A quiet rustle of cloth stirred the frost-bitten ivy along the northern perimeter wall.
Four hours had passed since the crowd dispersed from the Nine-Cauldron terrace. The city had fallen into cold, misty silence, broken only by the distant barking of guard dogs across the canal.
In the center of the dark courtyard, Kaelen Vance sat reclined in a dry cedar bath tub lined with padded sheepskin quilts.
A small, shielded horn lantern sat on a stool beside him, casting a warm circle of amber light over the folded pages of a battered paper pamphlet.
He was reading the ninth section of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
In this section, the bandit king refuses to draw his saber for thirty pages because fighting in the rain will crease his silk collar, Kaelen noted, turning a dog-eared page with lazy satisfaction. The man understands the fundamental principles of life. Why ruin good silk over an argument that can be settled tomorrow?
His dantian remained completely dormant, resting in absolute, unbroken stillness.
Beside the tub, a small clay teapot rested on an iron trivet over three dying embers, keeping a brew of roasted barley tea just warm enough to sip.
