The smell of warm sourdough and roasted caraway seeds seemed entirely out of place in the cold, damp depths of the Hall of Witness.
Hobb had come down from the upper kitchens twenty minutes earlier, carrying a round wicker basket wrapped in clean linen under his thick wool apron. The fort’s cook was a wide, solid man with flour dusted into his gray beard and forearms scarred by twenty winters of spitting pork fat. He set the basket down on the corner of Cale’s writing desk with a solid, reassuring thump, then wiped his hands on his apron and looked around the stone amphitheater as though inspecting a poorly swept pantry.
“They’re still warm, Noll,” Hobb said, pulling back the linen to reveal two dozen round, brown exit buns, glazed with dark mountain honey. “I took them out of the lower oven right after the north battery went quiet. If these gentlemen in the blue coats are going to sit here sweating through their collars, they might as well have something in their bellies besides sulfur smoke.”
Major Brek looked down from the officer tier, his nostrils flaring slightly at the scent of warm bread, but he did not reach for a bun. His hand remained hooked into his collar, his fingers pale against the silver disc at his throat.
