’t balance the petty cash.”
The Man Who Returned stopped three paces away. The gold-silver metal mirror shard hung loosely at his side, its jagged tip dripping cold grey vapor that hissed against the stone. “Vane. You have no ledger here. The ink on your contracts dried four hundred years ago.”
“A valid debt never dies, you illiterate peasant,” Vane countered, his right thumb flicking the upper row of beads with a metal clatter that echoed through the ruined vault. “Let’s audit the prime account. The boy before you—Ren Vale Prime. Nineteen years of age. Social status: indentured keeper, unlicensed, running in the damp tanneries of Low-Khorat.”
