The Vordanai traders were still there, but there was a frantic, desperate edge to the activity in the courtyard. Couriers, dressed in the traditional red and gray like Raesinia, rushed to and fro in torrents, and men ran from one table to the next, waving their arms and shouting. Patriot Guards were everywhere, bearing halberds and black-and-blue sashes, and they had their hands full keeping the peace. Fights broke out with alarming regularity, well-dressed, portly men swinging at one another like schoolboys until the Guards arrived to pull them apart.

Exchange Central was an old, squat building on the eastern edge of the square. It had begun as a tavern, Cora had once told Raesinia, where traders liked to gather, and then become a kind of headquarters where the business of the Exchange in general was discussed. At some point the old tavern building had burned down and been replaced with this unlovely but functional three-story brick block, which looked more like a warehouse than anything else. Exchange Central was so old and so embedded in tradition, Cora had said, that it didn’t need the elaborate marble facades of the banks to convince people that it was trustworthy. Everyone simply took it for granted.

Someone had at least considered the possibility that it might be a choice target for enemy saboteurs, though, because there was a squad of Patriot Guards standing outside. There was also a group of regular troops, with muskets and army-blue uniforms, since the army’s quartermaster services kept their city headquarters here. These men all saluted as she and Marcus approached and they spotted the eagles on his shoulders. The Patriot Guards did not, but they didn’t bar the way, either. Raesinia stayed a step or two behind Marcus, trying hard to look like a dutiful servant.

Inside was a vast lobby, low-ceilinged and claustrophobic, with at least two dozen doors leading deeper into the building. Couriers, in uniforms that matched Raesinia’s, came and went constantly with envelopes and parcels. More guards, both army and Patriots, waited by the walls, and behind a circular central desk four harassed-looking young men frantically shuffled files and barked terse instructions at a waiting queue of couriers and servants.

Marcus headed for the desk, following Raesinia’s instructions. She was surprised to see his manner change, as though he’d slipped on a mask. Around her, he had to fight his tendency to be deferential, so it was a bit startling to see him put on the stern, impatient face of an army officer. Raesinia supposed that commanding troops required a kind of acting all its own, projecting an unwaveringly confident persona to keep morale up. Marcus may be better at this sort of thing than he gives himself credit for.

“Yes?” the secretary behind the desk said, then looked up and added, “Sir?”

“Commercial records,” Marcus said.

“What about them?”

“I need to examine them.” His tone was clipped and dismissive.