Without lifting his head from the canvas camp-chair, Kaelen flicked his green bamboo rod out and hooked the leather collar of Sera’s left boot before she could take a step.
With a gentle flick of his wrist, Kaelen pulled the tip taut, hooking her heel and breaking her forward momentum.
“Tea,” Kaelen murmured from his canvas camp-chair. “Pour me a bowl of Linnea’s Soul-Cooling Tea. Boiling water ruins the second steep, so don’t let it heat up.”
Sera stumbled half a pace. Her head whipped around, her eyes blazing with raw, cold fury.
“Kaelen,” she hissed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed violence. “Look at the door. Look at what they nailed to the iron.”
“I have eyes,” Kaelen replied smoothly, keeping his gaze fixed on the hookless string floating in the seepage pool. “It’s a very dented helmet, probably a size too large, with four inches of rusted iron holding it to the lintel.”
“That’s my father’s helmet,” Sera whispered, her grip on the storm-pike tightening until the shaft groaned. “He wore it when he mapped the lower veins, and Varga hung his skull-guard up there like a hunting trophy.”
Across the catwalk, fifty yards away, Chief Array-Smith Baul and two armored lieutenants stood watching them with narrow, expectant eyes.
