The wooden stairs leading from the tavern cellar to the upper gallery were narrow, steep, and groaned beneath the combined burden of two men and a nun.
Sir Cael Ardent was dead weight in Jon Hale’s grip. Without the artificial vigor coursing through the gold seal, the knight’s legs were like unstrung leather, his iron-shod boots scraping clumsily against each riser. Jon took the soldier’s full bulk across his right shoulder, gripping Cael’s canvas belt with both hands, while Sister Oda followed behind, steadying Cael’s limp legs and guarding the threshold against curious eyes.
They emerged into the quiet warmth of the second-floor corridor. Here, the air was sweet with the scent of dried lavender and tallow soap, warmed by the broad brick chimney stack that rose from the kitchen hearth directly below.
Jon kicked open the heavy oak door to the northeast corner chamber—the best room in the River Lantern, usually reserved for wool merchants traveling from the southern lowlands or visiting magistrates on the assize circuit.
“Lay him on the straw tick,” Oda instructed, hurrying past Jon into the bedchamber. “Not the featherbed. Feathers hold moisture and heat, and his skin is already burning with systemic acid. He needs firm linen and cold straw beneath his back.”
