The small iron stove in Hester Quill’s writing hall glowed like a fire hearth. It filled the room with the dry, pine-scented warmth of burning hard coal. Outside, the bells of the High Ward tolled eight times, their heavy bronze tones muffled by the freezing November drizzle that slicked the slate roofs of Bellwether.
On the broad worktable, Nessa Vale had unrolled three massive parchment scrolls, weighing their curling corners down with bronze land-mapper’s plumb-bobs and lead printing quads. To the left lay the official town tax register for the South Foundry district. In the center lay the approved transcript of the double-ledger Tomas had copied beneath the melted rock waste vat in Vault Seven. To the right lay the daily clearing manifests of the Iron Bank of Bellwether.
Tomas Reed leaned over the documents, his thumb tracing the jagged white line where his scarred left forearm met his wrist brace. Despite the soothing vinegar healing wrap Nurse Venn had applied, the gristle beneath the skin felt tight as an overdrawn bowstring. He bent each finger deliberately—index, middle, ring, little finger—keeping the breath flow moving through the bruised joint.
“Look at the transaction numbers on page twenty-two, Hester,” Tomas said. He pointed with his brass pencil. “On the fourteenth of October, Year 021—two days after the blowout—Blast Furnace Number Four officially reported a net running loss of four thousand silver crowns due to what Crane called ‘unavoidable machinery destruction.’ The town spreading bond of eight hundred and fifty crowns was…
