The air thirty feet beneath the banking hall of the Iron Bank smelled of cold damp limestone, ancient river silt, and the oily graphite lubricant of heavy lock tumblers. The underground gallery was lined with massive vaults, each fronted by doors of layered cold-rolled steel three inches thick, secured with three-point deadbolts and double bronze combination dials.
Tomas Reed, Hester Quill, and Renn Tal stood before the portal of Vault Seven. Beside them stood Chief Bailiff Corvin, his ebony staff grounded firmly against the granite flat stone slabs. Master Vault-Keeper Galt, an elderly clerk whose leather apron was heavy with brass keys and oil bottles.
Galt had just pushed in the first master key into the upper escutcheon. Just then, the heavy iron-bound stairs behind them shuddered with the wild clatter of running boots.
“Hold that key! In the name of the Board of Trade, stand away from that door!”
Director Tovin Crane dropped the stone steps with furious driving force, his heavy beaver-fur coat swirling around his boots. His fleshy face was crimson with rage, his jowls quivering as he shoved his way past the two town spear guards stationed on the landing. Flanking him were two senior cartel solicitors, Advocates Barr and Vane. He carried leather briefcases bristling with red-ribboned briefs.
