The small private parlor behind the Lantern’s taproom was warm, smelling of dried lavender, beeswax, and the sharp, resinous smoke of a cedar-knot fire. Outside the shuttered windows, the rain had settled into a light, steady drizzle, dripping from the overhanging eaves into the garden water-butt. On the round cherry-wood table, between an earthenware jug of hot chicory tea and three empty stoneware mugs, lay an unrolled map of the upper river valley drawn in charcoal on heavy flax paper.
Jon Hale sat with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, holding a small brass straightedge against the river contours. Seated beside him was Elin, her hair newly pinned beneath her white linen cap, her hands resting calmly on the table. Across from them sat Tobin, the young royal post courier.
Tobin had stripped off his damp leather riding cape, revealing a frayed woolen tunic bearing the faded bronze crown of the imperial mail service on the left breast. His boyish face was smudged with soot and horse grease, his sandy hair unruly from three days of riding courier routes between the river redoubts, but his dark eyes were bright with alert intelligence.
“The bridge is impassable for wagons without Cael’s muster tokens,” Tobin said, tapping a charcoal cross that marked the town’s northern stone span. “Captain Dain has twelve men stationed on the gate towers, with iron caltrops laid three deep across the causeway. Even if you bribed the sergeant, a four-mule grain wagon makes a noise like an avalanche…
