The gravel in the outer courtyard crunched beneath the iron-rimmed wheels of the two wagons as Milo and Sura began unhitching their team.
From the gateway lintels and high corbels, Noll watched through the masonry. It was a disorienting sensation—seeing the worn tools of his former trade unloaded in the muddy yard of the fortress he now inhabited. Wicker costume hampers, warped ash poles for curtain framing, an iron brazier for colored rosin, and square crates holding Milo’s drums and Sura’s juggling clubs.
Milo, swearing under his breath, backed two lathered roans toward the stone water trough Hobb had cleaned that morning. Sura dragged a roll of oiled canvas across the tailboard.
In her faded crimson cloak, Hesta Quill directed the work with the ferocity of a captain docking in a squall.
“Not there, Milo!” she barked, pointing toward the inner wall. “If you set the team beside the postern, every draft through the gate will blow horse piss across the stage! Chock the wheels, unyoke them, and fetch the nosebags! Sura, where is the traverse line? Don’t tell me you left the coil at the Black Dog; if that rope is in the ditch, you’re holding the backdrop with your teeth!”
