The grey pack mule ambled down the southern thoroughfare at the speed of melting lard.
Kaelen Vance sat on the driver’s bench of the two-wheeled wooden cart, leaning his back against a mound of dried straw. His battered straw hat rested low over his brow, shielding his eyes from the afternoon glare. In his right hand, he held a warm clay cup of red-bean tea.
Between his boots sat three wooden melon crates packed with round clay pots.
Old Barnaby walked beside the cart, muttering curses under his breath while carrying a smoldering punk stick. His regrown left arm was bare to the shoulder, gripping the wooden cart rail to keep the wheels steady over the cobblestones.
“I still say this is pure madness, boy,” Barnaby growled, blowing on the orange tip of the punk stick. “That is an elite imperial shock brigade outside our gates. They have enchanted lances, lacquered iron barding, and a Nascent Soul Mid executioner.”
“They have noses, Barnaby,” Kaelen replied smoothly, taking a small sip of tea. “Everything with a nose respects ghost-peppers.”
Barnaby scowled down at the melon crates.
“Those peppers took me four months to dry over the secondary furnace flues,” the old alchemist grumbled. “You spent twenty silver taels of your private allowance to buy out the vegetable market.”
