Jon swept the two sheared halves of Relic #12, the twin bone styluses, and the leather witness register into his canvas apron pocket in a single practiced motion, handing the bundle to Sister Oda as Elin unbarred the kitchen door leading into the front taproom.
“Wait behind the partition until we hear what he has brought,” Jon murmured to Bram and Tobin, buttoning his coarse linen cuff down over the two forearm bands and the fresh cross-stitched keloid on his right wrist. Only Elin walked out beside him behind the long oak bar, wiping her hands on a clean toweling cloth as if they had merely been tallying malt sacks in the back scullery.
Jon drew the heavy iron bolt on the front street door and swung the oak leaf inward.
Midday sun had burned the river fog entirely out of South Lane, pouring a bright, merciless square of white light across the sanded threshold planks. Standing on the top porch step was Sir Cael Ardent—not in the mud-spattered, battle-dented plate he wore after three days in the field, nor with the frantic, wild-eyed pallor he had shown when kicking in the cellar door at the start of the ninth life.
