Renato leaned against the window, trying to get some fresh air.
He had spent an entire day in a room smelling of dust and ink, without an attack or even an argument. After they presented their official papers and identification, the manager politely led them to the third-floor storeroom. Since then, the tax commissioner and warehouse supervisor had done nothing but check the accounts together, occasionally calling in a bookkeeper to ask about goods entering and leaving storage.
Renato had nothing to do. The four guards who had come with him sat on the floor, swapping crude jokes and laughing so hard they sprayed spit.
Their weapons and helmets lay carelessly piled on a table. They were completely unguarded. Renato would wager that, if someone had hired him to kill them, it would take only ten seconds before these thugs regretted not keeping their weapons close as they breathed their last.
Renato had nothing to talk about with them. He had not even introduced himself.
He adjusted the blue adornment on his left shoulder-a short, one-shouldered cloak embroidered with the emblem of Fried City. It marked him as a probationary constable. If his appointment became permanent, the cloak would gain a border of silver embroidery.
Renato recalled the encouragement he had received from Perez Atwood, the newly appointed head of the Security Department. His superior had been quite pleased with how he spoke and passed him on the spot.
In truth, the stone keep housing the City Guard Department had been deserted, with many service counters standing empty. Even the receptionist who had handled his application had only started the day before.
"Look here. According to the general ledger you provided for the previous fiscal year, your establishment purchased a shipment of spices worth one hundred gold coins from Cardamom