“We’re here on Nash’s recommendation,” Kurtz said. “That should be enough.”
Again, Cole nodded, as if doing so might convince him.
Their horses’ hooves crunched over the snowy road as they neared the gatehouse. The rhythmic clang of hammers on stone and distant voices carried on the wind.
“What’s going on?” Cole asked.
“Who knows?” Kurtz said. “Verdot is always stirring up trouble.”
The gatehouse abutted a smaller, square mural tower jutting out from the larger, circular one. After giving their names, they were let inside a tiny bailey where laborers swarmed over stacks of timber and stone, hammering, hauling, and shouting. Cole followed Kurtz past carts of mortar and tools and up a narrow stone staircase to Verdot Amal’s office.
“Look there.” Kurtz gestured above the door to a series of faint gray markings on the stone.
Something like a letter Y, what looked like waves, and a diamond with two circles that resembled an eye. Cole hadn’t seen their like before. Not even in the Magosian priestess’s apartment back in Armonguard.
“Runes,” Cole said.
“Not just any runes,” Kurtz said. “They repel bloodvoicing magic.”
“Verdot doesn’t want anyone spying on him,” Cole said.
“Which means he’s up to something.” Kurtz pushed open the door.
Inside, a thin, white-haired man stood behind a desk cluttered with scrolls, ink pots, and a tarnished brass lamp. Verdot Amal, Cole presumed, and he wasn’t alone.
In front of the desk, his back to the door, stood a short, plump man with a flushed face. He clutched a ledger to his chest. His coat, once fine, was travel-stained and rumpled.
“…not my decision,” Verdot was saying. “That order comes from above.”
“But you could fix this,” the man said. “You run this prison.”
“And just you remember who runs you,” Amal shot back.
Cole froze just inside the doorway. He glanced at Kurtz, who merely leaned against the doorframe, watching with mild curiosity.
“Drop it, Tom,” Verdot said. “I don’t want to hear about it again.”
The man—Tom, apparently—shifted on his feet. He reminded Cole of an abused puppy, starved and begging for food.
Kurtz cleared his throat. “Are we interrupting something?”
Both men turned toward the door.
“Not at all.” Clutching his ledger, Tom scurried past, and Cole caught a whiff of pickled herring and brine as the man disappeared down the staircase.
“Friendly fellow,” Kurtz muttered, closing the door.
Verdot sighed deeply. “Kurtz Chazir.” His gaze fell on Cole. “And you must be young Master Tanniyn. I’m honored, truly. Though I confess, I have little time for unexpected visitors.” He paced behind his desk, shuffling scrolls, as though their presence was an unbearable inconvenience. Finally, he waved toward two chairs. “Sit if you must.”
Cole exchanged a glance with Kurtz before they both sat.
“Who was that?” Cole asked, nodding toward the door.
“Tom Raven. My clerk,” Verdot said.
Kurtz hummed, as if that explained a great deal. “What’s with all the construction? Expanding the gatehouse?”
Verdot unrolled a scroll. “A remodel,” he said absently. “I tested the idea at Stormwatch—three apartments there. Cliffwatch is larger, so it will hold six.”
