Twelve hours after the shrimp feast, the quiet beside the underground lake broke with the wet squelch of soaked boots.
Deacon Vane scurried into the basalt cavern, followed by four puffing smugglers in muddy canvas cloaks. Between them, suspended on two thick ash poles, hung an iron-bound chest. Sheets of rolled lead had been hammered over the seams, sealed with greasy black wax. Water dripped from the bronze latches, splashing into the pale dust.
Vane paused, flicking cave-moss from his embroidered sleeve. He swept his round hat off his head and offered a low, theatrical bow toward the hammock.
“Third young master,” Vane purred, his mustache twitching with triumph. “The northern road was slick with grease last night, but my boys have nimble fingers. A supply cart from General Dravus’s rear column lost a wheel near the alkali gorge. Before their cavalry escorts could haul it upright, this crate took a tumble into our ditch.”
Kaelen did not open his eyes. He remained stretched across his woven hemp hammock, a flat straw hat tilted over his nose.
“If that box contains salt-pork, give it to the refugees,” Kaelen muttered from beneath the straw. “If it contains more imperial decrees, burn it under the tea kettle. The smoke keeps the flies away.”
