Jon pulled the ash milking stool across the cellar floorboards, its legs scraping against the limestone flags until he sat squarely between Cael Ardent and the open bulkhead stairs.
The knight remained standing against the wine rack, his unbuckled scabbard held in his left gauntlet, the blackened linen at his throat still oozing that faint, sulfurous steam into the cold morning air. Through the shattered pine doorway, the high bronze bell of the municipal tower tolled its seventh stroke—the work-gate bell that opened the timber yards and the grain warehouses along the river canal.
“Sit down, Sir Cael,” Jon said, pointing to the meal chest across the aisle. “If we are going to draft a compact, you might as well take the weight off your greaves. A man who bargains while leaning against a wine barrel always yields more than he intends.”
Cael hesitated, his features hardening in stubborn aristocratic defiance, before he took two heavy, clattering strides and sat down upon the oak meal chest. The cedar timber creaked under the combined weight of his plate and muscle. He set the sheathed broadsword across his armored knees, his hands resting on the wire-wrapped grip, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Jon with a mixture of suspicion and desperate exhaustion.
