The interrogation chamber beneath the Hall of Heavenly Penalties smelled of damp river mud, sulfur briquettes, and rusted bronze.
Thirty paces above their heads, the muffled, rhythmic shudder of the Seventh Ward’s heavy air-powered pile drivers rattled through the dark rock foundation. Even through the five-foot stone ceiling, the distant scream of white-hot steam venting from Crucible Four shook in Lin Ke’s dental fillings.
Elder Wu DeZheng was pressed flat against the damp stonework in the corner. He grabbed a leather satchel of archived tax ledgers against his soft belly as if it were a heavy tower shield.
The outer-sect administrator was sweating heavily, his gray silk collar soaked dark with salt water. He was exactly two years and four months away from his full royal retirement pension. Every ragged breath sounded like an old bellows leaking through dry rot.
“Clause Fourteen, Subsection B,” Elder Wu muttered under his breath, his eyes darting wildly between the armed court guards and the bronze table. “The signatory bears backup debt only if the dangerous waste disposal certificate is improperly stamped... It was stamped in three colors... The seal is dry... They can’t invalidate my pension vouchers...”
On the bronze table lay the Nine-Rounds Soul-Leash Scroll.
