The broad iron-framed skylights of the Grand Exchange at Harbor Gate rattled under a steady, driving coastal rain.
Below the glass dome, where stock jobbers and paper brokers had once shouted speculative currency prices into the air, five hundred delegates sat in tight, disciplined rows. They were union organizers, rail engineers, grain elevator managers, and district representatives, their wool coats still damp from the morning tide.
The air inside smelled of wet wool, tobacco smoke, and fresh printer's ink.
Prince Bastian stood at the back of the raised stone dais, leaning his shoulder against a massive cast-iron support pillar. His repeating rifle rested against his boot, his dark wool coat unbuttoned, his sharp dark eyes scanning the gallery above where two dozen armed union guards maintained a quiet, watchful perimeter.
Beside him, Foreman Haddon rested both hands on his heavy oak walking stick, his thick knuckles white.
