Dawn broke over Crown-Reach in thin bands of slate. High above the river bend, where limestone cliffs met the Upper Citadel, the Great Chamber of Accounts lay wrapped in autumn frost. Through pointed high window row windows, morning light cast pale bars across the flat stone slabs of the ancient counting hall. Eighty paces from the arched oak portal to the Exchequer dais, its walls lined with iron-bound cupboards that had cataloged taxes, tithes, and grain imposts for sixteen reigns.
Tomas Reed climbed the spiral stair carrying the last hamper of audited folios against his right hip, forty pounds of thick parchment and rag paper pulling at his shoulder. His left hand, secured in its buckled calfskin cuff, cradled the wicker underside while his sound right arm bore the load. Nine years on back-door routes had taught him the physics of his thirty-five percent grip deficit. Elbow tucked into the flank, shoulder lowered two inches, and mass passed directly through the pelvis to his iron heel-plates.
He pushed open the heavy door with his boot and entered the vault.
By the portal, Sile Rook leaned against his heart-oak tall body-shield. His eyes tracked Tomas with the quiet test of a veteran who knew an honest load. Beneath Sile’s collar, keloid scars from the Flood March pulled tight over his ribs, his hooked pruning blade resting sound against the frame. Beyond him stood the council frame stands—planks of river oak scrubbed pale with lye—surrounded by scribes, land-mappers, and district elders.
