The Consortium Administration House was built like an upland castle. Its three stories of was dark, dressed hard black rock granite rising above the muddy roofs of Sunder-Foot with cold, massive arrogance. Iron grilles covered every lower casement, and two heavy oak doors, studded with square-headed iron nails, guarded the front portal beneath an arched top door beam carved with the company motto: STRENGTH FROM THE STONE.
A cold morning mist hung over the town, smelling of sulfur and damp horse manure, as Tomas, Nessa. Mara Flint climbed the broad granite steps. Tomas wore his clean charcoal wool tunic, newly brushed, with his leather porter harness crossed over his chest and his lead-lined courier satchel slung under his left arm. Beside him, Nessa carried her brass sighting transit in its leather case. Meanwhile, Mara Flint walked with her iron-ringed staff ringing sharply against the stone treads.
In the entry hall inside, two trade group guards in sheepskin coats stepped forward, their hands resting on the pommels of their short-swords.
“Halt there,” one growled. “No public business until second bell.”
Tomas didn’t stop. He drew a folded parchment from his belt, holding it at eye level before the guard’s face. It bore the red wax seal of the Provincial High Court and the bold, angular signed name of Hester Quill as Advocate of Records.
