The Low Sunder records house sat in the cellar beneath the old guard post hall. To reach it, Tomas Reed and Nessa Vale dropped rough-hewn limestone steps slick with moisture that smelled of damp rock, rotted roots, and animal fat smoke.
Court guard Harl led the way, holding an unshielded horn lantern whose flame guttered against the cold draft.
“The military scriveners left these boxes behind when the division pulled back south,” Harl said, his boots scraping on the grit. “They didn’t want to haul fifty pounds of damp paper down to the barges. The under-officer told me anything older than three seasons was obsolete scrap.”
The cellar was cold enough that Tomas’s breath billowed against the vaulted ceiling. Along the north wall stood six pine chests banded in rusted hoop iron. The wood was black with age, furred with saltpeter and cellar mold that flaked away at a touch.
Tomas set his tool-case on an empty salt tub. His right forearm felt stiff. Gripping the damp rope banister on the stairs had strained his injured flexor tendon. He rubbed the tendon through his wool sleeve. He pressed hard with his thumb until the ache subsided into a dull stiffness.
