The courtyard gates swung shut with the muffled thud of oiled cedar.
Kaelen Vance let his head sink into the soft hemp webbing of his hammock. The autumn breeze through the peach orchard was cool and crisp. It carried the faint scent of ripe fruit and damp earth.
He closed his eyes.
After more than fifty-four days of dodging screaming elders, flying tea tables, and poisoned assassins, the silence felt magnificent. He had just under twenty-one days remaining on his seventy-five-day rest.
Marching sounded dreadful. Marching meant dusty boots, sore arches, and overzealous generals reciting heroic battle verses at dawn.
A sensible man did not march when his hammock was already tied between two sturdy trees.
Near the orchard gate, Deacon Vane hovered beside Linnea. Both of them were whispering behind their silk sleeves.
“The Censorate will not stop,” Vane whispered, his small eyes darting toward the distant city walls. “Elder Wu was a high inquisitor. Grand Chancellor Vaelen has twelve more like him, each commanding hidden assassination cells.”
