A brass-bound iron chest banged heavily against the cobblestones outside the Guild Tower’s rear wicket gate.
Dozens of loaded wooden wagons jammed the narrow alleyway from wall to wall. Pack mules brayed in the cold wind, their heavy leather saddlebags bulging with silver ingots, bolt silk, and dried provisions.
Eight wealthy clan elders from the outer river towns stood crowded on the wet stone steps.
Their embroidered satin robes were soaked in road grime and autumn drizzle. Behind them stood twenty-four burly house guards clad in heavy ring-mail, their hands resting nervously on iron pommels.
“Open the gate,” Elder Fang shouted, banging an ivory-headed walking stick against the studded oak door. “We bear letters of introduction for Master Ash.”
Beside him stood Elder Yu of the Mountain Timber Cartel, wringing his damp velvet sleeves.
“We have traveled forty miles through the mountain mud,” Elder Yu cried. “Patriarch Vulture’s raiders burned the willow outposts yesterday. We cannot sleep in the public inns with three thousand bandits on the ridge.”
Barnaby Holt stood behind the iron grate, his single scarred arm crossed over his chest.
