Three hours before sunrise, the valley mist was thick enough to drown the yellow glow of Vane’s campfires, turning eight thousand soldiers into a dull, smoldering smear across the river flats.
Up in the ruined gatehouse of the hill fort, the draft smelled of wet slate and frozen loam. Noll Vey extended his awareness through the Bastion-rank conduit lines, following the old clay and lead speaking-tubes that had been laid down fifty years ago when the third Duke kept watch over the valley. The pipes were choked with dry bird nests and cobwebs, but where the masonry held, the acoustic resonance hummed like an untuned viol.
“Jori made it past the lower ditch,” Tessa said, leaning over the parapet with her wool muffler pulled up to her eyes. “He slipped through the osier beds by the mill race before the Crown cavalry set their four-o’clock pickets. Reeve Holt met him by the bakehouse.”
“Did she take the tokens?” Noll asked through the gate-arch speaking horn.
“She took all sixty of them,” Tessa said. “Mira and the weavers were waiting in the dark with baskets. If Vane’s patrols search the houses, they won’t find a single warrant or proclamation. Just clay disks sitting out in the cold air.”
