The second cedar chest was brought forward to the center of the green baize table with a heavy, hollow thud. Unlike the first chest, which had been washed pale by cellar floodwaters, this container bore the dark, pine-scented patina of mountain pitch, its bronze hasps green with copper green rust. Across its front lid, the letters W.S.T.B. — ANNO 214 had been branded with a hot iron, marking it as the official town upkeep storehouse of the Willow Stair Timber Bridge.
Tomas Reed rested his right palm on the lid, pausing to adjust the strap of his left arm brace. The limestone hall was growing colder as the morning wore on, the draft from the river wharves whistling through the tall oak entrance doors. His scarred left forearm pulsed with that familiar, dull throbbing that ran from the crease of his elbow down to the base of his ring finger. He took five slow seconds to press the fingertips of his left hand against the edge of the evidence table. He felt the stiffness resist the movement before the tendon yielded. In the Low Basin, an unbraced wrist meant dropped cargo and broken crates. In the Court of the King’s Bench, it was simply the price he paid for carrying fifty-pound dockets across mountain passes.
