Eleven at night was not a reasonable hour to call an emergency muster.
The Santora Guild knew this.
They mustered anyway.
The guild hall occupied a converted merchant warehouse three streets from the Lantern Inn's district — the kind of building that had been other things before it was this thing and remembered all of them in its architecture. High ceilings.
The smell of old timber and weapon oil and the particular, layered smell of many people who did physical work for a living having occupied a space over many years.
The main floor was long and wide, the walls hung with mission boards and equipment racks and the accumulated documentation of a guild that had been operating at reduced capacity but had not stopped operating.
Tonight, the main floor was chaos.
