Dawn broke over Dead-Brine Crater with the hollow thump of iron stakes driving into frozen salt.
Deacon Vane stood on a mound of chalky alkali, smoothing his sleeves. Behind him, teamsters hoisted heavy poles of black silk. Within minutes, a pavilion rose against the morning sky, its dark curtains snapping in the dry wind.
Above the flap, Vane hung a freshly lacquered sign.
Master Ash’s Charitable Frontier Dispensary.
Beneath that heading, painted in tiny letters, ran the real notice: Consultations via Errand Boy Kaelen. Cash Only. No Haggling. Loud Noises Strictly Forbidden.
Old Barnaby sat nearby, the wolf-fur blanket over his shoulders, holding a steaming bowl of porridge.
“Look at that weasel,” Barnaby grunted, pointing his wooden ladle. “Those Censorate hounds haven’t even been cold for six hours, and he already opened a shop.”
“It’s not a shop, Master Holt,” Deacon Vane replied smoothly. “It’s an act of mercy. The exiles here are dying of spiritual rot. How could I withhold Master Ash’s boundless compassion?”
