The briefing room smelled like cold ink and lamp oil.
Fifth bell. Neth Myrvalis set three documents on the table in front of Coldmantle and stepped back to the position he always occupied during intelligence briefings, two paces from the desk, half-turned toward the door, his posture adjusted before the first sentence left his mouth. The room had no windows. Coldmantle had not requested the lack of windows. The Ministry had constructed the briefing room in the administrative wing's interior corridor specifically so that intelligence briefings happened in rooms where the light came from lamps, not from the outside, because outside light told you what time of day it was and intelligence briefings should not remind the Grand Ordinator that other business was waiting.
