The third deed chest on the southern wall of the writing hall bore the blackened bronze plate of the Royal Exchequer, dated to the reign of Alden the Second. Its three padlock hasps were forged from cold iron, but Tomas didn’t need a key. Forty years ago, a corrupt under-clerk had chiseled through the back hinges with a dull cold-chisel. That left the lid resting loose upon the cedar frame, held in place only by piled up dust and cobwebs.
Tomas lifted the heavy lid. A dry, choking cloud of powdered lime, decayed binding glue, and dried mouse droppings rose into the cold air. It caught in the back of his throat. He reached inside, his scarred left wrist bracing against the rim. Meanwhile, his right hand pulled out a thick, folio-sized ledger bound in pigskin that had turned the color of stale river water. He laid it flat on the desk, carefully brushing away a layer of dried cocoon husks from the brass corner-bosses.
He pulled his bone-handled cart driver’s pocket knife from his belt, using the flat of the brass bolsters to gently test the cedar joinery of the chest’s false bottom. In the old cart hauling houses along the docks, every master carter knew that a dishonest freight agent kept his true manifests beneath a double plank of tongue-and-groove pine. But here, the bottom boards were single-thickness, five-inch planks of seasoned heart-cedar, mortised directly into the corner posts with iron nails that had rusted into solid lumps…
