Sera’s eyes darted across the hurried, ink-blotted characters scribbled on the yellow scrap.
“Garrick,” Sera said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “It is your second brother’s handwriting.”
Barnaby Holt leaned over her shoulder, scowling at the grease-spotted paper. “What does that abacus-clicking rat want?”
“A warning,” Sera read, her finger tracing the crooked strokes. “Blood-Captain Varga ordered Gate-Commander Drogo to seal the canyon drawbridge at first light. Any supply wagons bearing Guild marks are to be impounded for an illegal transit tax of one thousand spirit stones.”
Barnaby spat toward the hearth in disgust. “Garrick always had his nose in other people’s purses. Back in Ashford Town, the snake stole ten percent of the winter coal ration from the Third Herb Shed and blamed it on warehouse mice.”
“And now he’s tallying ore sacks in iron chains,” Sera noted, pointing out the faded ink stamp at the corner of the scrap. “That’s the penal clerk’s seal from the northern smelting pit, meaning Garrick risked a flogging to slip this note out.”
She looked up, meeting Kaelen’s gaze across the room.
“Deacon Vane’s supply caravan is scheduled to arrive at dawn,” Sera said. “He’s carrying the winter spirit-charcoal and our batch of bruised herbs from Red-River City.”
