The oak-and-iron door of the gatehouse tower was three inches of seasoned upland heart-pine, studded with forged carriage bolts and barred from within by a four-inch ash timber. But thirty marsh wagon drivers armed with twelve-foot timber baulks and iron quarry pry-bars gave no quarter to private locks. On the fourth stroke of the ram, the iron keeper snapped from the stone door post with a sound like a small cannon shot, spraying limestone shards across the threshold.
Tomas Reed crossed the threshold first, his ash-wood pack frame squared against his shoulders, his boots crunching over splintered laths and broken glass. Sile Rook stepped abreast of him, his thirty-year-old tall oak body-shield held low and locked, the rim notched and blackened by old campaigns. Behind them, Bram of the Lower Reach held an iron-tipped boat-hook at the ready. He was followed by six burly wagon drivers smelling of marsh mud and cold sweat.
The air inside the lower guardroom was thick, choking, and greasy with the stench of burning rag-paper and scorch-varnish. A great hearth occupied the southern stone wall. There, Bailiff Orso Vance stood wildly thrusting iron pokers into a roaring fire of pine faggots. The table before him was a disaster of overturned inkwells, scattered accounting tallies, and burst canvas dunnage sacks.
