A dry thud of ruffled feathers against limestone broke the cavern’s afternoon stillness.
Deacon Vane emerged from the shadow of the western smuggling tunnel, dusting chalky grit from his plum-colored silk robes. Between his ink-stained fingers, he dangled a fat, crimson-speckled messenger pigeon.
A silver crossbow bolt pinned the bird’s left wing, completely bloodless.
“Direct from General Dravus’s inner command tent,” Vane whispered, his thin mustache twitching with satisfaction. “Lady Sera’s forward scouts brought it down three paces past the canyon mouth.”
Kaelen shifted in his hammock, not bothering to lift the straw hat from his eyes.
“Did it have a receipt attached?” Kaelen asked. “If it doesn’t have an invoice, give it to the cooks. Roast pigeon goes well with salted beans.”
“Alas, Master Ash, this bird carries no dinner,” Vane said, stepping softly to the edge of the woven carpet. “It carries an encrypted military dispatch sealed with the general’s personal vermilion wax.”
Vane withdrew a thin copper stylus and a small vial of clear vinegar from his collar.
