The underground vault of the Silver Weft Trade ring was not a dark stone cellar. It was an underground cathedral of dressed granite and cold iron. It was built beneath twenty feet of river gravel and protected by three successive blast-doors of folded iron three inches thick. Overhead, burning lard lanterns in bronze chandeliers cast a harsh, yellow glare over sixty paces of polished flat stone slabs, lighting up long rows of heavy oak security cages labeled with the names of the realm’s grandest trading companies.
Tomas Reed walked down the spiral stone stair into the vault, with Nessa Vale, Hester Quill, Bailiff Morcant, and six independent watchmen carrying crowbars and cold chisels. At the center of the hall, standing before the huge circular iron door of the Central Bullion Chamber, stood Governor Alden Garrow.
Garrow was a man of sixty with thin, high-born features, his powdered wig disheveled. His hands shook wildly as he clutched a heavy ring of brass vault keys against his stitched satin waistcoat. Four junior cashiers cowered behind him, their faces pale as lard in the yellow light.
“This is an unlawful rule-break of corporate safe hall!” Garrow stammered, backing toward the iron door as Tomas approached. “The Silver Weft is an autonomous chartered institution! No court guard has the power to enter the central depository without the joint signed name of the Grand Master and the Lord High judge!”
