The timber door exploded inward in a rain of jagged splinters.
A three-hundred-pound iron-capped battering ram withdrew into the foggy alley. That left a jagged breach through which four figures stepped into the cellar.
They wore long surcoats of oiled gray leather over mail shirts of dull lead-alloy rings. Each man carried a heavy seven-foot quarterstaff topped with a fluted six-sided iron weight—the standard enforcement stave of the Imperial Patent Trial, designed to fracture bone through armor without severing arteries.
The lead court guard had a face carved from dried pork, scarred across the nose by an old fire burn.
At his belt hung a cluster of brass padlocks and an unrolled arrest warrant glowing with the cold violet soft glow of an official seal.
“Debtor Lu Feng,” the lead court guard barked, his voice echoing in the confined brick cellar like gravel grinding in a concrete mixer. “Defaulted on installment promise 99-B with the Golden Script Guild. Hand over the debtor and all unlicensed transcription materials.”
Behind him, two court guards raised their heavy iron staves. The six-sided heads were humming with low-hum spiritual shaking. The air in the cellar grew heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and damp lime.
