In the fourth-story boardroom of the Smelters’ Cartel headquarters, everyone could feel the choking reek of expensive imported tobacco, stale brandy, and the rotten-egg coal smoke drifting from the blast stacks below. The dark wood table, twenty feet long and polished to a mirror sheen, was littered with crumpled legal briefs, overturned inkwells, and shredded telegraph tapes from the capital.
Director Tovin Crane stood before the huge bay window, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared down into the darkness of the South Foundry district. His beaver-fur coat lay discarded on a chair. His collar was torn open, and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken from three days without sleep.
At the table sat four senior cartel factors, their faces gray with terror. At the far end stood Vance Kegg. He leaned against a carved walnut sideboard, chewing a piece of salt beef with clockwork, brutish indifference.
“The solicitors have abandoned us, Crane,” muttered Factor Orson. His trembling hands grabbed a glass of spirits. “Advocate Barr sent his resignation clerk an hour ago. He says the graphite rubbing is incontrovertible, Tal’s testimony is unbeatable. The seizure of Vault Seven leaves us without liquid reserves to post bond. When the High judge opens the trial on Friday, we’ll be indicted for capital fraud and reckless manslaughter!”
