The smell of damp turnip greens and cold cave-mud drifted from the lower terraces four hours before midnight.
Kaelen lay flat in his hammock, staring up at the dark basalt ceiling where Mina’s frost barrier kept the scalding steam at bay. He lifted one lazy finger and beckoned Deacon Vane over to the hemp ropes.
“Vane,” Kaelen murmured, his voice barely louder than the drip of water. “How many auxiliary officers does Dravus have stationed on the northern rim?”
Deacon Vane trotted forward, his silk slippers muffling his footsteps. “Roughly thirty centurions, young master. Conscripts from the conquered provincial garrisons. The Censorate treats them like expendable fodder, keeping them on the perimeter while the true-blooded imperial cavalry feasts in the center.”
“Good,” Kaelen said.
He pointed toward the cedar box near the drainage ditch, where three of the chiseled suppression stones lay exposed in their sand trays.
“Take three of those cracked cores,” Kaelen instructed. “Wrap them in greasy mutton-paper. Have your tunnel runners slip them into the officers’ mess-tents before the midnight guard change.”
Deacon Vane’s mustache twitched with sharp, mercantile cunning. “And what message shall we attach, third young master?”
