Master Curator Vane sat behind his rosewood desk in the registrar’s private office. His hands shook so wildly that the tea in his fine china cup sloshed against the gold-trimmed rim.
His purple velvet robe was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a sweat-soaked linen shirt. Across the desk sat Tomas Reed, his charcoal-gray wool tunic dusted with road gravel, his left arm resting comfortably in its calfskin brace. Beside Tomas stood Nessa Vale. It held the acid test slides. Captain Sile Rook, whose massive oak tall body-shield leaned against the closed door, blocking the exit like an iron wall.
On the desk between them lay the lead-lined case containing the Port Kellan maritime manifest, the scraped lead shavings. The formal notice of summary treason issued under the Grand Municipal Livery Act.
“Master Vane,” Tomas said, his voice quiet, steady, and devoid of rancor. “You have served as Chief Curator of this memorial museum for fourteen winters. You draw an annual pay of six hundred silver crowns from the Dragon-Slayer Heritage Trust, funded by the ticket sales of that forged tusk.”
Vane swallowed hard, his plump double chin quivering. “I... I was appointed by the town council, Master Reed! I’m a scholar of antiquities, not a sapper! I assumed the relic had been properly approved by the High Guild at the time of the presentation!”
