The Crownhall coach came up the Hask road at mid-morning, and it did not come quietly. Its wheels were freshly greased, so there was no squeal, but the horses were lathered and the driver was whipping them up the last hill as though the road belonged to him. Calen watched it from the top of the yard steps. He counted the horses, four, and then the guard on the box beside the driver, one.
One guard. That was a choice. Crownhall did not send one man to a school it wanted to impress.
Tobin had come up the steps behind him without a sound. He stood at Calen’s elbow with his hands in his sleeves and watched the guard too.
“He has a sword and a knife in his boot,” said Tobin. “The knife is on the left. He is holding the reins with his right hand, so the left one is for the sword.”
“How do you know which hand?”
“He keeps shifting his weight to the right. A man who is ready to draw keeps his weight on the hand he means to use.” Tobin’s voice was flat and exact. “I would count him, but you said not to count people.”
