The lobby of the Iron Bank was a cathedral to wealth.
The ceiling soared fifty feet high, painted with elaborate frescoes depicting gold coins raining from the heavens into the hands of grateful mortals. The floor was polished black marble that reflected the chandeliers like a dark lake. Rows of clerks sat behind high mahogany counters protected by brass grilles, scribbling in ledgers with the synchronized scratching of quills.
The silence was absolute. No one spoke above a whisper. It was the kind of quiet that made you conscious of your own heartbeat.
Gilder marched to the main desk, his heels clicking sharply on the stone. The clerk, a thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a pinched nose, looked up.
"Master Gilder," the clerk said, his voice dry as parchment. He didn't smile. "We did not expect you. The markets are... volatile. Most patrons are staying home."
