The fourth bell had ceased its vibrations, and the fifth bell was yet an hour away when the cellar bolt slammed home into its stone sleeve.
The sound was heavy, final, like an iron portcullis dropping into the granite sill of a fortress ditch. Jon let his hand rest against the cold timber of the door, feeling the river damp that seeped through the plank seams. Behind him, the cellar of the River Lantern Inn smelled of sour beer lees, cured bacon fat, wet silt, and the pungent brine of pickling casks.
Four lanterns burned upon upturned firkins, casting warm circles of amber light across the damp flagstones.
Around the central flour barrel stood the four people who held the fragile balance of Harth in their hands: Elin, her wool work apron tied tight over her skirt, the dark crust of the knife scratch prominent beneath her jaw; Sister Oda, her black archivist habit pinned back with bone bodkins, a horn magnifier dangling from a leather cord around her neck; Alden Bram, the master mason, his calloused hands dusted with dry lime from the north sluice gate, his right knee braced with boiled leather straps; and Lady Signe Lorr, the Crown Assize magistrate, her blue velvet cloak spotted with river rain, her fingers stained with purple court ink.
