Len slid back from the low roof wall on his elbows, his breath coming in short, cold puffs that smelled of his own dry mouth. His pulse was hammering in his ears, but his face remained expressionless. The blank, focused mask of a courier whose mail coach had just tipped into an icy ditch.
“Bevin broke,” Len said as he reached the shadow of the stone support prop where Ivara knelt. “Vance found the spare gurney parts under the tarpaulin. He has Bevin pinned to the cobblestones with a spear-point. He just sent three men up the domestic stairs to take Quarters Four.”
Ivara didn’t blink. She reached into her tool roll with her single hand, withdrawing her heavy steel-tipped scribe and a brass sighting rule. “How long before the sergeant reaches the room?”
“Two minutes, three at most,” Len said flatly. “They will find the door unlatched and the bed empty. They see the ash handles of the litter are gone. Then, they will know we’re moving along the outside terrace. Vance will have six guards on the north stairs before we can cross forty paces of open stone.”
Urel let out a low, choking sound, pulling his two daughters tight against his ribs. The older girl, Renna, didn’t cry. She reached up with a small, dirty hand and smoothed the gray hair back from her father’s forehead, her fingers steady and cool.
