The crimson ink of the question mark glistened wetly upon the calfskin thick parchment, cutting like an open wound across the spotless, parallel hatching of Master Ulvan Dret’s deep-rock profile. The red pigment, mixed with crushed red stone and gum arabic, stood out in violent contrast against the faded iron-gall black ink of the official survey lines.
For nearly thirty seconds, the only sound in the sunken courtyard was the steady, rhythmic wheezing of the four draft mules inside the winch house and the hiss of water weeping down the granite canyon walls. The two mule drivers in their blackened leather aprons stopped wiping their greasy rags, their eyes darting nervously toward the table, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in power.
Ulvan Dret stared at the red mark. His watery hazel eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and numbed humiliation. His junior clerk shrank back against the timber derrick. His hands shook so wildly that he nearly dropped the horn ink-well onto the cobbles.
Captain Orvath took three heavy, aggressive strides toward the table. His iron helmet shone in the gloom, his scarred hand slamming down onto the oak planks right beside the wet thick parchment folio with a bone-shaking bang that made the brass weights jump.
