The bonded warehouses of the Free Ports did not smell of salt; they smelled of damp lime, tallow, and old iron. Three tiers beneath the Grand Custom House, the low-vaulted granite chambers were built directly into the limestone belly of the reef. Here, the constant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the harbor above was muffled, replaced by the steady, oily drip of condensation running down the massive stone pillars. Vanya walked through the central aisle of Warehouse Seven, her dark green wool coat buttoned to the chin to keep out the subterranean chill. Behind her, two League laborers dragged a heavy cedar crate stamped with the green falcon seal, its iron hinges groaning under the weight of fifty northern-forged blades. "The inventory is exact, Master Malek," Vanya said, her silver-rimmed slate casting a cold, pale light across the stacks of iron-bound boxes. "Three hundred crates delivered to the primary reserve. Your eastern frontier now has enough standard steel to maintain its garri