The cold in the records storehouse seemed to sharpen until it had the edge of a fresh-split granite spall. Outside in the dark alleyway, the freezing rain drummed against the iron window grilles with a hollow, metal chatter. But inside the room, no one moved.
Sile Rook held Chief Clerk Mallow pinned against the heavy oak bookshelves with one forearm across his chest. Mallow’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, his glasses hanging crookedly from one ear, his pale face slick with a sheen of greasy, scared sweat.
“I have rights,” Mallow whispered, his voice shaking so hard his teeth clicked together. “I’m a sworn town notary. You can’t lay hands on a registered officer of the court. Director Krend will have you in the penal pits before dawn!”
Tomas Reed didn’t raise his voice. He stepped close, his tall frame looming over the trembling clerk, his gray eyes cold and unblinking. He reached down with his calloused right hand, took Mallow by the ankle. Then he yanked his right foot forward onto an overturned packing crate.
“You have rights under the Imperial Mining Code, Mallow,” Tomas said quietly. “Section fourteen: ‘Any recording officer who knowingly conceals, mutilates, or secretes public registers of mortality or extraction locked deposit shall be subject to immediate physical sequestration of records by an authorized carrier of the Provincial Inquest.’”
