The wind through the bamboo grove did not give Kaelen Vance a headache, but Deacon Vane’s silk slippers did.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
The sound of quick, nervous footsteps echoed across the courtyard paving stones. Kaelen did not lift his straw hat. He remained sprawled across the hemp netting, listening to the small brass bells jingling at the merchant’s waist.
“Master Vance,” Deacon Vane wheezed, coming to a halt beside the hammock. “Disaster. Commercial and military ruin. Twelve hulls of heavy timber and solar brass.”
Kaelen exhaled slowly. “Deacon. If those hulls are not carrying roasted tea leaves, tell them the shop is closed.”
“They are not carrying tea,” Vane said, dabbing his bald forehead with a damp cloth. “They are the forward reconnaissance flotilla of the Ashen Sun Sanctuary.”
“Twelve heavy warships,” Vane added, his breath catching. “They breached our outer reef perimeter twenty minutes ago and stopped ten miles off the shoals.”
Elder Sterling rushed through the courtyard gate, his scholar robes flapping wildly around his shins. Linnea followed half a step behind him, carrying a heavy brass crate packed with defensive formation flags.
