The iron-banded doors of the Nine-Cauldron Guild Tower stood wide open, bathed in the red glare of two hundred pitch torches.
A dense sea of three thousand cultivators packed the great terrace. Apothecaries, outer elders, merchant emissaries, and clan scions pressed shoulder to shoulder against the carved balustrades.
The night air smelled of burning resin, cold river water, and hot bronze.
Kaelen Vance stood near the base of the terrace steps, stifling a yawn behind the cuff of his wool coat. In his left hand, he carried a cloth napkin containing two lukewarm roasted sweet potatoes.
Cultivators will stand in a freezing wind for two hours just to hear an old man yell from a balcony, Kaelen thought, shaking his head slightly. If they spent half this energy taking proper naps, Red-River would have half as many blood feuds.
Behind him, Linnea paced nervously, her fingers twisting the fabric of her sash.
“The three-stroke bell,” Linnea whispered, her face pale in the torchlight. “In the guild charter, three strikes means a Grand Refinement Inquest. Orson has invoked the high tribunal statutes.”
“He should have invoked a warm bowl of noodles,” Kaelen said mildly. “The cellar was finally warm, and now my potatoes are turning gummy.”
