Eighty feet beneath the high marble halls of the Grand High court of Crown-Reach. There, the foundations of the ancient citadel met the living black dark rock of the river bluff, lay the Sub-Basal Master Vault. For two hundred and forty years, through seven dynasties and fourteen ministerial changes, this underground castle had remained the private safe hall of royal chancellors, grand treasurers, and trade ring directors. A windowless cave where uncalled country escrows, taken away guild bonds, and suppressed community securities were sealed away from the light of public scrutiny.
The air in the underground approach was cold, dense. Then it scented with old cedar dust, rusted copper, and the sharp, stone tang of wet limestone. At the tenth hour of the morning, Tomas Reed, Hester Quill, Chief Justice Lord Ronald, and six elected commoner commissioners dropped the final spiral stairs of dressed granite. Four town watchmen flanked the procession, carrying heavy glass miners’ lanterns whose clean rape-seed oil flame threw steady, pale yellow circles across the dripping stonework walls.
Tomas paused on the lowest landing, his heavy hobnailed boots resting firmly upon the granite threshold. The cold underground damp pierced through his dark woolen trousers and canvas smock. That made the scarred tissue along his left forearm ache with a familiar, deep stiffness. He reached down with his right hand and adjusted the dual brass buckles of his oiled calfskin wrist brace, cinching the stiff leather tight against his forearm bone. Six years had passed since the hooked…
