"If you keep pressing that hard with the charcoal, the stick is going to snap in half and slice your thumb wide open," Tervik grunted from the mildewed straw pallet in the corner, his bandaged shoulder shifting with a wincing hitch.Oryndel didn’t look up from the broad sheet of coarse wrapping paper spread across the rusted vat lid. "Let it snap. We don't have the luxury of soft touches anymore, Tervik. The ink is gone, the presses in the lower wards were put to the torch, and Solk’s men are sweeping every alley within three miles of this rotting tannery.""So you’re writing our death warrants by hand instead?" Tervik rasped, coughing weakly before spitting a speck of dark phlegm onto the grimy floorboards. "That’s supposed to be faster?""It’s not a death warrant. It’s an invoice," Oryndel replied, his voice dropping into that cold, rhythmic cadence he used when balancing the kingdom's darkest accounts. "A very long, very detailed invoice for every single loaf of bread, every pound

"Two thousand gold pieces," Vane rasped, swirling a mouthful of foul-smelling spirits before spitting it onto the rotting planks of the pier. "In coin. Up front. Not your pretty little paper notes, and certainly not promises written in ink by men who’ll be swinging from the gallows by Tuesday."Oryndel tightened his grip on the leather satchel tucked beneath his arm, his knuckles aching from the cold. "You know as well as I do that there isn't two thousand gold pieces of legitimate coin left in Oakhaven. The Treasury is hollowed out.""Then I suppose you can swim across the river with your little property titles," Vane replied, leaning back against the splintered mast of his barge. A cruel, yellow-toothed grin split his scarred face. "The Faith Militant is paying five hundred just for a sack with your name on it. Why shouldn't I just hand you over and save myself the trouble of dodging river patrols?""Because the Faith Militant pays in copper-plated lead

"Hold that rag tighter against the cut, or you’ll bleed out before we even find a dry patch of floor," Oryndel snapped, pressing his entire weight down onto the thick wool pad clamped over Tervik’s shoulder.Tervik let out a wet, rattling hiss, his face draining of what little color the freezing river mist had left behind. "Easy, you miserable little bean-counter. You’re trying to stitch my coat to my ribs.""The coat is ruined anyway, and so is our escape route," Oryndel muttered, his fingers slick with dark, viscous blood as he pulled the curved bone needle through the torn fabric and raw flesh. "Bite down on something. This next knot is going to hurt."The abandoned tannery on the outskirts of Oakhaven smelled like a mass grave soaked in rancid vinegar and rotting hair. Vat pits half-filled with stagnant, chemical-stained rainwater yawned like open mouths across the cavernous floor, reflecting the bruised gray light of dawn breaking through

"If you bring that charcoal smudge any closer to my face, I’m going to shove it down your throat," a gravelly voice rasped from the gloom of the abandoned brewery.Oryndel didn't flinch. He lowered the scrap of wrapping paper, his eyes adjusting to the dim, amber glow of a single tallow candle guttering on a massive copper mash tun. A man with a soot-stained leather apron and forearms the thickness of tavern mugs emerged from behind the vats, wiping his hands on a greasy rag."You’re Master Bram," Oryndel stated, stepping around a stagnant puddle of old mash. "The man who used to print the guild circulars before the Finance Minister declared independent printing an act of sedition."Bram grunted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Used to is a very polite way of saying I’m a hunted criminal hiding in a derelict brewery with a price on my head. Who’s the half-dead baggage you dragged in with you?""I’m not baggage, you s

"Martial law?" Tervik hissed, spitting a stream of dark tobacco juice against the iron leg of the printing press. "He didn't just lock the gates; he’s turning the whole bloody city into a prison yard."Oryndel didn't look up from the damp broadsheet clutched in his trembling fingers. "He had no choice. The broadsheets hit every market square by sunrise. By noon, the bakers' guilds were refusing to hand over their grain ledgers to the temple collectors. Solk is trying to plug a leaking dike with his own thumb.""A thumb that’s about to get crushed," Bram rumbled, stepping out from behind a towering copper vat with a heavy iron mallet in his fist. "The town criers have been shouting your name in every district since the church bells rang for prime. Five hundred gold pieces. Dead or alive. Half the cutthroats in Oakhaven are checking their daggers right now.""Let them check," Oryndel muttered, his eyes scanning the bold, block-lettered headline of his