The private underground vault of the High court at High-Arch was cold, dry, and smelling of sealing wax, brass polish, sheepskin parchment, and the metal dust of gold specie.
Carved thirty feet beneath the office hall into the solid limestone of the mountain, the chamber was lined with sixty iron-bound oak archive chests and twenty zinc deed-boxes, stacked in double tiers along the damp-proof stone shelves. In the center of the vault stood a massive oak counting table, upon which sat two sets of polished brass balances, approved by the Royal Bureau of Standards, six tuned lead test weights, and three heavy iron cash-boxes bound with case-hardened bands.
Tomas Reed stood by the counting table, his woolen smock dusted with cobwebs from the lower shelves.
His left forearm remained snug within its calfskin brace, the three brass buckles cinched tight to support the radius against the heavy lifting of iron deed-chests. Thirty-five percent of his left hand’s clamp-force was permanently gone. Even so, Tomas handled the thirty-pound archive boxes with the seasoned body leverage of a veteran porter. His right arm hauled the iron drop-handles from the wooden racks. At the same time, his braced left wrist acted as an anchored shelf, cradling the weight against his hip until the chests were seated upon the deal table.
