The boots of the Internal Enforcement Division were shod in leaded zinc.
They struck the iron steps with a heavy, flat ring that silenced the foundry in three heartbeats.
Four armored guards dropped into Basin Four, their faces hidden behind polished bronze masks shaped like snarling tigers. Between them walked Inquisitor Xie Dong. He was tall, gaunt. Then he carried a six-foot scourge braided from silver wire and dried electric serpent sinew that crackled with blue sparks whenever it dragged along the iron narrow high walkway.
Inquisitor Xie didn’t look at the steadied bronze cooking pots. He didn’t look at the puddle of vented black sludge cooling in the drainage canal.
He stepped directly toward Scribe Bai Song’s desk, his cold, gray eyes sweeping over the fifty trembling clerks who stood with their heads bowed to their collar bones.
“The Ninth Thunder Court has revised the night-hunting dispatch quota,” Xie Dong announced. His voice was like stones grinding in an empty bucket. “Ten thousand mortal breakthroughs in the southern quadrants have entered the transit buffer. Every tally slip must be checked, signed, and stamped by dawn.”
Bai Song’s knees gave out. He caught the corner of his rickety wooden desk, his knuckles turning dead white.
