Through the second slate token held in Sella Rusk’s palm at the edge of his one-mile reach, Noll heard the wet squelch of Tessa’s boots sinking into ditch-muck.
“The strap iron is rusted through on the left bolt,” Tessa’s voice came filtering back through the mineral grain of the Grand Hall wall, tight and muffled. “Garr, give me your iron crow. Don’t hit the stone—the sentry is still leaning on the gate post twenty yards off.”
A dull crunch of tearing willow roots vibrated through the stone, followed by the metallic groan of oxidized strap iron giving way.
Inside the quiet hall, Cale stood near the hearth table with his spectacles in his hand, his mouth open, listening to the small stone disc resting beside Prit’s ink pebble. Edren Dene sat forward on the bench, his blanket slipping from his shoulders, his knuckles white against his knees.
“That’s the culvert under the drying floor,” Edren whispered into the quiet room. “Three feet wide. Leads straight into the lower slack bins.”
Through the token, the sounds were breathless and sharp.
“Watch the corner,” Tessa whispered. “There’s someone in the bin. Behind the slack hurdles.”
“Quiet, Tess,” Sella’s voice cut in. “Let me go first with the shield.”
