The interrogation took place in the open cargo bed of an empty turf wagon, shielded from the sleet by a greasy canvas tilt.
The captured scavenger captain was a lean, scarred marsh-runner named Vane, whose hands were stained yellow from handling contraband sulfur. He sat bound to the wagon wheel with three turns of stout hemp, his swollen jaw dripping blood onto his sodden wool tunic.
Tomas stood before him, the yellow light of an oil lantern lighting up the contents of Vane’s oilskin belt pouch. It had been turned out onto the deal table.
Beside three forged iron keys and a brass pocket sundial lay a folded sheet of heavy capital thick parchment. It was sealed with purple wax.
Tomas picked up the thick parchment with clean horn tongs. He broke the purple seal with his bone metal pen and spread the document flat under the lantern beam.
Elder Mallow leaned over Tomas’s shoulder, his watery eyes widening behind his brass glasses as he recognized the engraved crest at the head of the page. A golden broadsword crossed over an open laurel wreath.
“The Grand Adventurers’ Guild High court,” Mallow whispered in horror. “The High Board itself.”
Tomas read the text aloud, his raspy voice ringing like an unbending iron bell in the small wagon.
