The North Wing of the Old Guildhall, once reserved for the private chambers of the Grand Inquest and the storage of sealed charter chests, was now the permanent home of the Office of Unfinished Claims.
Tomas pushed open the heavy oak door, the brass hinges swinging without a sound on their oiled pins. The main room was flooded with the warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun pouring through the high leaded casements. Long tables of polished heart-pine ran down the center of the hall, covered with open ledgers, bundles of approved thick parchment tied with red hemp twine, and small brass scales used for verifying coin weights.
Twenty young men and women—former dock porters, injured apprentices, and daughters of river wagon drivers—sat at the tables, their quill pens scratching rhythmically against the sheepskin. At the center of the room, standing beside a large topographical model of the Grand Canal, was Olla.
She was thirty-eight now, her dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, wearing the dark blue wool apron of a Master Steward. Over her shoulder hung the split-leather strap of her official seal-press, its brass head engraved with the emblem of the office. An open hand supporting an uncancelled receipt.
