They took him in the yard with the gate still open at his back, which was unkind and safer than a room with panels.
The man was older than the first courier, dust to the seams, a tax bag strapped to his ribs like he expected someone to cut the strap. The seal on the outer leather was Balzac's, the ugly one used for grain tallies and not for family notes.
Rigel held out a hand.
"Bag off the neck or you stay in the arch."
The courier unbuckled it himself, jaw tight.
"If you break the seal before you hear me I will still have done my job, Marquis said the last paper he sent you was ordinary and came back to him as a rumor with flour on it, he is not sending ordinary paper again."
Mesterica stayed on the man's left.
Cynthia came as far as the inner step and no farther, Blade's line of sight kept behind her.
Rigel cracked the seal.
Balzac's hand, heavier than the last letter, no joke about furniture.
