The Municipal Hall of Records smelled of wet woolen overcoats, stale coal-gas light, and hundreds of years of decaying parchment bound in calfskin. At seven in the morning, the vaulted limestone entry hall was cold and dim, lit up only by high, narrow lancet windows that looked out over the dripping slate roofs of the High Ward.
Tomas Reed, Hester Quill, and Renn Tal stood before the polished oak counter of the Chief Guard’s bench. Behind the counter sat Chief Bailiff Malcol Corvin, a man of sixty winters whose fleshy, lined face was pale with the tiredness of thirty years of navigating Bellwether’s corrupt town politics.
Corvin stared down at the graphite rubbing of Tag #TAG-021-B4, his hands resting flat against the green baize cloth of his desk.
Beside him, two junior clerks were huddled over Tal’s building sworn paper, their bone paper-knives resting forgotten in their fingers as they read the damning measurements.
“Hester,” Corvin said, his voice dropping to a low, troubled murmur, “do you understand what you’re asking me to sign? Tovin Crane isn’t a common warehouse factor. He sits on the Aldermanic Advisory Committee. He holds half the Sea-court’s load-bearing iron contracts. If I send twelve spear guards to chain the gates of Blast Furnace Number Four, the entire South Foundry district halts by noon.”
