The clinking of counting frame beads sounded remarkably like dry bones rattling in an iron bucket.
Zhao Wuji sat in the counting room behind the Seventh Ward’s main weigh-station, his round, normally jovial face the shade of curdled sheep’s milk. The silver-trimmed robes of an Imperial Procurement Bursar hung loosely over his shoulders. Robes that had fit him comfortably three months ago, before the Imperial Ministry of Punishments had turned his clan’s merchant fleet into an unpaid logistics division.
Outside the heavy hardwood doors, two Imperial Iron Guards stood with crossed axe-spears, their heavy plate armor groaning whenever they shifted their weight.
Lin Ke entered through the rear coal-air-flow hatch, his boots making no sound on the grease-slicked flags.
Zhao Wuji didn’t even look up from his desk. His fingers flicked across the polished bone beads of his counting frame with wild, twitching spasms.
“Ten thousand pounds of high-purity spirit-iron alloy,” Zhao muttered, his voice trembling at the edges. “Five hundred flagons of Foundation-consolidation marrow broth. And Chu Jue’s quartermasters have fixed the procurement price at twelve bronze coppers per pound. Twelve! Raw unsmelted hematite costs sixteen coppers at the pithead!”
He slammed both fists down onto the ledger, scattering stacks of yellow receipts across the table.
