The private drafting office of Chief Deputy Surveyor Garek was located on the third floor of the High court wing, tucked away behind the grand marble loggias where the public never walked.
It was a fancy room, smelling of expensive latakia tobacco, beeswax polish, and fine turpentine. Thick wool carpets from the southern cities covered the floor. The walls were lined with dark wood plan-drawers fitted with polished brass pulls. At a wide, tilted drafting table of polished walnut sat Garek himself. A man of forty-five, with thinning brown hair, nervous watery eyes, and an elegant brocade waistcoat that strained against a thickening waistline.
The heavy oak door swung open with a sharp, bone-shaking click of the brass latch.
Garek looked up from a rolled height drawing of a fancy boat-house, an irritated reprimand on his lips. But the words died in his throat as three figures stepped into the room.
Tomas Reed entered first, his ash pack frame resting squarely on his shoulders, his cowhide boots tracking gray limestone dust across the expensive wool carpet. Beside him walked Hester Quill. It held a thick sheaf of green-bound vouchers, and behind them came Sile Rook, who calmly closed the door. Then it turned the heavy iron key in the lock, slipping the key into his leather pouch.
