Night settled over Harth with the heavy, sodden weight of a continuous autumn deluge. The rain did not fall in sudden squalls; it droned relentlessly from a black sky, beating against the mossy cedar shingles of the River Lantern until the gutters ran like mill races and the lower eaves dripped in steady, drumming curtains. In the taproom, the candles had been snuffed to save tallow, leaving only the dull red mouth of the corner hearth to cast long, wavering embers across the floorboards.
Jon Hale stood by the heavy oak post in the back scullery, his coat pulled tight across his chest against the draft that crept beneath the garden door. The scullery smelled of boiled brine, lye soap, and the cold, damp stone of the potato bins. Above him, the inn was dark and quiet. Elin had taken Nell upstairs to the small bedchamber under the eaves two hours after the fifth bell, where the rhythmic sound of rain upon the roof usually coaxed the girl to sleep even when the distant boom of Host siege engines rumbled across the valley floor.
A sharp, triple tap sounded against the lower crossbar of the alley door. It was not the hurried, frantic pounding of a frightened townsman seeking emergency shelter, but the measured, heavy knock of an artisan who worked with wooden paddles and hot iron.
