The oak lid of the evidence chest creaked on its forged hinges, releasing the pungent stench of old bilgewater, rancid linseed oil, and soaked heart-timber into the cold air of the Great Hall.
Hester Quill adjusted her glasses with an ink-stained knuckle. She reached into the straw packing. She drew out a turned ash-wood metal tube, four inches in width and banded with copper wire, placing it squarely upon the white linen cloth on the counsel table.
“Exhibit A-One,” Hester said in the dry, flat rhythm of an inventory clerk cataloging salt-fish barrels. “A core sample pulled out from the fourth lower futtock, starboard run, three feet forward of the deadwood. Bored at midnight on the third instant using an eight-inch steel barrel auger, in the presence of two sworn harbor dredgers and a notary of the King’s Bench.”
Tomas stepped to the bar. His right forearm throbbed beneath the calfskin splint, the scar pulling tight as he supported the second display board with his left arm. The damp limestone chilled his boots through their double soles, but he kept his stance square. He held the magnifying glass steady above the timber core so the high bench could see.
The metal tube was dense heart-oak, its growth rings pressed tight as the leaves of a closed bible. Two-thirds of the way down the core, indented into the sixth ring, was a blackened, charred cavity.
