In the quiet courtyard before the limewashed burial house, the only sound after Marta’s question was the slow pff. Pff of the young fire spirit’s double-beat breath out passing through the wet marsh-wort sack on the third wagon, and the lap of canal water against the stone weir.
Custodian Halen’s plump face flushed a mottled, angry purple. He stepped half a pace sideways so his body blocked Marta’s line of sight to the third cart. He raised his chin and reached for his brass sub-vault seal. “Good woman, the contents of sealed Aperture Court transit crates are governed by the Third Statute of Provincial Secrecy! As I just informed you, the outlaws on the raised stone road were common marsh-thieves attempting to plunder the barley—”
“Stop lying to her in front of her husband’s body, Halen,” Seyun said.
Seyun didn’t shout, yet the quiet, flat finality in his voice made the Court official flinch backward a step as if struck across the mouth. Seyun stepped past Halen’s elbow with the forty-pound pack still strapped to his back. He stopped three feet in front of the stone frame stands where Pel lay, took off his mud-stained cloth cap in his blistered hands, and looked directly into Marta’s gray eyes.
