The slip of thick parchment lay upon the clean blotting paper like an unexploded charge of blasting powder. Outside, the winter twilight had settled over the capital valley. That turned the rain into a dense, gray sleet that coated the lancet windows in greasy slush. Inside the writing hall, the only light came from the small brass spirit lamp and the dull red glow of the peat embers in the hearth.
Tomas held his magnifying glass over the slip. His scarred thumb anchored the corner against the drafting board. His inner sight flared with an intensity that made the back of his eyes throb, the sheepskin ledger expanding to accommodate the legal reality that had been hidden for seven ages:
Hester Quill read the text three times, her lips moving without sound. When she finally looked up at Tomas, her face was fully empty of color. Her eyes were wide behind her wire glasses.
“It’s not an endowment in paper,” Hester whispered. Her voice shook with an emotion that bordered on terror. “Tomas... Do you realize what Alden the First did? He didn’t establish a credit balance in the Exchequer. He didn’t purchase rent-charges on northern farms. He took one hundred thousand silver crowns in raw bullion—melted down from the treasure of the defeated warlords—and cast them into ten thousand ten-crown sovereign metal bars of solid silver!”
