Heavy wooden barricades slammed down across the southern river bridge with a dull, iron-shod thunder.
Three hundred garrison soldiers in heavy iron breastplates stood in double ranks along the embankment, their halberds glinting in the morning light. Spiked timber chevaux-de-frise blocked the stone archway, draped in yellow quarantine banners stamped with the prefecture seal.
A quarter-mile south of the river, twenty heavy timber wagons stood stranded on the road.
Each wagon carried four tons of raw cinnabar ore from Kaelen’s Sunken Cinnabar Mine. Behind them, forty ox-carts loaded with dried grain, smoked pork, and medicinal salt for the three hundred mine guards were brought to a grinding halt.
“Quarantine perimeter,” a squad sergeant barked, leveling his spear at the lead teamster. “Spore plague declared by Branch Master Orson. No wheel crosses this river until the health audit is complete.”
Across town in Stone-Willow Lane, the courtyard wicket gate burst open with a clatter.
Deacon Vane hurried through the garden, dragging a sweating, round-faced clerk by the silk collar of his tunic. Beside him strode Linnea, her guild robes billowing around her boots and her dark eyes flashing with sharp anger.
“Young Master,” Deacon Vane wheezed, dumping the clerk onto the flagstones before Kaelen’s hammock. “We caught this rat sneaking out of the garrison captain’s private compound.”
