The muffled leather hooks made no sound as they sailed into the dark sky.
Captain Night-Stalker crouched in the shadow of a salt merchant’s awning. Sixteen elite infiltrators knelt behind him. Every man wore blackened salamander leather. Their short swords were wrapped in oiled linen.
Above them rose the sheer granite wall of the Red-River Guild Tower.
“The reports are clear,” Night-Stalker whispered to his lieutenant. “The boy spent his burst at the mine two days ago. He broke Blood-Deacon Kui’s shoulder in three seconds. No mortal frame survives that strain without collapsing.”
The lieutenant nodded. “Patriarch Vulture said the boy needs ten days to stand.”
“He will never stand again,” Night-Stalker muttered. “We slit his throat in his hammock.”
Night-Stalker tugged the lead cord twice. The claws held fast on the seventh-floor stone railing. Sixteen men rose together. They gripped the knotted cords and walked up the vertical masonry.
Not a single stone scraped.
